RIP Mrs B

It is an undeniable fact, that when you work in a nursing home as I do, at some point you are going to encounter death. During the 2 years and 11 months that I have spent working in the industry, I have encountered it 29 times, the latest being this weekend. You would have thought by now that I would have found a way to cope with it, and to some extent I have.

When I first started work here, back in May 2009, I used to get very upset each time it happened, but as the months and the years have gone by, I find that it affects me less and less. I am not always sure that this is a good thing. The extent to which it affects me seems to vary enormously depending on how close I was to the deceased.

It is inevitable in an environment such as this that you will form emotional attachments to the residents, as when you spend such a large amount of what could be considered quite intimate time with them,  even a housekeeper such as myself. Thus it is that I find myself today mourning the loss of the latest one - a lady whom I shall refer to as Mrs B.

Mrs B it has to be said lived life very much to the full. She was a large lady in more ways than one - with a huge heart and a bulk to match. She did not enjoy the best of health, but we did our best to make her as comfortable and happy as we could, and I like to think that we did a pretty good job.

Mrs B was a hairdresser by trade, and I suspect that this was the reason for her badly misshapen hands, that looked as if she were still holding a pair of scissors. Because of this she has trouble turning the pages of books, and doing many of the little things that we take for granted, but she accepted these limitations with good grace, looking forward to regular visits from her four devoted sons.

As we all do, she had her dark days, when she used to sit and think back to happier times with her beloved husband and dogs. When she got like this, I used to sit and reassure her, and we often pondered together on the meaning of life. Barely one month before she died, we had a conversation as to whether she believed in the afterlife, and whether when she passed over, she believed that would see her darling husband again, and she told me that she did. I like to think then that she is back with him now, happy and free from pain, with a big smile on her face.

She did have happy times as well, during the four years that she spent at the home, happy times chatting with friends, with a glass of white wine. She soent hours regailing me with stories about her parents and her grandchildren and the funny little things that they used to say, but when she was truly happy, she loved to sing, and the sound of her voice would resonate throughout the house.

Like many elderly ladies of her age (she celebrated her 90th birthday just before Christmas), she did not enjoy the best of health. Us housekeepers are not told all the details, since we do not really need to know, but for the past year she had been repeatedly saying that she felt unwell. The Doctors were called many times, but most of the aches and pains from what I gather, were put down to old age.

When I went to Lundy at the beginning of March, she seemed her usual self, but when I returned 12 days later, I was told that she had developed a chest infection and had taken to her bed. She did not recover and passed away peacefully during the morning of Saturday March 24th.

Looking back on that conversation that Mrs B and I had, barely one month ago, I think she was preparing herself for death even then, as then the end came, it came relatively quickly. Her son remained at her bedside during most of last week, as did his brothers, when they were able to visit and their own children too, so she died peacefully and in the company of those we loved. In the end  I suppose that is all that we can ask for.

When I left work on Friday at 2pm, I had a feeling that I would not see her again, so I said my mental goodbyes and was not surprised to come in this morning after a weekend off, and be given the news. I was promptly given the job of bagging up all her belongings, something I had not done before.

Going into her room, what had been her sacred space, felt like almost an intrusion, even though her prescence could no longer be felt. The speed with which this had to be done seemed disrespectful in some ways, but I had been informed that I had to do this, as her family will be coming tomorrow to collect her effects, and so it had to be done. It left me feeling quite tearful and upset, but when I stopped to think about it, it was the universe's way of providing me with the opportunity to say my own final goodbye, for in the process of bagging up all those belongings, with each photograph and each item of jewellery I placed in the bags and boxes, I was letting her go.

The grieving process for me usually takes a day or so, after which things slowly settle back into a normal routine and I am sure that this will be no exception. The hard part is always seeing the family afterwards and saying goodbye to them, for you become as attached to them as you do the person who had died, but my thoughts are with them at this difficult time.

RIP Mrs B.     

The countdown begins

It is hard to believe that this time last week I was back in the cottage on Lundy, having got out of the shower (and of course bed), ready to start clearing up for the next incumbent. It is a tradition for me to leave the cottage as clean and tidy as I found it, which means cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, emptying bins and stripping down the bed - pity I am not so tidy in my own house, but then again, I do clean other people's rooms for a living.

Since I returned to work on Monday, I have done my best not to get stressed with all the mind talk and chatter that inevitably comes with the material, 3D world. Sometimes it is hard to be part of the world, but not quite part of it - I guess though this comes with the territory of a spiritual existence, which is why a retreat like Lundy does me so much good. There was a reason why I used to go there three times a year, every four months - in order to top up the batteries ready for the next onslaught of 3D existence, now I am quite literally back in the fray, working alongside those who outwardly at least are not spiritual at all, these regular retreats have become even more important. Sadly though, the funds are just not there to make it happen, at least not without making other sacrifices, and there are only so may that you can make.

