by Alison Clink
‘The lifts here aren’t working either,’ Angie says.
‘I think I heard one of the nurses talking about the lifts. How long have they been out of order?’
‘I’m new here but I’ve heard they’ve been out of action for the last six weeks.’
‘Wow, six weeks is a long time to be stuck upstairs.’
Angie laughs. ‘Yes, it certainly is.’
No wonder there are never any residents around. Maybe the people upstairs (the unseen ones) are trapped on the first floor. What on earth would happen if a fire broke out? But then, you’re not supposed to use lifts in a fire, are you?
Adrian asks for some banana and cream and Angie brings it. Clearly she’s not been properly trained yet, and therefore isn’t fully conversant with the ‘wait three hours before you do anything’ modus operandi.
As I massage around his back and the sides of his lungs Adrian groans with relief.
‘When you massage me there it stops the weird fizzing sensation under my right arm – the Coca Cola fizz. It’s strange this should be under my right arm when the doctors at St George’s said the cancer was in my left lung.’
I carry on with the massage, unable to explain this anomaly.
Adrian speaks again. ‘She’s been very good to me,’ he says quietly. Momentarily I think he said ‘You’ve been very good to me’. I feel so uplifted and encouraged, then realise he’s talking about Carol who’s coming tomorrow.
‘She’s stood by me for years.’ I suppose she has. Also he has a card on his bedside table from Bryony, which he hasn’t opened. I’m not sure why. Maybe he’s keeping it for later, or can’t summon the energy.
Angie carries on pottering, all the while asking me questions as if Adrian isn’t here.
‘I thought he was asleep. I wasn’t talking over him,’ she says when I defer to Adrian in answering one of her questions. Oh well, at least she was quick with the bananas and cream.
When I leave Adrian thanks me but doesn’t make eye contact and, since I recently pointed out St Vincent’s isn’t exactly on our doorstop, he’s started telling me to be careful driving home. On the way home I call into The Ship at Oldford. Jack is there. I wonder how all this is affecting the other people in my family? Jack has always been fond of Adrian. I think I’ll try to spend some time with him. But not tomorrow as he’s going to a wedding.
Saturday 18th August 2007
A cold, grey, rainy day. I pity the couple getting married. Who would have anticipated such murky conditions when planning a summer wedding? Today is my day off and I start by writing a critique I’ve been waiting and waiting to do…oh, well at least the author will possibly presume I’ve been on holiday. Before I can finish the crit, Fran drags me off to Glastonbury to get her belly pierced.
Against my better judgement I find myself sitting in a tattooist and piercings shop in the middle of Hippyland while my fourteen-year-old daughter lies on a couch about to be pierced by three trainees under the aegis of a short elderly man who, if his website is anything to go by, clearly feels the need to assure any potential customers that he is ‘scrupulously clean and sterile’.
Fran has wanted her belly pierced for a long time and has relentlessly searched online for someone who is a) nearby, b) not too expensive, and c) acceptable to yours truly. Apparently I agreed to this piercer when my head was probably elsewhere, and now have to stick to my word and let Fran have a hole inserted into the creamy white, virgin skin of her belly. The short man shows me the needle in its scrupulously clean and sterile wrapper and, nodding his head, awaits my approval. I can hardly bear to look, but nod back, and mumble something to give him the go ahead. I wait in the reception area while the deed is done.
Minutes later Fran emerges with a beautiful pink belly bar under a plaster on her beautifully flat stomach. After I’ve paid the bill we go on to Haskins to choose a new bed for her since hers collapsed when she and Daisy were jumping on it. Daisy, the girls’ friend who had run away, has now returned home and celebrated with a visit to our house where they used Fran’s bed as a trampoline.
While we’re in the shop I phone Peter to check on the size of Fran’s old bed, and he asks if I’m getting a bed for Adrian.
‘No, not yet,’ I say, although I have noticed an orthopaedic one in the corner. But I’ve also noticed Haskins have a two to seven week delivery time.
