Marianne Talbot Mum was in fine form yesterday. Resplendent in her new pink pyjamas, she was obviously feeling chatty. We spent a happy 20 minutes talking nonsense. If mum sounded as if she was asking a question, I answered a question. If she sounded as if she was telling me something funny, I laughed. If she seemed to be telling me something in confidence, I listened gravely and responded confidentially.
Such interactions can be extraordinarily satisfactory.
Mum is looking good too. Her eyes are lively and expressive, even in a funny way, aware, though aware of what there's no telling.
Yet I was so frightened of consigning her to a nursing home. It felt like such a defeat. I was sure she would hate it, that she would respond as she did when she went into respite care (see my blog of..). I was prepared for tears, trauma and the most tremendous guilt.
But the time had obviously come. The same seems true of almost everyone who comes into mum's home. I suppose it's partly because it only caters for those with very advanced dementia.
The whole place is like a madhouse. I suppose it is a mad house. Literally. But I mean that in the fondest way possible. When I visit I feel I am face to face with humanity, and with what is important in life.
Oh dear, does that sound rather precious? I'm sorry. But I mean it. In everyday life we are soothed by the social niceties into forgetting what is what. In mum's home there are no soothing social niceties. The veneer of civilisation is missing. All veils have been swept aside.
Last week, for example, I had to alert a carer to the fact that a dignified elderly lady had been caught short in the corridor and decided that there was no time like the present.
This is not an unusual occurrence. Carers need to be constantly alert. That elderly gentleman, rising in such stately fashion from his chair, is just as likely to undo himself, as take a walk. Mum celebrated my giving her a new pair of slippers the other day by peeing on them.
Most residents seem content, or even happy, but there are those who are not, and who demonstrate this frequently and loudly. One poor lady cries constantly. Another is permanently angry, and can be quite vicious. Another is constantly agitated, talking at you until, in self-defence, you have to turn away, despite the fact it feels so rude.
It is life in the raw. But it doesn't matter how damaged these people are, they are still human beings. And unlike the rest of us they wear their humanity on their sleeves.