Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  Dad says that at least Grandma is in hospital. Oh, great, Mum says. Dad stresses that for the moment there is no need for panic, that until Grandma’s ankle is mended she will be kept in hospital. Mum says, ‘And then?’ Dad says that then we will have to have a conference and decide what is to be done. Mum says she will save him the exhaustion of any conference (she fairly spits out the word). She will tell him what cannot be done for a start:

  One: Grandma cannot go into St Alma’s because she’s nowhere near the top of the list;

  Two: She cannot go to Birchholme because she, Mum, let alone Bridget, would never stand for it;

  Three: She cannot come home until we replace Susan.

  Also, Mum says, we don’t know what kind of shape Grandma is going to be in. Will her bones knit properly? Will she be able to walk again? She was walking badly, anyway: this might just be the end. And then that blow on the head. Will she only have a big headache? Maybe the confusion will be worse.

  I don’t say a word. There’s nothing to say. Nobody is thinking of poor Grandma lying in pain in hospital – we’re all far too busy thinking of our own inconvenience. Mum is right back to square one again, almost hysterical with worry, and Dad is acting as though he has been framed for a crime he never committed. He is sullen and moody and resentful. He seems to imply Mum is attacking him and it does look a little like that – her voice is rising and has a distinct note of accusation. I ought to be able to think of something to say to make them stop turning Grandma’s accident into some sort of private feud. I wish Bridget was back. They don’t. Mum especially is dreading Bridget’s coming back to such a situation. What price the haircut and new dress for Grandma now?

  We all visit every day. That is the easy part. No family could be more devoted. Mum goes at two o’clock and stays until four when I arrive and I stay until five when Adrian arrives and Adrian either leaves at half past or stays a little longer if Dad isn’t going to be able to get there until seven. Adrian asks me what I do. I say I talk. Adrian says he talks but Grandma doesn’t seem to hear him and he finds it embarrassing. I can just see him. He’ll mutter and mumble and then he’ll just sit looking gloomy and watching the clock. But I’m not really much better. I talk all right but God how quickly I use the chat up. Adrian’s right, there’s absolutely no come-back, not even gobbledy-gook. Grandma is gibbering into her beard, as she used to put it. Her eyes swivel about and her mouth hangs open. They’ve taken her teeth out.

  Nurses are supposed to be angels. Maybe they are angels in other wards but not in this one. Or maybe they just don’t think Grandma needs any angel-ling when she has this devoted family. They hardly seem to come near her. They always seem to be in the office or sluice room having private jokes. Grandma loves jokes – if only they knew. Grandma will laugh at anything, she would love their jokes. Mum does all the asking how Grandma is, so I never do. The nurses tell Mum that Grandma will not try to walk or stand. They say her ankle is not broken after all, that it’s not even sprained. They have x-rayed it and it’s only a little bruised. But she will not try to stand on it. They get her up and she refuses to bear her own weight – she just goes slack. This is true. I’ve seen it. Nurses have come while I have been there, twice, and tried to get Grandma up. It was pitiful, I thought, but they didn’t seem to think so. They spoke loudly, telling Grandma to ‘come on’ and warning her this ‘will not do.’ If that’s how they speak to her when I’m there, how do they treat her when I’m not? Grandma just hangs between them and they have to give up. I’m so relieved when she’s back in bed.

  Sometimes I try to talk to the other old women in the ward. They’re not all senile like Grandma. Two of them read, they have new books from the library trolley all the time. I ask about the books they’re reading but they both, in different ways, get off the subject of literature pretty quickly. They get on to Grandma. They say she’s a pest at night. They say she shouts and hollers, ‘Bridget,’ all night and wakes everyone up. One of them says that if Grandma is not all there, she shouldn’t be in this ward, she should be put away with the others. What others? I’m so offended I have to leave. And I don’t talk to my reading friends any more. This leaves only one other woman who is so attached to drips and things that I’m scared to approach her and two more who seem permanently asleep. It’s not a lively ward.