After three years in the same job without a pay rise, if one is not forthcoming this year, I might have to seriously consider moving on. At least it looks as if we may have a new Editor for the village newsletter that I edit though. We have been searching for almost four months now, and then all of a sudden, like busses two enquiries came along at once - both are from ladies who live around the Hill - one is retired and married to a former journalist, while the other works part time as a Medcial Secretary. I think what swayed it for her was the article I wrote in the last issue stating that anyone who had worked as a Secretary would have the skills to do this job. That is probably true, as most people I have found can write - the difficult part comes from doing it in the right way and knowing what questions to ask, but if you know anything about people, then this too comes naturally. As for the desk side of the job - like I said, if you have worked as a sectetary then you will have the necessary skills - what we need is a touch typist, someone who knows their way around MS Office (Internet, E-mail, Word etc) and knows basic photo editing software. Like I said, anyone who works as a secretary has these skills.

As we get closer to the Olympics, it it though more and more important that a new Editor is found, as it is not that long to the Olympic special - the copy deadline is May 15th, which is only 2 months away, and after that I shall be retiring. So you see, time is of the essence, and the sooner one of these two ladies makes a committment the better. There will be a long break of three months over the summer months for them to acclimatise to the role and get to know people around the Hill, and of course the other local press, as the next issue will not be until September, but once I have gone there will be only so much support I can give. This role is unpaid, so I have to concentrate on the one that brings money in - my paid job at the nursing home. I will miss being Editor, and the rest of the team, but after five years, my time is done, and it really is time to move on.

Today though is a day off, before I go back to work for a seven day stretch (and it will be stretched as our Kitchen Assistant is on holiday, which means being the only housekeeper on duty for a few days and helping out inexperienced staff who do not normally work in the Kitchen and will be covering for him). For the moment though, the hairdresser is due around 9.30am and Coran will be off to the weekly computer club where she volunteers, so the rest of the day is mine to do with as I will. I think a trip to Polesden Lacey to sit in the sun (or perhaps the car) might be in order, depending on what the weather brings. When it comes to 11am I will think wistfully back though to that magical island that I left behind at Hartland Point exactly one week ago.     

A return to mainland living

At the beginning of this year I decided that my New Year Resolution would be to write considerably more on this blog, but here we are three months into the New Year with barely more than a few posts. All those good intentions went straight out of th window, swallowed as usual by the day to day routine of going to work, cooking, eating and sleeping, for that is pretty much the routine that I settled into over the long, dark winter months. Now that winter is coming to an end, the light is beginning to return into my life in more ways than one. There is a spring in my step as I begin to unwake from what has seemed at times like a hibernation, except of course that unlike the animal kingdom that has a lot more sense than we do, we do not go to sleep during those cold, dark times, but work even harder than during the long summer nights. I sometimes think that the animals have a lot more sense than we do.

But, spring is most definately in the air, despite the continued cold, and boy was it cold, during my recent sojourn on the beautiful island of Lundy. The island for those who do not know, or are not familar with this blog, is situated in the Bristol Channel, that body of water that seperates the Welsh and North Devon coasts, the nearest landfall to the west side being North America. As such, the island is whipped frequently from all four quarters by the ferocious Atlantic winds.

Some would say that I am mad to even contemplate going to such a place, but they are safe and sound for the most part tucked up in their padded cells. I jest. It takes all sorts to make this world, and if they are happier to bake themselves to a crisp along with hundreds of others on some southern European beach and get drunk with their friends, then that means there is all the more of Lundy for me to enjoy.

Lundy is one of those places where the stillness and the silence just hits you seeping slowly into your consciousness, until there is nothing left, nothing that it except yourself, for that is the gift that the island brings, the gift to know that although you may be alone, you are never truly alone in the company of nature. The sound of the sea and the birds as they wheel through the air is all encompassing, as you walk surrounded by nature on all sides - the green, or at this time of year, brown of the island surrounded by blue, blue sea and the smooth rocks below, a playground for the terrestrial animals that inhabit the island. Lundy gives me the opportunity to completely relax, away from the trappings of modern life for a week, or maybe two, and be busy doing absolutely nothing.

I returned from the island on Friday, on the helicopter via Hartland Point, and already it seems like a lifetime ago. During the 17 years that I have spent visitng the island, and I have been many times, I have pondered many times on the significance of this very special place, and the hold that it appears to have in my heart. It represents so much - but most of all the freedom to be truly be myself. There is wonderful sense of freedom and openness that the island brings, to stand on the highest ppint with the wind streaming through my hair and to feel the salt sea spray on my lips stinging my skin is such an experience that you cannot describe. Descriptions as always lessen the intensity. One has to go to the island to experience it for oneself.

