Today I called at the nursing home to see Geoffrey. I was told that the day before had been his 89th birthday. I was also told that he was quite bright today. Recalling how sprightly he seemed the week before I was looking forward to meeting him again. But when I reached the lounge where he sits, I found him to be quite tired. It was difficult to communicate. He also had a problem hearing what I said. Not surprising really. A lady in the room was making loud noises as though in distress — she seemed to be taking her shoes off and then struggling to get them back on. A cleaner was at work with mop and vacuum cleaner removing the dinner debris from the tables and floor. Some residents were moving around and muttering in their own distinctive way. The radio then began making loud music. I thought it better not to stay long as Geoffrey tended to start shouting at the others out of frustration at not being able to hear my words. And when he did, he had problems comprehending what I said. However, he did agree to have his photograph taken. Unfortunately he was not spruced up this week but rather the opposite — he was wearing a loose pink jersey. Even so, I think the photograph has turned out quite well in the circumstances.
Geoffrey was sitting at a table with a lady resident. I offered her one of the jelly babies I had taken for Geoffrey. She bit its head off and passed it back. I assured her it was okay to eat it and so she put it back in her mouth. All this time she had been fiddling with her glasses. I feel sure she had removed one of the lenses and was trying to get it back. She pushed the glasses away and started sucking on something. I concentrated on Geoffrey. When I looked across the table I saw the loose lens had disappeared. I looked on the floor and around the area. An assistant was near and I told her that the lens was missing. She told me they were Geoffrey’s glasses. Had he been given a new pair? She said they would find the missing lens and then got on with her work. I looked at Geoffrey’s companion. She was still sucking something. She passed me bits that she had previously chewed. Another assistant came near and I told her about Geoffrey’s glasses. She started looking all around for the missing lens.
“Do you think she is sucking it?” I asked.
“No, surely not.”
She asked the chewing lady what she was sucking, but she just ignore the question. So the assistant stuck her little finger in the woman’s mouth to feel what was in it. A bit of wriggling with the finger produced the missing lens! Glasses and lens were taken away to be washed and mended.
I thought it better to go and leave Geoff to have a nap. Poor chap, it had been a noisy room to have a conversation and most of what he said reflected his worries that he was doing nothing when he thought he should be doing something useful. Conducting a service? Gone are those days. So sad. Before I went today, I had looked him up on the Internet again. I found his name on a number of articles published in a prestigious journal. I recalled some sketches I had done for him years ago — they were to illustrate an article he had done for one of his journals. We often worked together conducting services too.
I kissed his forehead and said goodbye. Maybe my next visit will be more like the one I had last week? I hope so. My word, the people who work in that place are angels! I doubt I could cope.

Geoffrey — now 89!

Garden gate to the shore

An old photograph taken in Dendron Church

Visiting Geoffrey before Christmas.

As I bent over Geoffrey to say hello he looked at me carefully and asked, “Who are you?”

And so began another visit of dancing with confusion.

He ate the cake I had taken. (crumbs all over — no table but I had taken paper napkins and the cake in a paper dish.)

He constantly scratched his neck, shoulder, back, and wriggled in the chair to ease his sore and itchy bum. I have written down some of the words he spoke during my visit:

I want to be happy

Lord Jesus help me,

Lord Jesus help me

Lord Jesus help me to bear it

I’m a pig.

I’m a dirty pig

I’m a pig aren’t I?

I’m a filthy pig.

I want to help.

What can I do?

I want to help people.

Where’s Marion?

Is she dead?

Have my parents gone?

I answered his questions, trying to assure him that he was not a pig but rather a man with a distinguished career in the Church and British Library. I then diverted him to years gone by — boyhood, London, and India. I said he must have been a handsome young man in those days. Smiling he said, ‘I suppose so.’

I asked him, “How old are you?”

‘Oh, I don’t know — 70, 80, 100, 150?’

I smiled and said, ‘Well that’s makes me about 140 — do I look 140?’ We both laughed!

Visiting Geoffrey after Christmas — a sad change

I visited Geoffrey two days ago — 29th Dec. He’d had a fall and been in hospital.

He was not in the lounge when I arrived and so I waited for him by a table at the far end of the room. From there I could see outside and note a square of paving and bedding plants between the walls of the nursing home wings. I wondered if residents sat there in summer, certainly not while I had been visiting.

