Posts Tagged ‘love never dies’

Visiting Geoffrey — Make Me Happy… a plea from the heart

November 25, 2011

Visiting Geoffrey — Make Me Happy… a plea from the heart

 

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’)

And then he kissed me…

September 9, 2011

Bardsea beach

A lovely day for a visit — and a walk


And then he kissed me…

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.