The irony is that this haven, this sanctuary, this unique way of life could not exist were it not for mainland life, for the islanders depend on the mainland for everything - the pilots who fly the helicopters and the Captain of the island's boat are the islands lifeline, keeping them fed, watered and clothed and ensuirng their survival. Without these services, none of it would be possible, so to those men and women, I am eternally grateful.

I am also eternally grateful to my own employers, for giving me the means to escape to this sanctuary when I feel the need, and providing me with the time in which to do so. The last week went by as always in a whirl, and it seems no time at all since I was driving down the M5 towards Hartland and the North Devon coast to make my way to another week of adventures. Is this though the real world, and my real life, I wish that it were so, but I know that it it not - time spent on Lundy, as in other holidays can only ever be a respite, and I am grateful that it is so, for it is the knowledge of that limitation that makes it all the more precious, and gives it all the more meaning. So, when I return to work tomorrow I will not be sad, but grateful for every precious minute that I spent on that wondrous piece of granite, and I shall be counting down the days until the next trip to the Isles of Scilly in June.

You don't have to be mad to work here (or try and get to work), but it helps!

God that was a hairy moment. I thought I had deleted the wrong Google account by mistake with access to more than five years worth of blog posts, but thankfully adding a new email address to the account saved the day, and I can once again access things. I won't be making that mistake again!

As I write, along with others around the UK, our garden and indeed the area where I live, is swathed in a blanket snow. Along with no doubt quite a few others, I have also been unable to get to work. I had good intentions of trying to get there, and had of course seen and heard the weather warnings which remain in place throughout the country. Accordingly then, the alarm was set for 10 minutes early, with my car facing forwards rather than backwards, allowing me to drive straight out - or so I thought. When I looked out the window just after 7pm last night and saw a light dusting on the roof I was not too worried, but then I woke up again just after 1am and saw several inches, I was.

By the time the alarm went off just before 6am, we had around 8 inches of the stuff and it was still coming down. Against my better judgement I jumped out of bed and into the shower, and got dresed as quickly as I could, while assembling an emergency travel kit (sleeping bag, water, food etc) just in case. Coran went outside to start removing the snow while I did this. By the time I joined him outside the snow had stopped, and he was making good progress with the car, if not the driveway. I telephoned work to let them know that I was attempting to make it in, but was not too hopeful and that there may be another call, all the while trying not to feel too guilty about letting them down (bear in mind that I was the only housekeeper rostered for duty today, and a nursing home is of course no ordinary workplace - residents need feeding and taking care of no matter what the weather).

We eventually got the car started and off I went - up to the main road to see what the state of play was there. So well, so good, except that when I got there of course I had to stop to make sure it was clear, and that was when I got stuck. No ammount of revs would free me. So into reverse gear I went and tried another way, only to get stuck again. By this time Coran, who had been following me on foot, had caught up, and so being an older and more experienced driver than I, hopped into the drivers seat and after a lot of hoo-ha, finally managed to reverse all the way back home, and then back round to where we had got stuck in full throttle.

This time he managed to hit the main road, in the manner of speaking, running and so off we went galiantly setting out to clean those residents rooms and wash their dirty clothes. The problem was, that none of the roads had been gritted, and as we were the only ones to be out and about (and that stupid) so early in the morning, so the road was covered in what I can only describe as thick white slush. There was one motorcylist trying like us to get somewhere, but he soon gave up, and pushed his bike along the road. By the time we got up the roundabout, slipping and sliding all over the place, we reluctantly decided to do the same thing. I then had to phone work and tell them the bad news.

As I write, the skies are beginning to clear, so I am hopeful for tomorrow, and there has been no more of the white stuff - yet, but of course, a lot can change. My car has been left up by the main office in readiness for tomorrow, and after lunch Coran and I will walk up there and try and turn it round, but other than that, all we can do it wait and hope.

The start of a New Year

Well what a year 2011 turned out to be - who would have thought 12 months from now that so many changes would have occured not just within our own country, but on the world stage. The most important of these for me at least has to be the Arab Spring and the fall of the Egyptian and Libyan regimes. The world now waits with bated breath to see what changes (if any) will occur in North Korea, the world's one remaining hereditary communist state.

From a personal point of view, the greatest challenge that I had to deal with was that regarding my sister and the very painful decision to let her go. I had been putting this off for some time, but when it finally came, and the pain had settled (and it was a very intense emotional pain and a grieving process for both Coran and I), both of us were left with a sense of relief, a sense of relief that both of us were free from the chains and the restrictions that we had allowed her to place around our hearts. In so doing, I know that she is now free to persue her own path too, in whatever form that takes. She still writes to us from time to time, and the letters hold no punches, tugging for the minutes that it takes to read them at the heartstrings, but I cannot and will now allow her to weedle her way back in, for I know that even if I do, it will not make a difference to her life, not one that really counts. When the chips are down, it is only her that can change her situation, by being willing to talk and explore the depths of her emotions. Until she is able and willing to do that, then nothing will change, and I have nothing else to say. I know that I did everything I could to help her, and every atempt that I made was thwarted, and sometimes you have to know when to let go.