Geoffrey was brought into the lounge in a wheelchair. He was making a lot of noise and shouting at his carer somewhat rudely. He was pushed up close to the table and I immediately started talking to him. I hardly recognized him. He looked thinner and his head shrunken. His face was bruised and his haunted eyes seemed to be deep in their sockets. My heart went out to him. He was weary and not inclined to speak, when he did it was hard to make out what he said. His eyes did not seem to be coordinating and I wondered if he had suffered damage to his brain. Maybe he was sedated?

Most of the time he sat with his head drooping down or scratching hard at his back and his head. I heard the words ‘want to be happy’ and I tried to make light conversation but he had trouble hearing and I had considerable difficulty making out what he was saying.

Before the visit I looked him up on the Internet and found out that he had been ordained when serving as a missionary in South India, by the Bishop of Singapore. I mentioned this to him and he remembered the occasion but an itching back took over his attention.

I had taken a slice of my homemade ginger cake and asked him if he would like to eat it. It took a while for him to consume half of it. I thought his mouth was likely to be dry. Someone produced lemonade and this helped the cake go down.

How I wished I could understand what he was trying to say. And that he could hear my words! Suddenly he asked for his glasses. At least, I was able to make that out. I saw they were tucked into his jumper pocket and so pulled them out for him to put on. My goodness what a mess they were — smeared and bent at odd angles (was he wearing them when he fell?), but somehow I managed to help him get them on. Inevitably they slipped off when he lowered his head and he yelled out. I caught them but did not try to put them back on his bruised nose.

I left the other half of the cake wrapped up, for him to eat later. It had been necessary to feed him with it, just like the first time I visited when I helped him with his egg and chips. Will my next visit find him improved? Clearly the fall had knocked some of the stuffing out of him but is the damage permanent? Bad enough the constantly growing dementia.

Poor Geoffrey, my friend and tutor of years ago: all that was dear to him: his wife, his work, his brilliant mind, his very identity — GONE! To be replaced by what? A blank wall? No, not even that. Walls can be drawn on and so made to be objects of communication. A black hole into which tumbles the known and loved, is nearer the mark.

”Where now your God?”

For me, Geoffrey’s God is there — suffering with him.

Aldingham Nursing Home but Geoffrey's world is locked inside, within his own mind.

JANUARY 5th visit.
A wet and windy day and it was with some trepidation that I visited Geoffrey, so much so that I rang up the nursing home to make sure he was up to having visitors or, indeed, if he was still there and not in hospital. Of course I would have visited him there, especially as I was already going there to see a rather poorly friend.
Geoffrey’s change was such that I entered the lounge and walked right past him! The change from last week was amazing. He was sitting in a wheelchair with his back straight and legs crossed. Indeed, he was looking spruced up and alert and, in spite of the ravages of time, quite handsome for his age (middle or late eighties). Clearly he had got over his fall and the only evidence of his mishap was a pale bruise over his nose area. His speech was clear and crisp: ‘Who are you?’
And so began a much happier visit. He ate and enjoyed the small iced fancy and I told him again about my looking him up on the Internet, not that I think he knew what I was talking about but it gave me a straight lead in to talk about his ordination by the Bishop of Singapore in 1952. This was followed by my talking about his job in London.
He told me he felt he should treat his mother better. I reminded him that his parents had been dead for some time. Then the assistants came to move Geoffrey to a more comfortable armchair and it was time for me to go, pleased that my dear friend had got some of his old dignity back. I told him I was on my way to see a sick friend in hospital. He asked me if there was anything he could do to help. He had asked me earlier if there was anything that he could do, or should be doing. After many highly active years, it must be incredibly boring to sit with his mind in a fog, knowing somehow that it is ‘not his thing’ to be sitting idle. As I was about to go, he said, “Thank you for coming to see me.”
It was the first time he had said that to me since being in that place. I left the nursing home feeling much happier about Geoffrey, and wondering at the human capacity to regain strength of voice and alertness in spite of severe brain meltdown.

Alison House Hotel. Once the home of Sir Richard Arkwright

Not much to look at from the front — note false windows. Lovely house just the same. Once the home of Sir Richard Arkwright

The spooky back door!

