In the Midst of Life (6 page)

‘Well, anyway, they can’t talk to her.’

‘But if you let them they would learn some Latvian.’

But she wouldn’t. He watched with sadness as Karen shepherded the girls carefully around the opposite side of the living room, as far away from their grandmother as possible, and upstairs to their bedroom.

One day she said: ‘I’m going to ask the nurse to get a screen from supplies.’

‘What
for?’

‘To put around the bed, so I don’t have to see her using that chamber pot. And I don’t think the girls should have to see it, either.’

He sighed. ‘You’ll do more harm than good trying to protect them like this.’

But in the evening he came home to find screens around the bed, and his mother completely hidden from the life going on around her. The girls, being children and endlessly curious, would peep behind the screens and stare at their grandmother, as though she were an animal in a cage. Then they would giggle and run away.

He could see that Karen was growing increasingly resentful, and discussed it with the nurse. He felt guilty, and was bewildered by his feelings of guilt. Even though he and the nurse attended to the colostomy Karen had a lot of extra work, with washing, changing the bed, emptying the chamber pot, cooking. He was a practical man, and saw life in practical terms. What he did not see was that Karen’s main resentment was that she did not have the house to herself. He had been brought up in a large, gregarious family. They had had only one large room for everything – living, sleeping, cooking, eating. Babies were born in that room. Illness was nursed there, and he remembered, from long ago, his grandfather – his mother’s father – dying in the room. And now, here was his own mother dying in
his
room, but completely cut off from his family. He felt guilty about it. Guilt seemed to come at him from all sides: Karen, his mother, the girls. He had let them all down. But how? What had he done wrong? The nurse listened but could only sympathise.

And what of Mrs Ratski in all this? She was the most pitiable figure. Within the space of three months she, who had been a vigorous, determined old woman, had been reduced to an invalid. And her mind and character had subtly changed also, Slavek noticed. The strong, wise matriarch whom everyone in the family looked to for guidance had gone, and a whining, querulous old woman he did not recognise had slipped into her
place.

Mrs Ratski was turning in on herself more and more each day. Her thoughts seemed to be centred entirely upon her colostomy. She spent hours muttering to herself, picking and poking at the bag. The old lady who had been the strength of her family throughout decades of war, suffering and foreign domination; who had survived a prison camp; with all her strength, all her resolution to get to England; all that she had endured in hospital; everything was reduced to a pinpoint of focused attention – her colostomy.

There was no doubt that her mind was slipping away from her. She could not understand where she was or why she was there. Probably the acute illness, the anaesthetic, and the drugs had affected her mind, however, the cultural isolation must have had something to do with it, too. The language everyone around her was speaking confused and bewildered her. But it may be – in fact it probably was – that her brain cells, together with all the other cells in her body, were growing older day by day, week by week, and dying, as all living things must die.

One can hope that she was losing her mind, because it would have been a merciful release from loneliness. She had lost all that was familiar, her home, her daughter Olga and grandchildren, her friends, her country and the rhythm of her life, her language and her Church. Everyone around her was doing things to her that she could not understand. No one, apart from Slavek, showed her any love, and she loved no one. The hope must be that senile dementia was laying its kindly hand on her mind, inducing confusion and forgetfulness. Awareness and remembrance of loss would have been more cruel.

The year was drawing to its close, and the nurse was behind the screens tending Mrs Ratski when a quarrel erupted between the young couple.

Karen unexpectedly said: ‘I’ve decided to take the girls to my mother’s for Christmas.’

‘Why?’ asked Slavek guardedly, although he already knew the answer.

‘I can’t face Christmas here, with your mother in the
room.

How can I put up a Christmas tree and hang paper chains? We can’t have presents under the tree and a nice Christmas dinner in there; I can’t invite people in. No, we’re going to Mum’s this year. I’ve told the girls and they are looking forward to it. You can come, if you like.’

‘But your parents don’t really like me. They won’t want me for Christmas.’

‘Well, you can please yourself. Mum says you’ll be welcome if you want to join us.’

‘But I can’t leave my mother here on her own!’

‘It’s not my responsibility. I’m doing what I think is best for the girls. I want them to have a good Christmas.’

He became angry.

‘How can it be a “good Christmas” if you take them away from their father? That’s not goodness, that’s selfishness.’

‘Don’t you call me selfish! I want—’

He butted in before she could finish the sentence.

‘I remember when I was a boy, my grandfather died in our home. It was Christmas time, and all the family were there. We were children, and we just accepted it. We all played, and had a “good” Christmas.’

‘Don’t you keep reminding me of how you were brought up! Peasants, that’s what you were, peasants. No wonder my mother doesn’t like you! Well, I’m not a peasant, thank you very much. I was properly brought up, and I’m going to see to it that my girls are, too.’

‘I don’t know what your “proper upbringing” means, if it means denying the girls their grandmother. And she
is
their grandmother. And they are not just
your
girls. They are
my
girls too.’

‘She’s not
like
a grandmother. She doesn’t do things with them. She can’t take them out or play with them like grannies do. She just sits there, muttering and mumbling, and poking that “thing”. I can’t stand it any longer, all the washing and trying to get it dry, in this weather. And the smell! I can’t stand it any more. However much I wash, it’s still there. The nurse says if she didn’t keep poking at that “thing” it wouldn’t leak and the bed wouldn’t get
dirty, but she won’t stop. She keeps poking and picking, and I can’t stand it, I tell you, I can’t stand it!’

Karen had worked herself up into a hysterical frenzy and was sobbing. Slavek put his arm around her and she became calmer.

‘Why doesn’t she die, Slav? Why can’t she just die? That’s what she wanted. That’s what she came here for.’