*
In the evening over our weekly takeaway curry, a text arrives on my phone from Adrian saying Carol and Phil have been to visit him today and they ‘supp the prop’. I wonder what this means, but decide they ‘support the proposition’ i.e. for Adrian to move in with us. I’m gradually learning how to interpret his text speak.
‘Adrian is still wavering over coming here. I thought he’d made up his mind but he’s obviously seeking other people’s opinions,’ I say as we clear away our curry plates. Peter suddenly becomes serious.
‘I’m going to tell him what he’s got to do. Get the hell out of that nursing home and move in here, without any more messing about.’ Peter scrapes his leftovers into the bin. ‘He can’t make decisions for himself any more.’
After loading the dishwasher, I flop in front of the television. While I’m watching Leona Lewis screeching her heart out on The X Factor, Peter phones Adrian without telling me.
‘It’s all sorted,’ he says coming into the living room. ‘I’ve told Adrian. He’s moving in here as soon as possible.’
This is so out of character for Peter to interfere and put his foot down. I delete Leona and scuttle off to the study to look online for orthopaedic beds with memory foam.
When I log on I see I’ve had an email from Jackie Tomey who is one of the few friends I’ve ever had who is a committed Christian. Jackie and I worked together in the early eighties at Hammersmith and West London College. She saw the light at a Billy Graham gathering in the sixties. Jackie already knows about my brother’s illness as we have corresponded earlier in the year.
‘I do hope you still have him with you,’ her email says. ‘And that you are able to give each other all the love and comfort you have for each other…my love and prayers are with you all.’
Gulp. Someone is praying for us. And these aren’t just empty words – she really will be praying, if I know Jackie.
Sunday 19th August 2007
Another day off from visiting Adrian. I’d intended to clean the house and get the study ready but end up going to the shops to look for a bed for him instead. Having begun last month with the idea of borrowing one from Margaret, I’m now at the other end of the scale with an electronically operated, memory foam and integrated massaging mattress. A snip at only one-and-a-half grand. They have one in Helibeds in Trowbridge.
When I get home Phil G phones. He says Adrian sounds much better since deciding to move in with us, and he’s working towards a day out at Wincanton Races with him.
I get an email from Hazel, an old school friend who’s just back from the States, and I realise Margaret is back from her holidays too. I suspect they will both be wondering whether Adrian is still alive. But no – they will realise he is, because I’d have let them know if anything had happened.
In bed at night I try to imagine life without him. It seems empty and horrible. He hasn’t been highly significant in my life over the past few years and yet somehow here we are now as close as when we were kids. I’m tangled up in his life.
All the different information I have about C.diff is confusing. Having been certain Adrian couldn’t possibly leave St Vincent’s, or move here or anywhere else whilst still infected, I’m now beginning to wonder if this is true. I’m certainly not going to let it get in the way of his move to our house. Ed’s symptoms didn’t materialise – thank goodness. Maybe I’ve felt a bit dodgy a couple of times but not for long.
I recall Adrian saying Olivia didn’t bother with the gloves and apron. The most vulnerable are the very young, very old or weak. No one in our family comes into that category. Surely if we are caref
ul we are not in any danger of becoming ill. Anyway, sod it. He’s leaving St Vincent’s no matter how many bugs he’s got, and moving back into the real world. I’m going to tell Matron this tomorrow.
Monday 20th August 2007
If the First Great Western Railway staff are the offspring of Lucifer, the employees of Dorothy House are most certainly the opposite. These people are angels. During a telephone conversation with them this morning I’m informed by someone called Breeze – Breeze, even her name is ethereal – that a bed, an armchair, a commode and daily visits from a care worker will be provided if Adrian is living with us.
A bed. But I spent all yesterday searching for a bed…time wasted when I could have been cleaning the study. Breeze also says I have to register Adrian with our GP as soon as possible. We decide Adrian will move in with us this Thursday.