We were in Derbyshire for the last days of November. We visited Chatsworth on Sunday afternoon and ate a roast pork bun in the grand old stables courtyard, whilst listening to a band play old tunes. It was already dusk but the music, pretty coloured lights and festive decorations added a kind of warmth to mellow the winter chill. The many visitors were good-humoured as they sat to eat and listen, or stroll around the courtyard and indoor shops to view the varied Christmas goods on sale. The house was brightly lit but we did not go inside to see the decorated rooms but, no doubt, many others did. We have been inside the house and gardens on other occasions. And we have often walked in the extensive park. I don’t think there is another country house quite like Chatsworth and we have visited quite a few.

We stayed at Cromford in the Alison House Hotel (Cromford is the home of the original Arkwright mill). The house is where Sir Richard Arkwright once lived (when not at his London home or elsewhere?). Quite likely, it was while residing in this pleasant abode that he planned the building of Willersley Castle as befitting his growing status in society.

We took a lot of photos of the house and lovely gardens — yes, lovely even in winter with its grand views and flower borders. In summer it must be a relaxing place to sit and soak in the Arkwright history, or just meditate in peace and quiet. Did Arkwright do much dreaming in that wonderful setting? If so, I guess it would be of expansion and new methods to boost production.

I enjoyed the public rooms with their elegant windows. We had a downstairs suite at the hotel. Actually it is one of their rooms for disabled guests. The huge double bed was quite something and the furniture quite pleasant.In the bathroom was a door, which we opened to find a narrow space with an outside door that didn’t open. It must have been the old back door. But what is so funny is that it could not have been cleaned for yonks! What a lark! Huge dust-covered cobwebs that might have been there for years! The rest of the suite was spotless, no doubt like the rest of the hotel. We said nothing as it seemed a shame to have it cleaned up. I loved it so much we took a photograph. The outside door was locked and an old bolt was in still place. My imagination set to work — what a setting for a yarn! The secret door to let in a vampire lover? No, don’t like vampire stories. It will have to be the handsome muscular gardener…

We did some shopping at Masson Mills. Anyone interested in industrial history would love a visit here (as well as the Cromford Mill) as some of the original works have been preserved. My mission though was to explore the one-time mill building’s huge floors of clothing and other goods. I found ideal Christmas presents in quite a short time.

Before we left the area, we had lunch with relatives and visited the Smedley factory shop at Lee Mills. We would have enjoyed visiting inside, but this is a working factory exporting fine knitted wear all over the world. I rejoice that factories in the UK can still export high quality (expensive) goods. Quality and fine workmanship is not always easy to copy. I was pleased to be able to buy a few more presents!

No visit to the Midlands would be complete without a visit to my sister who lives near Nottingham. As usual, we all went to the nature reserve at Attenborough to see the wide range of wild life and also partake of a light meal. Afterwards we drove a few miles to Highfields Park, the exquisite setting for the white Nottingham University building. The elegant building set on a green hill, beyond the ornamental lake, with the ever-changing sky as a backdrop, has never failed to move me. I have fond memories of my brother studying there and of him taking me to a ‘going down hop’. Also of him falling in the lake, when messing about in a boat with other students at the end of term. He was brought home with his shrunken clothes still wet and clinging to his shivering body. Worse — his spectacles were somewhere at the bottom of the lake. My thoughts about university when I was a girl, and ‘people like us’ not being considered suitable for such advanced education, are written into my novel, Awakening Love.

Attenborough Nature Reserve visitor Centre

View from Attenborough Nature Reserve visitor Centre

At Highfields by the lake — Nottingham University Park

After a gentle walk in the grounds, along the university side of the lake that was once the preserve of students and staff, we took my sister home to her waiting cat. (Now why did the cat show us it’s tongue?)

Rude pussy cat or just pleased to see my sister back home?

Geoffrey and me 19 years ago

Geoffrey looked at me closely. “Who are you,” he asked, when I walked up to his chair and smiled down at him.

And so began my usual explanation of our friendly relationship, which of course, did little to enlighten him. He was sitting positioned between two lady residents and it was difficult talking to him. I looked around the room and found a chair I could pull over. I had some fruit jelly slices for him. I opened the box and lifted a slice.

“For me?” He put the fruity slice to his mouth and bit it. Delight spread over his face. Soon he was happily chewing the full piece.

“Mm…mm…mm… nice.”

I offered him another and another and another. Each time with him asking if it was for him, and then chewing and sucking merrily. Sheer pleasure glowed from his eyes and cheeks. But I thought it best to give the rest of the jellies to the assistant for him to eat later. This way the enjoyment would come again and again. For it does not take long for the childlike happiness to fade and the “Who are you?” questioning to begin again.

