by Betty Balaba
She looked at my mother.
“Is it okay if I talk in front of your daughter?” I sat up straight in my chair. Well, she better speak in front of me – seeing as how I was the only one who would be looking after my mother! My mother duly nodded.
“You will be going to physio at the end of the week,” said the therapist. She smiled at my mother, the way you would do to a child to make sure they were still listening.
“We just wanted to check that there would be someone at home who could look after you as you settle back into your routine.”
My mother glanced at me and grabbed my hand – I’m not sure whether the gesture was meant to reassure me, or reassure herself of having me there. I knew she was scared of where this conversation might go. The therapist continued.
“We want to make sure you will manage, at least in the short term. There are a number of options.” My mother squeezed my hand. Mary looked at our held hands and rushed on.
“You could go to a facility just until you are completely back on your feet.” My mother’s grip tightened. “Or a carer could come to you. We need to come and assess your home… we just want to make sure that everything is safe for you… we do not want you having a fall!” Who is this ‘we’ she keeps talking about? And so I piped up.
“I will be able to help my mother at her home.”
“Do you live with her?”
“No. But I could go there after work.”
“She will need more help than that, at least to start with.”
“Would not the carers be able to help?”
“I will arrange for someone to visit your mum’s home and then we can go from there,” she said. “But in any case, they wouldn’t be staying the night.”
Ah, here was the heart of the matter. If I was going to help my mother, I would have to move in, at least until she was back on her feet and could manage by herself. I looked at the therapist understandingly.
“I will have to move in then.”
My mother loosened her grip and smiled at me through her shining eyes. I saw her release the breath she must have been holding. Mary the therapist seemed to brighten up too.
“If you are happy to do that then, in the next day or two, someone will go to your mum’s home and we can sort out a care package,” she quickly said. “A carer can come to help with breakfast, lunch and dinner – and then you can keep an eye on her at night.”
“Thank you,” said my mother, cheering up. I was not sure which one of us she was thanking, but I could tell that she was relieved.
“My pleasure,” she smiled, then hurried away, clipboard in hand, to deliver more news elsewhere.
I sat back in my chair and thought about the decision I had made. I couldn’t help feeling that moving in with my mother would be a seismic change. I didn’t know if I would like the change but what else could I do? What else would my conscience allow me to do? I couldn’t let her go to a facility; she would be scared to death. Remembering all the news stories of how people were treated in old people’s homes made me want to swoop in as judge and jury. How could they treat vulnerable people like that? There were other jobs: why take a job requiring care, patience and understanding, when you didn’t even have those qualities? She was my mother and if I didn’t look after her, who would? I had needed her and now she needed me. Adrenalin was kicking in and my mind began to buzz thinking about the practicalities and what that meant for me. Would I have to rent out my flat? My cream furniture would definitely have to go into storage in that case. All the crystal I had saved up to buy would be joining the furniture. What had I been thinking buying Lalique anyway? Yeah, like I did that type of entertaining! In another life, maybe.
It would feel strange moving back home after having my own place for so long. At least my mother didn’t live too far from me: three Tube stops to be exact. I could still use my favourite local places. And it wasn’t as if I was seeing my friends now anyway. My life had narrowed itself down to work and the hospital… and eating. I had to be careful that I did not close myself off in a box. Even worse than not being able to find my way out would be not even realising I was there in the first place.
With these thoughts circulating, I headed out to my mother’s place to pick up some night things she needed. Waiting outside for a cab, I saw him again. James. He stepped out the front doors and saw me, then walked straight towards me. Suddenly all my calm reflections on life were gone.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, surprised.
“Just to pick up a few things for my mother.”
He nodded.
“I’d heard that you were always here late with your mother.”
Oh, so someone must have been talking about me. And even if he wasn’t part of the conversation, he had paid attention.
“Yes,” I said, conscious of the compliment. A moment of silence followed, which already seemed too long.
“I’m just waiting for my cab,” I said stupidly. He nodded. I noticed the fitted black tracksuit he was wearing. He was in good shape; I could say that for him.
“I guess you’re off duty?” I said, and he smiled.
“Yes, it wouldn’t do to wear this on the ward.”
I grinned; thinking at least I wouldn’t mind. “I go for a run after my shift sometimes. Helps to clear my head.”
“I used to…” I began, then immediately regretted it. Let me not embarrass myself by saying that I ran – even worse that I used to run. My body now looked like it had not been acquainted with exercise in a long time. If ever. James had only at the very beginning seen me with my lean, hourglass figure. Would it have made a difference? To what? He didn’t seem to treat me any differently because of my fuller figure. I was already finding out some people could be dismissive of you and act as if they had not seen you.
He kindly ignored the fact that I was about to say something, and I found my voice.
“Well, erm, enjoy your run.”
“Thanks… I will,” still the smile played on his lips. “Will be good to get some fresh air after today – you know the feeling, I’m sure.”
He seemed reluctant to leave but then I saw a car pull up. We both realised it was my cab.