Breeze says she used to be a bowel nurse and she recommends ‘neat bugs’ to eliminate C.diff. At last, someone with a specific interest in bowels and who has some knowledge and experience of C.diff and, furthermore, has some positive suggestions (apart from antibiotics) to combat it.
I drive into Frome and trawl all shops likely to stock neat bugs. Who on earth would sell such a thing? What are they anyway? I have an image in my mind of a large pot containing something resembling the maggots the boys used for fishing bait. I try Boots, Lloyds and some small chemists on the outskirts of town. All say they don’t have neat bugs. I visit the health shop and a shop selling nuts and live yoghurt. Both give me similarly negative replies. The fishing shop appears to have closed down so I’m not tempted to make a complete fool of myself there. But no one can help and I’m getting some pretty funny looks from the shop assistants to boot. I decide to check online when I get home. Will there be a neat bug website? Probably – there’s one for just about everything else.
As I have some old clothes in my car I take the bags to the Dorothy House charity shop which is a bit of an extra walk up the hill from Help The Aged but this is where I donate my things now.
*
I arrive at St Vincent’s in the late morning and go straight into Matron’s room for a talk. I tell her Adrian will be leaving on Thursday.
She smiles, nods, draws breath, and says, ‘What about the C.diff?’
‘He told me it’s cleared up again. After the last course of antibiotics.’
‘You do know the C.diff virus stays in the system for at least three months after the symptoms have gone…’
‘I thought C.diff was a bacteria, not a virus.’
‘Oh yes, bacteria, I meant…’
‘Yes, and if it comes back we will be very careful.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘There is no baby.’
‘Oh, I thought you said there was a baby living with you in the house…’
‘No. Jack’s girlfriend is a nanny and a family she works for has a new baby.’
‘Oh. I thought you said there was a baby living in your house.’
‘No,’ I repeat. ‘No baby.’
She goes on to explain that Dorothy House are not entitled to receive the funding we’ve been awarded from Wandsworth Council for Adrian’s care.
‘That’s not really anything to do with me,’ I say.
‘What time will he be leaving on Thursday?’ she asks
‘We’ll fit in with you.’
‘Not early, though, I expect,’ she says. ‘Adrian doesn’t get up early.’
‘No, I expect he doesn’t.’ Let’s face it, there’s not a lot to get up for.
‘But we don’t mind when he goes.’ I thank her for all she’s done for us and make my way to his room.
*
Adrian is sitting on the bed dressed in a shirt and looking much happier. He feels cured (again) of the C.diff and I realise, not for the first time, that it’s the bug making him seem so ill – not the cancer. The cancer just gives him pain. He’s full of positive plans, which is great. I tell him about Thursday. The big day. He says he can’t wait.
‘I told them here I’m leaving – and there’s nothing they can do about it. I said, “My people will be coming to get me on Thursday”.’
His people. That’s us.
‘But don’t get too excited,’ I warn him. ‘It’s only our house, after all.’
*
It’s now the 20th of August and Adrian’s been in the West Country for thirty-one days. A whole month. According to Dr Weeks-Rather-Than-Months from St George’s, shouldn’t he be dead by now? Jill Miller sent me an email saying I’m amazing for taking my brother into my home. But yet again I think, wouldn’t anyone do the same under these circumstances? Nevertheless, I feel as if we are at the end of the road. I doubt there will be any more stops after this.
*
Adrian tells me he wants to go out and explore the locality with Welsh Phil once he gets to our house. He’s sure there must be some interesting history around these parts. The first thing that comes to mind is our connection with famous nursery rhymes.
‘The hill Jack and Jill supposedly fell down is in Kilmersdon, which is one of the villages on the way to Bath.’
‘Not a good start,’ he quips.
‘And Little Jack Horner lived in a cottage in Mells…’
‘I’d like to go up to London again too. I can’t remember whether I’ve ever been to Westminster Abbey. I may have been as a child, but certainly not as an adult.’
‘I think we went there with the school,’ I recall. ‘I seem to remember being struck by Poets’ Corner. I’m sure Chaucer and Dickens are buried there.’