He suddenly asked if I could do something for him.

“If I can. What do you want me to do, Geoffrey?”

“What can you do?”

“Lots of things. What do you want me to do?”

“I want to be happy. Can you make me happy?”

Were it not for my Dry Eye condition, tears would have been rolling down my cheeks. I thought of getting his jellies back to give to him but his need went beyond a few moments of pleasure in his mouth.

I touched his hand. “I wish I could sing to you, but, with my voice, I would make everyone cry!” I looked around at the residents sitting in their chairs around the room. Most were looking in my direction with a hint of curiosity in their dull eyes. How ridiculous of me to try to be funny.

I reminded him of when he sang to me “I am a Nightjar” on the first day I visited him. But no bells rang for him.

“I’m an old fool, aren’t I,” he said, not for the first time that afternoon.

“No, you are not a fool, Geoffrey. You are the most intelligent person I have ever met. You have helped a lot of people. You were my tutor and helped me a great deal.”

“That’s good,” he said brightening a little. So I told him more details of the help he had given, and the work he had done.

Then I asked him about India where he and his family had once lived. The information he gave was brief so I turned to London and got him to confirm that he had worked at the British Library and been head of Oriental Studies, but it got no further. I wondered if he would recall his priesthood and work in the Church but I thought it better to let that sleeping dog lie for now, so I told him that he was a theologian and that his teaching had helped a lot of people, especially me.

His face brightened. All time I have known him, his great delight has been when he has been helping others. I realize much of his distress (though he cannot vocalise it) is that he is no longer able to give of himself. He can only ‘be done to’.

I asked him to tell me about his childhood.

“We played games and such, like all children do.”

“What sort of games?”

But he was looking puzzled. Obviously words would not come to his mind. “I’m a foolish old man,” he said.

He gave a cough-come-sneeze, putting an arm in front of his nose and turning sideways out of politeness. I hoped the lady next to him did not catch anything.

He scratched his neck, looking rather uncomfortable. Evidently he was suffering from a rash covering much of his body, which could make him irritable at times. He had also been suffering from a bad cough but the lady in charge said that he was much better. I thought how awful it must be when you are not in complete charge of yourself. And when your memory fails to offer the only explanation he could — “I’m just an old fool.”

After a while, tiredness forced his eyes closed. I stood up and took the chair back to where I found it. I went back to Geoffrey to touch his hand and say goodbye. He opened his eyes.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Gladys. I’ll come again soon. I’ll bring you some cake or sweets. Would you like that?”

Childlike, his face lit up and a smile came to his lips in a brief moment of happiness.

I found it both touching and sad.

Thinking back to when I was training for Church ministry, I recall Geoffrey’s incredible eagerness to help people at all levels, from tutoring students to simple tasks like handing round papers at meetings — “I’ll do it,” he would say, eagerly snatching a pile of papers to hand round, then dropping the lot! Indeed he could be quite funny, but never a fool. No, never a fool.

(See posts of previous visits to Geoffrey. The last one is ‘and then he kissed me’)

It might have been the reporting of the 1967 Act of Parliament, decriminalising homosexual acts in private between men, both of whom have reached the age of 21, that made me think more clearly about the matter. I thought it incredible that what was done in private between consenting couples could ever have been a criminal offense. But I was 35 at the time of the relaxing of the laws and you would think I might have met one or two homosexuals socially. Maybe I had and, for good reasons, they kept their sexual orientation secret. For those not of my generation perhaps a bit of personal and social history is necessary to explain my ignorance, and also how, eventually, I came to write my novel — The Dark Mirror.