  I walk around every ten minutes or so. I patrol the corridors, I stop on landings and stare out of windows. Grandma used to rave about hospitals – she loves them. She told me they are more like hotels and she doesn’t know why people don’t like them. She’s been in hospital three times and loved it every time and didn’t want to come out. She told me she cried when the Sister said she was ready to go home after she had her veins done. It was such bliss lying in a lovely clean comfy bed and having food brought to her and just being able to read all day. She wanted to stay there forever even though she felt guilty about her children. Grandma said people don’t know they are born these days they are so lucky having such hospitals. The extravagance of clean sheets and towels all the time thrilled as well as appalled her and she could never get over the luxury of constant warm baths. And the company, of course Grandma loved the company of other women and the gossip and the tales of home they all had to tell.

  And now she doesn’t even know she’s in hospital.

  *

  This morning, Mum cries. She sits in the basket chair in our kitchen, Grandma’s usual chair, and she cries. Dad tells her not to be so ridiculous, he asks her what on earth she is crying for, he says if anyone is going to cry it ought to be him. I really can’t go near Mum when she cries. She is unapproachable. The natural thing would be to put my arm round her and comfort her but I don’t do that. I can do it to Grandma but not to Mum. Not that Grandma cries but she often looks as if she wanted to if only she could remember how.

  The crying, which has stopped now, is because the hospital want Grandma out. They say there is nothing wrong with her that they can treat. They say the pressure on beds is tremendous, that they have urgent cases they must admit. They want Grandma out by tomorrow if possible, Monday at the latest. Bridget returns on Friday. Mum has asked for an extension until Saturday, explaining about Bridget, but the hospital have said no, quite out of the question. Dad, who never believes in these cases that Mum has really tried, rings the hospital himself and speaks to whoever is responsible for this ultimatum. He gets nowhere. He gets told a few home truths. He gets as depressed as Mum.

  Adrian says they cannot just sling Grandma out onto the street, there must be somewhere for her to go. Oh, the charm of such innocence. Mum says there is: here. Dad groans, loudly. Mum says if anyone has any other suggestion she would be delighted to hear it. Dad leaves the room. Nobody says anything. We finish breakfast, bang stuff into the dishwasher, rustle newspapers. Dad comes back. He puts the kettle on. Mum says she knows what he has been doing. She knows he’s been ringing Birchholme. She says she can tell by his face they won’t take her and of course St Alma’s won’t and he’s very lucky they won’t, because if they had said yes, there would have been a big fight. Mum says there’s only one choice: either here or back to Grandma’s flat with us all doing round-the-clock care. Which is it to be?

  I say here,

  Mum says here,

  Dad says there,

  Adrian says he would rather say here, but he doesn’t see how it could work if Grandma can’t walk because we’ve nowhere on the ground floor to put her so he says there too.

  Well, a tie. Who gets the casting vote?

  I feel someone must try to say something cheerful so, hoping I don’t sound like dear Adrian, I say maybe Grandma will walk and come to herself once she is home. Maybe she’s carrying out a kind of rebellion without knowing it, a sort of protest against hospital. Adrian says sarcastically that I am such a deep thinker but really that idea is crazy: if she’s protesting against hospital, surely she’d choose a more logical way, one more likely to succeed. I say she isn’t choosing anything consciously and Adria
n says oh we’re delving into the subconscious are we and we start bickering. Dad shouts at us. Then he gives his reasons for preferring Grandma to go back into her own flat. Mainly the reasons are to do with what Adrian has already mentioned, to do with layout and bathrooms and stuff. But Dad also tries to be cunning, arguing that in her own environment Grandma will be more likely to find her bearings. She may not know where she is but there’s five years of familiarity in her surroundings which must have made some small impression. And then, in a moment of truth, Dad says he could handle it better if his Mother was not actually in his home.

  It was wise of him to confess that. Mum says so, she says she knows that is at the bottom of it. Surprisingly, she says she feels the same. Her conscience would be clearer if Grandma was in our house but her nerves would be in shreds. She needs to escape too. She’d rather have all the inconvenience of going backwards and forwards just because it would always be such a relief to leave each time. She sums up. She says we ought to bring Grandma here but we’ll all survive better if she’s there. And it will alarm Bridget less. I protest at this: how? Well, Mum says, if Grandma is sitting in her own chair, looking normal, Bridget is less likely to think anything awful has happened. If she’s been moved to us, Bridget will know something pretty drastic has taken place. Well, I say, it has. Mum says it is all a matter of breaking it to Bridget in the right way, that’s all. Dad says if there is one thing he does not want to hear about, it is Bridget.

