Chapter 8
Tuesday 13th may
Physical symptoms include chorea (involuntary movements of the limbs, face and body). Chorea may lead to difficulty walking, speaking and swallowing.
In times of conflict, wisely or unwisely, I have to consult with Harry. I explained Mags’ fears to him.
‘Call a family conference, take a back seat and let them thrash it out in the wash.’
I let that cliché go, it was close and his sentiment and reasoning was correct as usual. I would just have to be there to pick up the pieces, or ‘all the bits’, as Harry would have phrased it.
My next appointment was to pick up an old Motherwell pensioner and take her for an introductory visit to an elderly day centre. Her home-help said Mrs Cluney was getting depressed as she seemed to be spending all day every day at home on her own. She had few relations and almost no visitors.
I called in briefly to see her last Friday. She is a lovely old lady, seventy five years old, a wee bit frail looking but very alert, who lives in an immaculate flat in a new high-rise. These are no inner city tawdry blocks, they have security entries that work, potted plants on the landings and the stairwells which are cleaned on a rota as a matter of pride by the tenants. Mrs. Cluney admitted she felt a bit lonely at times, but insisted in telling me what a wonderful family she had, two lovely sons who had beautiful clever, wives and perfect children but their lives were all busy and they had to work so hard, they could only manage to visit once a month, sometimes.
Okay, no comment, she quite warmed to the idea of visiting the centre in Carfin so I phoned and booked both of us in for lunch today. Unfortunately, today she answered the door in floods of tears.
‘My God, what’s happened Mrs Cluney?’ I asked.
‘I’ll go I’ll go, I said I would but I’m so nervous.’
The poor old soul was dressed in her Sunday spring best, coat, hat, scarf, gloves and handbag, with her face screwed up like she was doing mental arithmetic, and red with anguish.
‘You’re going nowhere if you don’t want to,’ I said as she let me in, ‘I’m certainly not going to force you.’
We went into the living room and sat down and her tears slowed. She told me she was nervous about going out as she hadn’t left her flat for about three months, in fact it might be longer, not since Christmas when she went for her twice yearly outing to one of her wonderful sons. I thought about killing the home help, she certainly hadn’t let on about this. With the shopping being done for her, this poor woman didn’t need to leave the flat to go anywhere did she? Bloody hell! What kind of service are we giving our old people? Lessons in how to lose your confidence and independence in four or five easy months? I told her that I was booked in for lunch too at the day centre and it was the only decent meal I would get all week. Of course I’d feel guilty if my mother could hear this.
That did the trick, it made Mrs. Cluney smile, she dried her tears and at last agreed to go.
The day centre is in Carfin, I seem to be spending a lot of time in this village. It is new and modern, aesthetically stimulating etc., etc., but most importantly, they serve the best shepherds pie in the region, again please God don’t let my mother ever hear me say that. Some folks get perks in their jobs like flash cars, expense accounts or even foreign travel. My perk is an occasional cottage pie lunch at Carfin elderly day centre. Some people think social workers are sad people. This may be valid.
Mrs Cluney is still a bit nervous when we arive and wants me to stay close to her. She manages to eat a bit of lunch then gets chatting to the women sitting at the same table. She discovered that she’d worked with one of the women fifty years ago in the local knicker factory. They had a good long natter about people they knew and of course who had died, who had gone to Australia and who had gone to the bad.
This is called reminiscence therapy by psycho-geriatricians, can you believe it? Stimulation of the older brain cells by remembering, so that they can remember more.
There was one very sticky moment when they talked about their husbands, both deceased. There was a lot of ‘God bless their souls’, and ‘Weren’t they good hard working men’. Then Annie Clarke, a regular at the centre, butted in and said she was sure that Dan Cluney had married that tart Mary Jones from Smiths clock factory as they had been caught in the storeroom a few times. There was a bit of a heated argument regarding possible mistaken identities, very stimulating for the brain cells, but then the teacups were rounded up and it was time to go.
After all the earlier tears and snotters, Mrs Cluney was reluctant to leave. Success all round I thought.