I was born in 1932. Schooling was basic in those days and working class expectations the same. The critical spur to urge me out of poverty and do something with my life was a friend’s snobbish father, whose derogatory remarks caused me blushes of shame. That and the fact that I was the only person in the whole school not to have a navy gabardine coat — I wore a second-hand, too small, pea-green woolen coat that made me stand out like a parrot in the playground. My dad had become seriously disabled and money was in short supply. Books at our house were like toys — almost non-existent.
With no recognised qualifications, I worked in a factory, training in dress design. Later I became a successful freelance designer. When our three sons arrived, I turned to Education and trained to be a teacher. The teaching of reading, creative writing and art were my most successful subjects. Never, in any situation, was homosexuality discussed, or even mentioned.
At the age of fifty I felt called to give up teaching and work in non-stipendiary church ministry. I was the first woman to preach in most of our local churches, conduct funerals and engage in other duties usually considered the reserve of male clergy, some of whom preferred to keep women in their ‘proper’ place.
In my early sixties, deeply interested in the human condition, I took various courses in Person-Centred Counselling, going on to a two-year certificate course.
Next came the Archbishops’ Diploma for Readers. Now hooked on research and writing, three years later, I gained a BA (hons) at the Open University. When I was no longer able to drive, and somewhat disillusioned with the church, I turned to writing full time. All my personal experiences and research into the heart of man came to the fore.

My son created Magpies Nest Publishing for my first book, When Phones Were Immobile and Lived in RED BOXES, memories of 1939—1953, which I wrote to raise money locally for a particular children’s charity. With its success we then published my five novels (two in pen names) and other works. Last year, I was approached by the Australian publisher Dare Empire to publish my five novels in E format, complete with delightful new covers and formatting. They now have these novels (in the name G B Hobson ) available in paperback.

The Dark Mirror (originally When Angels Lie) was inspired partly by the controversy over gay clergy, something I wished to explore, and partly by my own experiences of the church and spiritual awakening. Writing the book was also a journey of self-discovery into my own beliefs. Golly, at one time I did not think women should be in the pulpit or minister the cup at Communion. But I guess I had a St Paul-like conversion. That came when I received ‘the call’ myself. God gives His gifts to whom he will, even if that person initially resists. My hubby found it hard to understand how his quiet unassuming, mousy, wife could stand up in the pulpit and preach. Or lead the worship. Previously I had refused to read the lesson because I was so shy. Of course, there was some cold-shouldering from certain members in the church. I think some clergy also feared for their authority.

I became interested in the gay priest debate while I was on the ministerial staff of my last parish. We were discussing the issue as directed from the ‘top’. But this important topic was quickly moved on. I looked up the ongoing debates, especially what was being said by the new Archbishop and others taking part. What did I really believe? I tried to put myself into the shoes of a young priest who, against all of his Evangelical persuasion, discovers his true sexuality when he falls in love.

So I wrote the book, trying to get into the heart and mind of Paul: his problems, his heartaches over love and duty. His calling to serve God had already been proved by the fruits of his ministry. He needed to believe he was still in the will of God. Had he and Nick been truly drawn together by God? Women threw themselves at him but he felt no desire for any of them, only for Nick. I was not certain myself how the book would end. Did he really have a choice about being gay? Did his lover? Does any gay man? All avenues are explored in this heart-wrenching story. Opposition from his churchwarden, added to bizarre happenings within the parish, put his vocation, and his love for Nick, to the test. Well, by the time I finished writing the book, I was convinced.

I am a person who believes in life-long partnerships as the ideal, even if seldom attained. Flagrant promiscuity (any gender) causes many social problems as well as personal ones. Until recently, gays have been stigmatised for living together. I am glad such partnerships are now recognized here in Britain. In some countries gays are imprisoned or killed. Even in ‘civilised’ countries, they are often used as punch bags by the ignorant. Would gays really risk the treatment handed out to them if they had a choice? That is a question I had to ask myself, even as I wrote the book. Falling in love can defy all logic, as many people know.

I hope this explains why this issue is so important to me, and why I believe this book is the best novel I have written — it came from the heart. Some parts are also from experience of religious and church matters. It also explains why I refused an invitation to post on someone’s blog because this book was cut out of the piece I submitted. even so, I respect a blogger’s right to include what they will on their own blog.

I have a number of blogs. My author site is Gladys Hobson — Author (go there for book details, reviews etc).
All G B Hobson books are for sale on Amazon.com
and at the Dare Empire Bookstore.Ebooks in all formats on sale elsewhere also.

By my bookshelves

A portion of a review by Andy O’Hara (full review on my author site):

Smoothly, expertly written, the author captures the essence and conflict of human love and religion as they struggle to coexist in a judgmental world. Hobson reveals a church hierarchy attempting to compromise with a nervous reality, and walks the reader ever so beautifully through the torment of a young man deeply devoted to his vows and wanting fervently to serve his parish–with the support of a loving partner. As the story unfolds, however, his options grow more desperate and his torment ever more intense.