  I go along to Grandma’s flat. My part is to get it ready. Mum and Dad go to collect Grandma. They have decided there’s no point in delay. I change the sheets on Grandma’s bed first. God, she must be so hot. Bridget brought all Grandma’s own bedding down from Glasgow when The Big Move was made. The sheets are thick flannelette and then there are about six old blankets, all heavy things, and an eiderdown. It takes hours stripping it all off and putting it back. Then I hoover, and wash the bathroom floor. I put some chrysanthemums, which I’ve bought, into a jug and stick it on Grandma’s bedside table. Silly, really. Grandma is no lover of flowers, not bought ones. She says they’re lovely but she’s counting the cost. Then I give the living-room a once-over. Not much I can do about the carpet there. It’s ruined. Grandma and Susan’s nephews have dropped endless gunge on it and it’s all trodden in. This flat really needs spring-cleaning. Nobody has time to care for it properly.

  They arrive. Grandma has not walked. She’s been taken from her hospital bed in a wheelchair and tipped into the car. Now, it’s impossible to tip-her out. The hospital have loaned us a light wheelchair until we can get our own. It stands on the pavement beside the car. Grandma is slumped in the front seat. Dad is trying to get her at least to put her feet out of the car. She won’t or can’t move them. Dad lifts her feet and tries to turn them round. Grandma cries out. Mum tells him to stop. We all stand back and look. Adrian is sent for. He crawls into the car and crouching at Grandma’s other side, lifts her towards Dad who is on his knees on the pavement. Mum hovers with the chair. Adrian and Dad get Grandma out of the car but not into the chair. It just can’t be done. They are obliged to half-drop Grandma onto the pavement. But they do it next time: they lift Grandma into the chair and away we go.

  No one knows whether to put her to bed or not. Dad and Adrian go off. Mum and I stand in the kitchen looking at Grandma. She looks awful, terrible. She is all sideways, her head lolling horribly. Mum says let’s get her to bed. We put her to bed. She seems to be asleep. I say I’ll stay all afternoon until Mary comes. We’ve agreed with Mary that one of us will always be on call now, no going away and with that guarantee she is willing to help ‘for a while’. Mum doesn’t like the sound of that rider. And she’s worried about the lavatory. Grandma can’t get to it. In hospital she’s been wearing incontinence pads. They’ve sent some home with her. Mum handles them with distaste. She doesn’t know how she can ask Mary to do this. Mum chews her lip at the thought. I must say I don’t want to change those pads myself. The thought makes me heave. Grandma as a grotesque baby, legs splayed apart for the clean nappy. Bridget would be scornful. She would be contemptuous. What poor specimens Mum and I are if we can’t face up to changing an old woman and making her as comfortable as possible.

  I know even before Mum leaves that I’m going to cheat. I’m not going to look again to see if Grandma needs changing. Too bad. Dad and Adrian won’t be called upon to do any of that. The women do the nasty bits and aren’t supposed to mind. It’s all part of being a woman. Dad is arranging a proper nurse from Monday, from an agency. He’s been told already that this nurse, who we will be very lucky to get, will not do any cooking or cleaning. She will attend to Grandma and presumably sit in a corner knitting like Madame Defarge the rest of the time. Mum and I will cook and shop, and clean. Mum says that in many ways it is easier getting a nurse than it ever was a companion. After all, a nurse nurses. She doesn’t have to be nice or appreciate Grandma’s witticisms. The job is clear-cut.

  There’s absolutely nothing to do. Grandma sleeps solidly. I read. I have my feet up on the bed and I read and read, about a hundred and fifty pages of Bleak House. Every now and again I squint at Grandma but there’s not a hint of any awareness or movement. She’s snoring, quite heavily. When I can’t take any more Bleak House, I make some coffee. I sit with the steaming mug and watch Grandma.