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Becca.”
It sounded so good when he said my name. And with that, he waved and turned to start his run.
After a cab journey daydreaming about James on his run, I arrived at my mother’s house.
I finally was home. I had a couple of hours before I needed to be back at the hospital. For the first time in a while I felt like I wanted to do some exercise. James must have inspired me. I decided on the park; the environment there would lift my spirits. It was a crisp, clear day with little wind. A perfect park day.
Now, I say exercise… but when I tried to do my warm up, I couldn’t do anywhere near my usual amount. I was tired before I’d even begun. I started to jog and in less than ten minutes I was panting and gulping for air like a fish out of water. Clearly speed-walking was going to be a better option. I got up a rhythm and set a goal of fifteen minutes.
Amazingly – and thankfully – I lasted a full half an hour. But my thighs were burning. I hadn’t exercised in months and my body was not letting me get away with it. Walking back to my flat, I was exhausted. I was nearly at the door when my neighbour from across the street waved at me to come over.
Andy was in his early fifties and had done well in property. As usual, he had a cigar in one hand, and newspaper in another. He called himself an East-End lad who had made good. Once he had started to do well, he had married and moved to Brentwood. After seven years of marriage, he had divorced and moved back to London to one of the houses opposite my block. He had once said it was ‘a bit of bother with a waitress’ that caused the separation, adding that she could have been a movie star. I assumed he meant the waitress, not his wife, and that she hadn’t taken kindly to the former’s acting potential, or their ‘friendship’. Either way, she had kept the house with the indoor pool – an
d we had ended up neighbours.
He was nice enough, but what really made him stand out in the neighbourhood was his love of gossip. Andy knew about everybody’s life on the street. He caused what I liked to call ‘gossip-gate’ by telling most of the neighbours that Sally-next-door had plastic surgery on her nose – even coming home under cover of darkness. Well we could all tell that her nose had changed – but no one had been as indiscrete as him! The surgeon did a great job – it was a beautiful nose – but he went around telling everyone what else she should get done. His Rolex glinted at me as the Aviators came off. He knew how to look after himself – unfortunately, he thought he was much better looking than he really was.
Every time he saw me, he waved and I had waved back; not realising it was encouraging him to talk to me. Sometimes I had to hide by the side of the building so he wouldn’t see me; else he’d want to chat for twenty minutes and I would invariably be late for something. Since my hospital runs, I had not seen much of him; and he must have been bottling up a lot of gossip since I knew the other neighbours avoided him. I felt that was mean, the man had feelings after all. Buried, perhaps, but I knew they had to be there.
I approached the side of his black Range Rover in his drive.
“I haven’t seen you about!” he said eagerly. “Working you hard, are they?”
“Yeah, it’s been busy.” I wanted to steer well away from the topic of my mother, with the tongue that he had on him!
“A lady like you must be well on her way to the top floors,” he said. I stopped myself from smiling, thinking about my ongoing confusion over the new ‘role’.
“Not quite…” I said.
“Why not?” he questioned, waving his cigar in the air in one of his elaborate hand gestures. “Becca, I’m sure you will be running the place before long!”
“Well,” I said patiently, “You never know where life takes you…”
He pulled a face.
“It better not take you anywhere else. You stay in that career of yours!” My eyes laughed at his forceful response, and he continued. “People don’t tend to make it, starting something new in their thirties. It didn’t used to be like this, with everyone switching jobs every two minutes. Now my nephew’s talking of leaving his law firm to become a pastry chef! After all that study and effort.”
“You don’t think it might work out for him though?” I said, thinking about my own itch to get onto something new. He shook his head.
“Nah…” he paused, then relented. “Okay, one or two might make it, eventually, but it’s unusual. People are mainly in their twenties when they start to make their mark or they start to when they’re in their early thirties. After that… it’s too late!”
I was incredulous.
“Are you saying it’s not possible to make it big if someone isn’t in their twenties?”
He stretched out his hand and rocked it from side to side.
“Not exactly! But it’s just that in your later thirties, you don’t have the energy… or the time left. It takes 20 or 30 years to make it!”
“Really?” The idea was still sinking in.
“Yup,” he said with finality. “It’s more a case of enthusiasm rather than practicality by that stage.” I frowned in disagreement, and he smiled. “Okay, if you think I’m wrong, name me someone who has made it big from scratch later in life? Someone who didn’t start young?” I thought for a little bit and then shot back.
“Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He was in his seventies.”
He threw his head back and laughed.
“You’ve got me there!”
Interesting as this was, I was now running late to get back to the hospital. But he had planted a seed of doubt in my mind: before I’d even decided what to do next!
*
Once I had returned home, my mind turned to cake. I hadn’t had any cake for, oh, at least two days, and I missed that buttery sweet hit. Before this new ‘routine’ of mine, I could go for months without having had any chocolate or cake and not even miss it. Then I called them treats. And now they had become a necessity.