Hobson is a writer of the first class, able to build a story quickly and maintain excitement throughout the book. Her characters are full and multidimensional—at times, the reader is torn by compassion and empathy for one and then the other. Such is the making of a fine novel and a book well worth reading. It is unfortunate that books such as these, so worthy of recognition, go unheralded by the literary establishment. I, for one, give it “tens” across the board.

Andrew F. O’Hara, editor, The Jimston Journal
author, The Swan, Tales of the Sacramento Valley

Torquay

Torquay

Who would have believed late September could be so hot! Without doubt, the weather contributed considerably to our opinion of the coach tour.
I rather think the hotel is in the process of restoration because our bedroom, three floors up, seemed to be the only one where the furniture had the appearance of having been in a fight, or maybe thrown out of the window and come out battered and bruised. The bed was reasonably comfortable though and that is what matters. We also had a good view from the window looking towards the town and sea, while just below us were tennis courts.
True we were three floors up but there was a small lift should we choose to take it. We rarely did as walking up the stairs, though at times painful (due to osteo-arthritis), was good exercise.
Meals were always served on time and the food was plentiful and quite good on the whole, considering the cost of the tour and the amount of residents eager to be fed. I rarely eat meat but a fish dish was on the menu every day.
Outdoor and indoor pools, exercise equipment and other health facilities were free to use, and something was happening in the lounge every night. But since every day was a highly active one for us, by the time we had our evening meal we preferred to relax in our own room and read or watch the TV. The first night we had a spectacular, and I mean SPECTACULAR, firework display just a short distance away and, being high up, our view could not have been better. Evidently it had been put on by a wedding party in nearby grounds. Wow, it went on, and on, for ages. What a way to start our holiday!
Our meals were served by a human dynamo of a waiter. Not surprising he was incredibly lean. We were all sitting on tables for six residents and it did not take long to get to know our neighbours. Like all of the guests, oldies like ourselves.
On the Sunday, we spent our free day walking around Torquay and getting to know the area. Later in the week, on a free day, I used my bus pass for the first time when we toured the area on public transport buses.
Included in the tour price were trips to Looe and Polperro, Exmouth and River Exe sail, and a visit to Totness. We also paid to go on an extra one — a Dartmouth Round Robin trip — open-top bus to Paignton, boat trip to Dartmouth, across the ferry to catch a steam train to Paignton and open top bus back to Torquay. There we had another delightful tea with strawberry cream tart before returning to our hotel. By this time the weather was really hot! So we walked up and down hills, visited delightful places, saw black swans for the first time, had a nostalgic ride on a steam train, sailed up rivers, and generally had a wonderful time.

Torquay Harbour

View from bedroom window

In Dawlish park

Dawlish

Exmouth

On the River Exe

Old mill machinery outside outside Totness Museum

River walk

Beautiful blue sky reflected in the Dart

The charming long narrow street

Totness bridge

The river boat — to Dartmouth. We went there on another day.

Autumn bliss! A walk by the river

Stored boats?

The other side of the river.

I particularly enjoyed Totness. For me a true gem of a town. We were dropped off at the top of the street, a narrow road running quite a distance downhill to the River Dart and the main area of the town businesses and activities. Not that there was a shortage of interesting activities going on all along the main street. Shops, a band playing jazz and other lively tunes, folk dressed up, market stalls selling all kinds of goods (an opportunity for Bargain Hunt?). Lovely bridge over the water and a magical walk by the river. A light autumn mist hovering and the crunch of leaves and beech masts under our feet enhanced our journey into a kind of paradise! Back in the town we discovered a museum that was once a mill. We did not have time to go inside but my hubby was ecstatic about the rusty old machinery on display outside.

