I went to see Anne, a family member last week. She is now living in a Care Home. She has been there for just over 6 months and in many ways is reasonably happy. At times she was able to be philosophical about it, accepting that there were no other realistic alternatives. She seemed relaxed and joked with the staff who seemed to be doing their job with some degree of professionalism. Anne is 75 years old, divorced from one husband and widowed from her second. She occasionally becomes very confused and psychotic, and cannot walk far or without the support of a frame. She was unable to live by herself because she frequently kept falling over at home and was unable to get up by herself.
Despite the times of genuine contentment, there was plenty of anger, despair, and confusion. Although most of the other residents were older than my relative, greater age does not necessarily bring greater understanding or compassion. I heard tales of the savage, bitchy battles that sometimes took place within the communal lounge and of the ensuing fear and pain felt by some of the more sensitive residents.
For two days I found it frustrating listening to the relentless, well-meaning music that was loved by some, but hated by others - my relative included. On Sunday afternoon an elderly non-resident lady visited and conducted communal singing; on Monday and elderly non-resident man had his organ carried in by his daughter and played loud music with full vibrato for an hour and a half. There was no escape. The music permeated the closed doors of those who elected to keep well away from the lounge and even reached the far end of the canteen at the other end of the building. Had I lived there, I am confident it would soon have driven me insane or led to murder.
There were times of painful hope where this woman tried to cling onto a version of reality that was so unreal, but which helped her survive. She was not going to stay here until she died, she told herself. When she got better and could walk again without falling over, she would be going home again. But we all knew that this would never happen - and I strongly suspect that Anne knew that too. Years of serious alcohol abuse following a bitter divorce, and a relatively recent accident in which she had fallen downstairs and broken her neck and fractured her skull and had left irreparable damage. The dementia was clearly starting. The immobility would be a permanent feature. Even as we sat there her house was being cleared in preparation for the sale that would pay for her care costs (and she had consented to this).
And there were the black times. Anne cried as she described the funeral she wanted, and begged for assisted suicide.
For the first time in ages I wept for a long time after I had left her. I felt helpless to do anything more, and recognised the huge contrast between her former circumstances and now. For the first 20 years of my life, I spent a long time with this lady. My own mother had spent long periods in hospital as I was growing up, and when this happened, I was packed off to Anne’s. And even when my mother was at home, I often spent the long summer holidays living with this relative in order to give my mother some rest.
Anne was old enough to be my mother, and a lot younger than my mother. Her husband had a good job and my family had recently gone bankrupt. I was a lone child, and Anne had 3 children of her own. She was a fit, younger, lively woman - a second mother, who provided a second home that I loved. Anne played with her children in the way that my mother was never able to. Anne took me to the cinema for the first time. I had my first meal in a restaurant with Anne and her husband. It was Anne who took me to the beach, Anne who gave me my first cup of coffee, Anne who taught me to wash my own hair as a child, Anne who bought me some toys my parents couldn’t afford, Anne who nursed me when I had mumps, and Anne who slipped a wadge of notes into my hand after she had visited me in my first year as a student.
As an ageing man I now appreciate more and more what Anne (and her former husband) gave me as a child and teenager. It hurt to see this former funny and energetic woman reduced to her present circumstances. Acknowledging that the long goodbye had started was very painful.
A very touching piece.
As I have said to you before my wife works for a company that runs care homes around East Anglia for people or various ages with varying situations and conditions. I understand exactly how you felt about being with your friend in the home and even more the way you have described her reactions to the situation.
I have to be honest and say that I find it hard myself when I accompany my wife to a work function or simply to give her a lift home. Some of the residents at the home that she is based at have started to suffer dementia and will confuse me for their husband / son / brother / friend from childhood etc and I struggle to know how to respond without hurting their feelings. Sometimes it is easier to go along with it to see them smile but that can backfire, making the situation harder for all involved.
But throughout it all the homes that I visit are well run, have caring staff and look after people that quite simply can not, for whatever reason, look after themselves. And I am always thankful that there are people, like my wife, who have that special something in them that lets them look after those people and deal with situations that I know I can not.
An excellently written piece as always.
Anne’s case is sad and there is no consoling phrase we can utter to palliate it. Having seen Tigger’s father in a care home in the months leading up to his death, I can understand your feelings. I suspect that when he died, he in fact bowed out voluntarily.
It is life’s irony that improvements in health and nutrition mean that such a sad end to life is becoming more common: it is the shadow that hangs over all of us.
I sometimes think that the inmates of care homes sink into dementia because this is a sort of escape from an environment that can become unbearable.
In the case of Tigger’s father, grieve as we may over our loss, I felt that his death at least afforded a dignified exit from a humiliating situation.
Oh my gosh! What a touching post. It is a reminder that one day we’ll all be there. I hope that when my time comes, assisted suicide will be an option.
As for what your went through and are feeling right now regarding Ann, I don’t know what to say. No wonder Christians quickly spit out the “I’ll pray for you” cliche.
I’ll give you a virtual hug. How is that?
acetuk
Thanks for your comments. It is good to know that there are good homes out there and that people like your wife exist. I’m sure they make the unbearable more bearable in very important ways.
SilverTiger
I remember reading your posts on Tigger’s father’s death and wholeheartedly agree that, despite the loss, death may bring a dignified ending to distress and suffering. Hopefully, if you and I ever end up in a Home, they will allow us to have good earplugs, access to good books, unrestricted internet access by our bedside, or assisted suicide.
Lorena
Thanks for the hug. Much more meaningful than any prayer!
Very touching piece. I have a family member who has been in a nursing home for just over a year now. It’s sad to watch loved ones deteriorate slowly.
Lorena, as I get older, I find I’m more supportive of the assisted suicide option than I used to be. We euthanize animals so that they won’t suffer needlessly, but we make people suffer horrifically because “life is a precious gift from God” or some such tommyrot.
Sorry I have not commented on this before.
I was very moved to read this. So many times I have cared for people who say to me to never grow old. The lucky ones are those who keep their mobility and their minds. They can get by with some ailments with the help of modern medication, which can so wonderfully control the BP or the heart palpitations, the bladder or other chronic conditions.
The mind and increasing frality is the big one. Falls and not being safe to do the basics even with care is one of the biggest reasons why people have to leave their homes, sell their houses and go into a home.
For professional reasons, I will not comment on these care homes, suffice to say there are many variations in their quality and what they offer.
I can see why you were so upset. For you, you see a shell of a person who has largely gone. The grief is already there in your face.
I don’t know whether I believe with what you give comes around to you. Karma I think they call it. I think it is more about luck than anything. All I hope for is when this is my turn, my hope is that someone like me is out there to look after me. I know this may sound boastful and vain but it is truth.
I also sincerely hope that when it is your turn, someone who gives you dignity and an enviroment of respect is out there too.
A very thought provoking blog.
My heart goes out to your relative.
the chaplain and onethoughtfulwoman thanks for your comments.
Much too late, I now found this touching post. How sad. I just hope I won’t have to go through this with my mother.