Never again will I complain about looking after the Whale and the Bear. (Well, 'never' might be going a bit too far).
A couple of weeks ago I answered a ring at the doorbell and found an elderly, grey-haired lady who apologised profusely for inconveniencing me before asking if it might be at all possible for her to come for some English conversation.
There was something about her that made me warm to her immediately and I invited her in. She seemed relieved but surprised at her own audacity for 'daring' to come and could hardly stop saying sorry for disturbing me.
It turned out that our local chemist had suggested (some months ago) that she should come and see me to practise her English, which she had taught herself from books and a rather bad CD. She is a retired teacher, aged 69, who looks after her disabled husband. He has multiple sclerosis and has been confined to a wheelchair for the last fifteen years and is now only able to move his left hand. He has a very poor short term memory and finds it extremely difficult to speak.
She looks after him almost totally herself. The only help she has is for one hour each morning and evening to get him up and put him to bed. On two days a week he goes to a care centre from 10.30 until 5p.m. and that is the only time she has to herself, as he cannot be left alone at all.
Over the last four weeks she has been to see me twice and I have been to her's twice. During this time we have shared conversations, poetry and tea and biscuits. I have learnt that her family live in the South and so she rarely sees them. She writes to her grandchildren in English and they tease her about her mistakes. Her husband studied for a doctorate in science but also enjoyed painting, pottery and carpentry before the illness took its toll. She was very proud to show me some of the furniture he had made.
On the one occasion I met him he seemed to realise why I was there and responded when I held his left hand. His eyes were certainly not vacant but he wasn't able to join in our conversation. She later told me that one of the worst things was that they can no longer communicate and she feels so alone.
But what she said when I left her today made me really stop and think about the cruelty of the human race. Since her husband's disability has got worse their friends have all disappeared. 'They couldn't bear to see him in that condition'.
What about her? Doesn't she deserve some support? It makes me determined to keep her company as often as I can.