A lovely day for a visit — and a walk

I visited Geoffrey my friend — once tutor, colleague and champion when pitted against Church Authority — again today. The last time I visited the nursing home, I feared he was at death’s door. He had been asleep most of the time and looking terribly weary and ill, so much so that I rang the nursing home today to enquire if it was all right to visit.
I found the residents large sitting room remarkably quiet and noticed many of the chairs were empty. The few who were present were sitting in a circle having toenails clipped.
“Who are you?” Geoffrey asked, when I greeted him with a smile.
I sat down beside him and told him (with many interruptions due to his deafness) my name and how we are connected. While this was going on I noticed a wonderful change in him. His complexion was that of a young man, he was shaved and his hair neatly cut (I could not help but notice the size of his ears!). He was neatly dressed and looked younger than his actual years — well into his eighties. Moreover, his voice was strong and almost authoritative rather like the Reverent Doctor I have known for many years.
He looked around and said that it was a very nice room. Somehow the church was brought into the conversation and he said that some very nice people attended the meetings. I rather think he thought we were at a study meeting, which took place in people’s homes. He said something about various views expressed and I said something about it being good that different aspects of faith could come together. He said, stumbling a little while trying to remember the word ‘Anglican’, that the Church encompassed a wide spectrum of faith — or some such.
I was amazed that he had been able to draw such views from his memory and express them. He was in a cheerful mood, smiling when I smiled — such a charming smile too! Then he suddenly asked me if I was his wife (mentioning her by name). Again I had to tell him his wife had died. And so it happened a few times. Once he said, “Oh yes, I seem to remember being told that.” But then he looked at the women in the chair next to him and asked if she was his wife. He would not accept my answer and demanded to know who the lady was. I could not answer nor could the poor woman being addressed! I diverted his attention by telling him that it was good to see him looking so young and sprightly. My goodness, he beamed! His whole face became radiant. I had been touching his hand while telling him about his wife and likely what was left of his memory bank made him think of holding hands with her. I had often seen them sitting on their little sofa together, holding hands like a young couple in love. He asked me again if I was she. He found it hard to accept what I told him but moved on…
Finally, it was time for me to go. Smiling, he gave me half a wink and said,
“Come on then, give me a kiss before you go.”
I bent over and he kissed my lips. Was I again his wife?
Overflowing with joy, I left the nursing home, so pleased that he could still smile and laugh even if he did spend most of his life in a confusing fog.
I found my hubby waiting in the car, which was parked overlooking the bay. We drove just a short distance and had a little walk by the beach. Holding hands as we always do, and, hopefully, always will.

Geoffrey, sound of mind, caring and capable.

Last week I visited my old one-time friend and theology tutor. He has dementia and lives in a nursing home. So very sad to see a priest and man of letters reduced to what he has become: terribly anxious, afraid of doing the wrong thing. In his mind he was expecting to be part of a service. Not knowing where he actually was, he kept asking questions about the people around him and if he would be getting a co-worker. He didn’t want to be late or found wanting. “Well,” he said, “when I’m asked, I’ll be ready.” My words meant nothing to him, that which he had fixed in his mind refused to budge.
His meal arrived; a dried-out fried egg and chunky chips. I had to reassure him that it was his meal. He looked at it, unsure how to eat what was in front of him and whether he should be eating it anyway. He asked my permission to eat each mouthful, —stuffing the chips and the egg into his mouth mostly with his fingers. “Hell” he said at one point when a piece of chip got away.
He continually asked about his wife, each time experiencing the grief of loss when told that she died last year.
Once he said, “No, you are not being honest with me are you?” The pain written on his face, before moving on to other matters. “I’m ready to do my part when asked. Are my co-workers here?”
I told him the day was Tuesday, not Sunday, hoping that might make a difference to his thinking. All I got was a look of bewilderment. “Not Sunday?” I rather think a resident playing the piano had sparked something off in his brain. He was not able to grasp where he actually was. I thought the workers there to be angels even if the place appeared to be far removed from heaven.
Hoping to prompt a tiny spark of memory as to who I am, I showed him a photograph of us robed for a Christmas service at a local church.
He looked at it as I talked. It was taken over ten years ago. He didn’t catch the name of the church and kept guessing at what I said, louder and louder until we were both shouting. I had forgotten he was a bit deaf but at least he was interested enough to want to know what I had told him. The name of the church meant nothing to him.
He still kept asking about his wife. He wanted her there beside him. Would he recognise her even if she miraculously entered the room? I doubt it. Before she died, my mother frequently mentioned my adored brother, but when he flew over from California especially to see her, she completely rejected him. In her mind she could see him on the television being arrested by police.
The loveliest thing about visiting my friend Geoffrey happened when I was about to leave.
“Thank you for coming to seem me,” he said with a little smile. This indeed was the Geoffrey I knew and loved. I usually manage to get a little laugh or smile out of him sometime during one my visits, this time he had saved that pleasure until the last moment.
Of course my own mother always comes to mind when visiting anyone with dementia, and the terrible suffering she went through is never far away.
(See last post)