Experience

I saw experience yesterday.

It was eloquent, supportive, directive, but overwhelmingly caring.

I was visiting my mum, who has dementia and is looked after in a residential care home in the Scottish Highlands. A close relative arrived, Kate, on her Sunday round of visiting all her contemporaries who’ve succumbed to strokes, dementia and other ailments that have necessitated institutional care.

Kate is a stout 80 year old, fit as can be and sharp as a tack. She’s known me since I was a newborn, and has at various moments kicked my bottom and tended my injured knees. She joined us for a blether, my mum’s eyes brightening again, her face revealing recognition, but unable to form the speech that accompanies it, instead a stammerburble of smiles and lipshaped meaning that is clear enough .

A commotion arises in a nearby room: “…..happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Jessie, happy birthday to you…..”  “Must be a birthday” says Kate, “….ah yes it is…..it’s Jessie’s 90th…..” …..suddenly remembering.

 

 

We laugh. We talk. Mum stammerburbles. And we all smile a lot. Mum is wrestling with the home-made cake I’ve brought – it looks innocuous enough, the red cherries on top catching your eye, but concealing stem ginger deep inside. Big cheek-tingling chunks of ginger, which ignite in your mouth after the eggyspongy ‘comfort’ sensation of the first mouthful. Mum revels in the mouthexplosion. And smiles.

A voice rises “Jessie, come on, please” A young woman staff member is taking Jessie to the toilet. Well, is trying to.

Jessie is not for cooperating: “Someone’s in my seat, in my seat, they’re in MY seat, that’s my SEAT!” looking over to where we are all sat, in the main meeting area.

“Now Jessie come on, your seat is through in the other room” the staff member interjects and tries to steer Jessie towards the toilet.

“That’s my seat, MY seat, they need to GET OUT of it.” the very real desperation evident in Jessie’s voice coming to the fore.

“Look Jessie we’re going to the toilet, it’s not far now….” but it might as well be on the dark side of the moon for all Jessie cares. Someone is in her seat.

“Excuse me a moment” says Kate quietly to mum and me, gets up and walks over to Jessie and places her not inconsiderable frame directly in front of Jessie’s walking -frame, filling Jessie’s visual field with wool and tweed, and smiles.

“Jessie darling, what a lovely hairdo!” Kate proclaims. Jessie blinks.

“And that necklace, it’s quite beautiful, was that a birthday present?”

“My seat, she’s in MY….” is cut off suddenly by…

“Your cardigan, is it new? It is new isn’t it? I’ve not seen it before, it matches your necklace, but oh my my your hair is so lovely today, I think you look quite beautiful…” and gently takes Jessie’s hands and squeezes them, and every time Jessie tries to shift her gaze away, chairwards, Kate gently caresses those hands, their skin paper-thin and sensitive, bringing her attention back to Kate. To wool, and tweed, and smiles.

“Jessie I believe it’s your birthday today! You don’t look 90, I’d say 70 and not a day over!” and all the while laughing and talking and telling Jessie how lovely she looks….but ever so slowly, imperceptibly leading Jessie towards the toilet.

Jessie is beaming, her face alight with joy, at last recognizing herself in Kate’s words and reveling in the memory.

It was simple. Heartbreakingly simple. A little moment that mattered so much, on a trip to the toilet.

The young woman staff member looks at me, relieved, we both smile, “Watch and learn”  I say quietly “Watch and learn!”.

“I do…”  she replies, grinning “…and I am”