But when I stood up, there was a sharp pain in my lower back. What the hell! I had never felt pain like that in my back before. My back was supposed to be the strongest part of my body. I had always been able to carry heavy things without much effort. Now I winced with the pain of taking two steps, and quickly grabbed for my chair. I was in agony! I focused on trying to stay calm and breathe my way through the pain. After twenty minutes, I realised it wasn’t fading and that I needed to see someone as soon as possible. I grabbed my mobile from the counter and called to get an emergency appointment with my GP. The surgery was a five-minute walk away and I thought I could make it. Sheer force of will took me every painful step to the surgery.
My GP was one of those women in her late forties that looked a decade younger. I thought that whatever she was doing must be working. She looked good for any age. I positioned myself in the chair opposite her slowly, in an unnaturally upright position that caused the least amount of pain.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I just got up from my chair and felt a sharp pain in my lower back on the right hand side.”
After examining me, she sat me back down to talk.
“It’s a muscle strain. Your reflex responses are working fine. Take some Ibuprofen and some Panadol and that should help. It will take time to heal but there’s not much else you can do.”
“Is that it?” I could not believe that was all I could do. I was in so much pain!
“Yes,” she said. “Although a massage or acupuncture could help.” I nodded, thinking I’d give anything a go to ease the pain. Then she went on: “As you’re in your thirties now, it will help if you do some light exercise. Yoga or pilates. You should look after yourself and stay in shape…”
Our eyes met and I tried to take the emotion out of mine. Did she really just say that I had to stay in shape? Was even she telling me I was fat? I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. What could I say? After all, I had just had to speed-walk because running tired me out.
I staggered back home and managed to continue with the rest of the evening, with the aid of a heat pad and armed with plentiful Panadol. I finally rested myself on the couch and was enjoying a slice of coffee cake. I say a slice, but I was on my third one when the phone rang. After all, who didn’t need a treat when they could barely move? I stifled a yawn. It was eight in the evening. But still… picking the phone up, I heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Hello.”
I sounded groggy although I had not been sleeping. My lack of sleep had caught up and overtaken me long ago.
“Hi! How are you?”
“Well, thanks,” I stalled. Who was it? No caller ID came up on the phone. But I didn’t want to be rude and ask who it was – particularly when they seemed to know me. “You?”
“I am good. I wanted to ask if you knew where we could go for Emma’s birthday?”
Ah, it was Sarah, Emma’s PA. I say PA, but even though she only worked part-time, she acted like she sometimes ran the place. Sophie and I would just roll our eyes at the mention of her. She was a typical bossy-boots and typically unaware of the affect she had on people. She didn’t so much rub people up the wrong way, as grind them down with abrasion. I yawned again, for different reasons.
“Are you sleeping?”
“No, I am just really tired.” I wasn’t even sure why she called me – I had already said that I could not go. “I will have a think.” When did I become the social secretary? I took a small bite of cake that was lingering on my fork, begging to be eaten.
“Let me know…”
“Okay,” I was about to end the call when she added another sentence in.
“What are you doing?”
“Hmm? Resting right now…” Then she cut me off.
“Is that all you are doing?” A pause for dramatic effect. “Alright for some.” How dare she!
“I beg your
pardon?” I said, shocked.
“I have to go,” she said curtly. “Some of us have work to do!” With that she said a hurried goodbye and put the phone down. But how dare she judge me? It was a good job that she was on the phone, not in person. She knew she was out of order or she wouldn’t have hurried off the phone. ‘Some of us have work to do!’ Work to do indeed; like she ever took work home. Well, just because I was home did not mean that I was not working. Whereas her work ethic was to delegate down until she had nothing to do herself! I’d like to see her swap places with me.
I sat in my chair and pushed the empty cake plate away from me. For the first time in all the previous months, I now felt fat. Not a little bloated or a little overweight, but fat. The kind of fat where your love handles have handles; and when you waved, your biceps have two parts that move independently. This body that had taken me through adult life without a single day lost to ill health: What had I done to it? I knew I needed to look after myself better, but why could I not just do it?
The fabric of my life was coming undone. It was as if a single thread had come loose and you didn’t notice – but then the jumper unravels until you don’t recognise your life any more. I went over to the couch and lied down. I was tired. ‘Alright for some…’ I replayed in my head. I wish! I’d like the banter brigade to walk a day in my shoes, and tell me how it worked out for them.
I closed my eyes and shut out the world.
Chapter 14
Hidden Treasures
That week, it was Ibuprofen and Panadol twice a day for the back pain. I didn’t usually take pills but I didn’t have a choice. I liked to know what the cause of the problem was, rather than just masking its symptoms. I eventually called a chiropractor. All the stretching exercises, hot-bath soaks and heat pads made a difference. The sharpness of the pain eased. He told me that I had right-sided ‘sacroiliac strain’. Despite the fancy-sounding name, it wasn’t as serious as it had felt. I needed to stop carrying such a heavy handbag and not sit at an angle for extended periods of time – which would be interesting, given the demands of my job. But I would live.