‘I know. I’ve thought about it a lot. She nearly died that morning in August. But we called the doctors, and now she’s alive, and can’t seem to die.’

‘If only I hadn’t gone to the phone box.’

‘You only did what you thought was right. I did worse. I signed the consent for operation form.’

‘Why did you?’

‘Well, there wasn’t really any time to think. There was a sort of pressure to sign. No one said anything, but it was expected of me, so I did.’

He brooded gloomily for a while, and neither of them spoke. Karen could see his unhappiness and felt sorry for her outburst. She squeezed his hand, and saw his manliness crumble into tears that he tried to hide.

‘If I had known what was going to happen,’ he continued, ‘I would never have let them do it to her. But I didn’t know. How could I?’

‘If you had refused to give consent for the operation, would it have made any difference, do you think?’

He thought for a bit, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

‘No, I’m not sure that it would. I think they would have operated anyway.’

‘Then you can’t blame yourself.’

‘But I do. I feel guilty all the time. Guilty because I’ve made life hell for her, and guilty because I’ve made life hell for you.’

‘Is it wicked of me to wish that she had died last August, Slavek?’

‘I don’t think so. Death is natural. It comes to us all.’

‘Can she go back to Latvia?’

‘I can’t see how. How could we get her there?’

‘She’ll have to go into a home of some
sort.’

‘That’s what I’m beginning to think. I didn’t want it, but I can’t see any alternative.’

Slavek and Karen discussed it with the district nurse who made enquiries. Two local council-run old peoples’ homes were full and agreed to put Mrs Ratski on a waiting list, but warned that it might be a year or two before a place became available. They could enquire about private nursing homes in the area, but were told that Mrs Ratski would upset the other residents.

Christmas came. As soon as the school holidays started, Karen took the girls to her mother’s. Slavek was left alone with his mother. He attended to her physical needs, and the district nurse called as before. Then Karen decided to stay with her mother – Slavek was devastated. He was lonely and missed his little girls most dreadfully. On Christmas Eve he got drunk and slept for two days, with a couple of bottles of vodka by his bed.

He was awakened by repeated banging on the front door. He staggered downstairs, unkempt, unshaven, and wrapped in a blanket. It was the district nurse.

‘What’s been happening? I tried to get in this morning. I saw your bike was here, but you didn’t answer, and I knocked and knocked.’

‘What time is it?’ His voice was slurred.

‘It’s four o’clock. I haven’t seen your mother for days. Has she been away with you?’

‘No. She has been here all the time.’

‘Well, I must see her now.’

They went into the sitting room.

‘It’s bitterly cold in here. Hasn’t the poor old lady even got a fire? And it smells dreadful. Who has been looking after her? Where is your wife?’

‘My wife has gone to her mother’s and she’s not coming back.’

‘Not coming back? Oh dear, that won’t do. I will have to report that to my supervisor. The old lady can’t be left alone all day while you are at work. But I’m sure arrangements can be made to care
for her – Meals on Wheels, a home help – yes, there is a lot of support we can give you.’

‘I don’t want your bloody support! I want my wife and daughters. They’re not coming back, I tell you.’

‘There is no need to shout, young man. I heard you, and don’t use bad language to me!’

‘She will have to go into an old peoples’ home.’

‘That’s not so easy, as you well know. The Council Home is full, and your mother is on the waiting list. Have you tried private nursing homes?’

‘Yes, and they won’t take her. Each one we tried said she would be disruptive and would upset the other residents.’

‘Well, all I can do is organise as much home support as possible for her. Now, I must clean her colostomy. She’s in a dreadful mess, faecal discharge everywhere. When did you last attend to it?’

‘I can’t remember. A few days, perhaps…’

Muttering words of disapproval, the nurse started work.

‘And what has she been eating recently, if your wife has not been here?’

‘I don’t know. Porridge, I suppose. She likes porridge.’

‘Well, it’s not good enough. We can’t allow her to live on porridge. Meals on Wheels will be arranged as an emergency, from tomorrow. And I advise you to light a fire, young man. It’s freezing in here.’

Clucking her disapproval, the district nurse left.

Slavek did not light a fire. He went to the pub and got blind drunk.

Days passed, day after desolate day, and Slavek was utterly alone. Hatred and resentment built up inside him and he could hardly bring himself to go near his mother – stupid, useless old thing. Why hadn’t she died when she said she would, why was he stuck with her now, a miserable old bag of bones with no mind? Why couldn’t she just
die?
Every day, when he got home from work, he was hoping against hope to find her dead – but she wasn’t. She was always there, in Karen’s nice sitting room, where the children
should be playing by the fire, and having crumpets toasted on the red coals, and stories read to them before bedtime. Every evening he spent in the pub, drinking until closing time.

Men in Slavek’s position – having lost wife and children, heartbroken, lonely, angry, frustrated, drinking more and more – can quickly spiral into a crisis from which they cannot escape. Self-neglect, repeatedly arriving late for work with a hangover, unreliability, led to warnings from the management, which were only half-heartedly observed, then ignored. Slavek was dismissed. He was too ashamed to tell Karen that he had been given the sack, so he drew his dole money, sent half to her, and spent the rest in the pub. He had never been a good manager; Karen had always handled the family finances. Perhaps he thought that he was doing enough by sending her money each week; perhaps his brain, fuddled by drink, refused to accept the inevitable consequences of the fact that no money was going into his bank account.

In March he received a letter from the bank manager, saying that there was insufficient money in his account to pay his monthly obligation to the building society. Slavek ignored it. April brought a similar letter. He didn’t even open it. Each month a letter arrived, but was ignored.