‘Probably. And I’ve never been to Newcastle either,’ he says after a moment’s thought.
‘No. Neither have I. Although I’ve been through it on a train when I went to Dundee to meet Peter’s family years ago…’
‘I haven’t been to Newcastle…I’ve never been there,’ he repeats, looking down at his hands. For the first time he sounds desperate as the realisation hits him. Things not done are now lost for ever. Suddenly I feel very sad he’s thinking like this. I wonder what I’d want to see if the roles were reversed. Probably nothing, except the faces of my four children and my husband.
The words of the Roger McGough poem go through my head again as I carry out the now routine massage. Let me die a youngman’s death. Not a clean and inbetween the sheets… Not that the sheets here are particularly clean.
As I leave, Angie thanks me twice on the way out for helping her by putting a bucket in his room.
Well, she did ask me to put the bucket in his room, and, to be honest, it wasn’t much trouble.
*
In the evening I get on with clearing out the study. The Picasso has been propped up in the kitchen for the past five weeks. I hold it up against the wall where Adrian’s bed will be (when I eventually get one) and it looks good – it looks spectacular. Thank goodness I didn’t take it to St Vincent’s. It would have been so out of place amongst what Emily and Fran call the granny furniture there.
Tuesday 21st August 2007
Already Thursday is two days away and I still don’t have a bed for Adrian. But I’ve been making arrangements for the big day all morning. The phone rings. It’s the Health Centre.
‘Mrs Clink? I’m returning your call about a request for a bed for your brother. I’m sorry to let you down, but we only supply beds to patients who are either bed-bound or only have a few days left to live.’
‘But I was told by Dorothy House I’d be eligible for a free bed.’
‘Then, I’m sorry but the information you were given is incorrect. We’ve contacted St Vincent’s and they’ve assured us Mr Tilbrook is not bed-bound. Nor has he been given a terminal diagnosis with only days to live.’
‘But Dorothy House made it clear…’
‘Perhaps you should ring them back. I’m sorry, Mrs Clink, but we cannot provide a bed in this case.’
Now I have to re-focus on buying a bed myself – and quick.
I ring Dorothy House first to tel
l them what the Health Centre said.
‘Mrs Clink, the information you’ve been given by the Health Centre is wrong,’ the secretary tells me. ‘A bed and any other equipment your brother might need whilst he’s living with you will be provided by the District Nurse. I’ll organise a home visit for you immediately. One of the District Nurses will then come to your house for an assessment and to arrange delivery of a bed by Thursday.’
Ugh! Who is right?
*
I arrange cover for my Center Parcs writing group tomorrow. Adrian’s new Frome GP rings to say she’s worried because she’s away for ten days from Thursday. Anxiety bores into my heart as she speaks. This weekend is a Bank Holiday. However, she does reserve us an appointment with another doctor for Friday morning. I can either go alone, or with Adrian, or cancel if we don’t need it.
In the afternoon I take the girls with me to Asda. The bill comes to two hundred and sixty-two pounds. They have put loads of make-up and stuff in their trolley and I have a mixture of fattening food for Adrian and my usual slimming stuff to keep me down to the nine and a half stone I struggled to reach during my dieting phase in May.
I drop the girls off at their friend’s house with a few bags full of the shopping and drive on to St Vincent’s.
Dorothy House have asked me to establish exactly what St Vincent’s do for Adrian. As far as I know they just give pills. I stop a nurse in the corridor and ask her.
‘I’m temp here,’ she says. ‘I jus’ been brought in to help out. Sorry my English is not good. I do not know the answer to your question, but I will ask Matron when she come back.’
I noticed Matron’s Vauxhall Corsa in its usual spot in the car park when I arrived, but I don’t mention this.
There are no gloves outside Adrian’s room. I look for the nurse again.
‘Cheer up,’ she says when I find her taking sheets out of a linen cupboard. ‘You look so down. Come on – cheer up! You shouldn’t look so sad.’