Yesterday was a little eerie. There was a downcast mood – and it was tangible. On public transport, in the office, at the shops, people looked grey and baffled.
There could be all sorts of reasons why individuals were not looking s if they were full of sunshine. But the big grey overcast sky (metaphorically) hung over everyone today. It was a grey day, a dreary, drizzly, murky day.
I felt a lump of sadness in my throat, as sadness pervaded the air. I want to snuggle up under the covers and have a good sleep.
We were caring for Abigail, a wonderful woman who was almost one hundred years of age and had been affected by Alzheimer’s disease for the previous ten years. She was a very special lady. The whole care team were absolutely devoted to her, but especially the most experienced of our carers (Penny – who everyone called “Matron”) I must write about both Abigail and Penny.
In October 2012 Abigail started to deteriorate rapidly. The number of patients had doubled in the past few weeks and I was having to train new carers to use equipment they had never seen before. We needed everyone to do extra hours to help with the round the clock support needed. I was with Abigail when she took her last breath.
Penny, our most experienced carer had come down with a cold just after Abigail’s death, so she had not been involved with Catrina’s care. We were all concentrating on Catrina so much, none of us had stopped to think about how many days of work Penny had missed. Penny had been sending us text messages to encourage us, because she knew we were in a very demanding situation and that emotions were wrought.
I think the day of Penny’s death was perhaps the longest of my life. I had been with Penny for around twelve hours and had alerted the team that I really thought this was it. You can tell. Her breathing had changed. There was that smell. If you are unfamiliar with being with someone when they slip away, you might find it hard to imagine (you may not want to imagine) but I had seen it before and I was sure she was going. Marta, Suzie and others close to Penny, made the journey into the hospital so that they could say goodbye to Penny.
At around midnight, we had to have a difficult conversation. Penny was still breathing. There was a crowd of us in her room, and most of us had to be up at the crack of dawn to start caring for the other patients we had in our infirmary. Marta was going to be on the late shift the next day. Marta had been devoted to Penny especially since she realized she was ill. We tore ourselves away from the bed and left Penny with Marta and a lifelong friend who had come down from Scotland to be with her. We all knew it was the right thing to do, Penny would have insisted on it, but it was very hard to leave her.
I had to go to be with Arnold and his wife. Arnold was especially disorientated in the morning and often had physical challenges. His wife found it very difficult and on entering their room, normally for the first half an hour Arnold’s wife would be offloading all of her stresses to is as we tried to help Arnold. I was not in the mood that morning I have to admit. Before she could wear me down any further, I mentioned to her that Penny had passed away. She was genuinely sad. She loved Penny. The two of us sat on the sofa holding hands and Arnold slept quietly. Then when Arnold woke up I started helping him.
I had to work all day. There were initially some hugs and tears together. But there was also a lot of upset because some of the infirmary team had clashed with Penny and were not as close to her. I think they felt a little guilt, I don’t know. But now they seemed to be a bit brutal about the loss of Penny. Some of the carers were upset that they had not been able to get to hospital to say goodbye. They seemed annoyed with me for not sending individual text messages to everyone of them. I had texted our infirmary managers and Marta and Suzie because they were my flatmates and had worked with Penny for years. There was a lot of work to do, and I had the feeling that noone was going to let us grieve that day.
I remember having to go down to the main kitchen with another carer, Lucia, who had been very close to Penny. (There were five of us who were known as Penny’s girls: Lucia, Milagros, Marta, Suzie and me.) Lucia and I were greeted by the boys in the kitchen with joking and teasing. We were not in the mood! They asked us: “what was the matter? why were we so glum?” One of the boys even asked “has someone died or something?” Lucia’s eyes filled with tears. I was shocked. I quietly explained that Penny had died during the night. The boys reaction was “who was Penny? was she one of the older ladies in the infirmary?” I was really shocked. Until just two months before, Penny had regularly gone down to the kitchen to obtain the food for the infirmary lunch just as Lucia and I were doing. In fact Penny had been doing that as part of her assignment as a full-time volunteer in the infirmary for over thirty years.
That day was hard because the five of us girls, Penny’s girls, were heart-broken. But that particular day was long and cold and hard. And strangely even some of those who had worked with Penny seemed to be saying to us “life goes on”, just a few hours after we had lost our wonderful friend. You know all of those awful phrases that you are never ever supposed to say to someone who is grieving…we heard all of them that day and for the next few days. It was sickening.
Aaaaaaaah! Those were some of the most demanding and heart-breaking months of my working life. Long hours, sleepless nights, repressing our grief, and of course none of us were being paid a penny for our work. For a while I felt as if we were expected to work like machines and not to allow any emotions to slow us down. There was always work to do, always other people to help. I did feel I was stretched almost to breaking point. I think that day when we had just lost our beloved Penny was probably the longest day of my life. Somehow, the heart of the infirmary had grown cold and stopped beating. It was not the same after losing Penny and we all knew it. The warm family environment that Penny had established disintegrated somewhat. We were glad of being sent on other assignments, but often we were working on our own in isolated locations…and that was a stark contrast to having close colleagues who were like family.
I have agreed to go for a coffee with a man (a friend of a friend) on a sort of date. Goldfinch knows – I have told him I feel awful about it – it seems like a betrayal for some reason. But it seems like a good idea for reasons I won’t write about in this post.
I am going out on this coffee-date because I don’t think I should wallow in grief for a long long time. I am going out on this coffee-date because am still in constant communication with Goldfinch and can involve him in my decisions. I am going on this coffee-date because I am frightened of being alone and having to deal with future challenges on my own. I might possibly be going on this coffee-date because deep down I am in need of a man to hug me and hold me and allow the accrued pain from all sorts of losses – some little, some large to ease out of my heart.
I had a bit of a sniffle a couple of weeks ago, and because I was blowing my nose a hundred times a day, I started to remember someone who was part of my very early years. Aunt Bessy. My memory of her is a very warm and gregarious character, in a rather rotund package. Poor Aunt Bessy, was sitting in a dining chair with arms once, and when she stood up, the chair rose with her, as the arms were digging into her generous girth. She squealed with laughter, which made it alright for us little ones to giggle.
d me on many occasions about wiping my nose on my sleeve, or not wiping it at all, but letting my nose run instead!
I wanted to go to visit Aunt Bessy’s home and taste her cooking and see her fishies. I asked Mum to ask Aunt Bessy for an invitation. When Mum let her know how keen I was to visit, Aunt Bessy sternly told me that I would not be allowed to visit until I had learnt to blow my nose properly!
A lunch-time visit was arranged. I thought Aunt Bessy was so considerate even to ask Mum what we would like to eat. Mum never asked us! I can’t remember whether it was fish fingers or chicken nuggets in breadcrumbs, but I do remember it came with chips and baked beans. I was so thrilled. She showed us her fishies. I was in awe of them. They seemed magnificent. Coy carp I believe, they were the biggest fish I had ever seen and seemed so beautiful.
One icy winter, Aunt Bessy was in the front seat of the car her husband was driving. Uncle Justin was also a lovely man. I will tell you about him one day. Mum and Dad told us afterwards that it all happened very quickly. The juggernaut of a lorry on the opposite carriageway had lost control and was skidding as they came around the bend of the road. My parents told us that Uncle Justin and Aunt Bessy would have hardly suffered, they would have died instantly.
I was distraught. I could not control my violent sobs and streaming tears. The reality of what had happened had hit me and I could not leave the house. My parents did not want to force me to attend the funeral. I stayed with one of our neighbours, who had daughters a similar age to myself, while the rest of my family attended the funeral for Uncle Justin and Aunt Bessy.
Caramel 