  Mary comes. She’s nervous. She isn’t at all her usual self. I explain that Grandma just seems to want to sleep. Mary nods, a little fearfully. I don’t know whether to mention the incontinence pads. I can see Mary’s gaze wandering to the packet. It’s a very large packet, quite unmissable. Mary looks at me and asks ‘Is she . . .?’ and trails off. I say yes. Mary hesitates. She says she feels bad about this but she does not know if she will be up to that kind of nursing. She is sorry, she is ashamed, but it isn’t really in her line. She will try to cope, she would not wish to let us down, but perhaps she ought to hand over to someone else who is better at it. I am tempted to ask how one person can be ‘better’ at changing incontinence pads than another. I don’t. Mary is lovely, she is upset at having to say this. I say I’ll tell my mother and I quite understand. I say, quite untruthfully because I’ve never done it, that I don’t like doing it myself, that it’s unpleasant. Mary is grateful for my pious lie.

  I go home. I tell Mum what Mary has said. Mum says she was expecting it. Today is Saturday. Bridget returns on Friday, if Mary can hang on until then it won’t be too bad.

  *

  Grandma is walking. She wakes up on Sunday morning and she gets up and goes to the loo and has a fight with the incontinence pad which totally baffles her. She is outraged, who played this joke, bloomin’ cheek. Mary is relieved, we’re all faint with relief, we all rejoice. Too soon. All day Sunday, Grandma wets herself. She can’t find the bathroom and even when she’s taken to it she stares at the lavatory and says she wants ‘to go’, and when we say ‘go then’ she asks where the lavatory is. She can’t be forced onto it, she won’t be pushed, she shouts at me and Mum when we try to jack-knife her. It’s hell every time.

  She walks but the walking is unsteady. She bumps into the furniture, she’s very unsafe. She complains her legs hurt. She stands for ages looking down at her feet as though trying to work out what to do with them. And all pattern to her speech has gone. She’s forgotten names of things and orders of words.

  Thingabobme up.

  What, Grandma?

  Up. I want up.

  Come on then, heave-ho.

  Under the whatsit where the you know.

  What, Grandma.

  Parrot.

  What is it you want?

  And she rolls her eyes. No more going in circles even, just fractured sentences, meaningless jumbles of words. Most alarming of all is her inability to eat and drink. She looks at the tea, she feels the mug and then she just stares at it. Food gets flattened, squeezed, pushed round the plate, up her nose, even into her ears. It takes hours to get a tiny cube of toast into her.

  What will Bridget
say?

  *

  Things happen so fast now. Years, months, weeks when nothing seemed to change, when the changes were so gradual that it took an outsider to notice them. But now things gallop, every day is a new disaster area. Sunday night Grandma falls out of bed four times and Mary rings and Dad goes and on Monday who can blame Mary for saying she can’t go on? Dad could hardly get Grandma up himself. She swore at him, Grandma who hates swearing, who never swears. She lashed out at him, her son, and screamed that men were all the same. I’m glad I didn’t see it. I’m still ‘pet’ and with me, during the day, she’s quiet, too quiet. Mum won’t let me take my turn at night. The wretched nurse starts on Wednesday, the agency had no one ‘suitable’ available till then. Dad does Monday night, returns haggard in the morning as soon as Mum has gone along (with no Susan she has to). Mum does Tuesday and so it’s to Mum that it happens.

  At two in the morning Mum hears Grandma get up. She goes into her room. Grandma is in the bathroom. The door is closed. Mum tries the door, which is usually left wide open to aid Grandma in her search. It’s locked, she thinks. She hears groans. She pushes the door and bangs on it. The door gives a fraction; it’s not locked, it’s blocked by Grandma’s body. Mum rings Dad, who’s in such a deep, deep sleep after his awful time the night before that he doesn’t hear the telephone. Neither, I’m afraid, do Adrian br I. Poor Mum. She rings for an ambulance, half afraid they’ll say they have had enough, they will not come again for this fool of an old woman. It takes so long for them to come that Mum thinks Grandma might be dead. The noise has stopped, there’s no groaning. The ambulance arrives. The men say they will have to take the door off. They say it’s not really their job, that really Mum should call the police or the fire brigade. Mum pleads. The men smash the hinges of the door and lift it away. Mum, telling me, does not go into details. She just says Grandma’s mouth was oddly twisted, her face a terrible colour. The ambulance men think she may have had a stroke. They cart her off. Mum goes with her.