On the subject of letting go, we have also let go of more than our fair share of residents at work this year - I cannot of course mention names, but there were at least eight or nine of them last year - some of the deaths were more sudden and unexpected than others, and some I miss more than others too.

Death does not seem to affect me as much as it did when I first started this job, and I am not sure when or why this changed. I think it was after last Christmas(2010) when one lady that I was very fond of passed away. It was a slow and painful death, watching her gradually fade over a period of weeks, so when it finally came on Christmas Day, it was in many ways a relief, for the family as well as the staff. I will always remember this lady though, and I will always remember the gentleman who passed away a few days before Christmas this year. He was a war veteran, from one of the parachute regiments in France, and had a long and eventful life with two sons and a step daughter. I spoke to his son the day before his father died and asked him how he was bearing up and it turned into one of those philosophical conversations about the nature of life and death and many different things in between. It is good to know that I can help poeple with words, both written and spoken and in my own small way, make a difference.

So, back to 2012. Will this be the year that we as David Camneron put it "go for it" and if so, then what exactly it "is?". "It" for me is the same thing that it has always been, about the relationships that I have with others, and knowing that when all is said and done, this is the one thing that counts. It is not about aiming for bigger and better, more expensive things, but all about quality of life, and it is more than anything the poeple in our lives that give that quality. So on that note, I am going to take a short walk back to the living room, where the person that I love is waiting for me, and give her a great big cuddle to show my appreciation and thanks.

Compassion - an Inside Job

Coran and I watched a documentary this afternoon, that we recorded from BBC2 the day before, entitled Inside Job. I was glad that it was on, since when it was shown recently at the local cinema, courtesy of the town's Transition group, we did not have the opportunity to go. The documentary, which is narrated by Matt Damon and has won several awards, was and is basically an expose of what caused the banking crisis, and how it was in effect, an Inside Job.

The reasons the film makers came to this conclusion were really quite simple. Like the average man (or in this case, woman) in the street, I have limited knowledge of the financial industry and how it works, and despite the fact that I have watched several different programs on the crisis as part of the BBC's money season, this documentary taught me more about how and why things happened than any of the other programs put together.

From my understanding, the crisis began or at least the seeds began to be sown when the way in which the funds for mortgages and loans were arranged also changed. It used to be the case that when one wanted to borrow money in order to finance a large purchase (say for arguments sake a house), you would go your local bank, who would arrange the funds, subject to status. Since the bank were loaning you the funds, and since mortgages typically have a long lifespan of up to 25 years, they were naturally extremely cautious as to who they lent to. This changed when the banks started to sell their loans en masse to investment banks, who in effect sold them on again to a team of investors. The investors could insure themselves against losses in case the loans turned sour, which they often did, but the insurance companies did not have the funds to cover these losses either. Because the banks had covered their own losses already, they did not care who they lent to, allowing those on low incomes or with insecure jobs to borrow funds when they had little or no hope of being able to pay them back. The banks though actively wanted these people to borrow money, since the more risky the loan, the more money they earned. Despite the high risk involved, these CDO's as these bulk loans beame known, were given AAA ratings, indicating a lucrative investment with little or no risk.

This type of lending became known as subprime lending and infected the whole of the banking system by virtue of the fact that most banks are international operations, if not in terms of geographical location, certainly in terms of how their investments are spread around. Thus it was that when Lehman Brothers in New York failed, it had a knock on effect on other banks and indeed other businesses and individuals around the world, a fact which one of the American bankers who was interviewed on this documentary did not seem to realise.

The Americans dealt with the crisis in the same way that we have dealt with it here -the Government stepped in and bailed out the banks that had not already been taken over. These banks then are now in effect owned by the tax payer. When most businesses fail, the first in line is usually the tax man, but in this case it seemed to be the executives, for they received in many cases, pay offs of millions of dollars, to the intense fury of the American voting populace, and I hasten to add, the British too.

When the banking crisis though hit Iceland at the end of 2008, and the country was forced to go begging for loans in order to bail themselves out, how did the Icelandic population though react? In a a totally different way. Once the dust had settled following the collapse of Icesave, the British and Dutch governments demanded that ordinary Icelandic citizens pay compensation to those who had lost out. Instead of giving in, the Icelandic government asked the I Icelandic people if they felt that this was fair, and the people unresoundingly said no, they should not be held responsible for the mistakes that bankers had made - the bankers should clear up their own mess. So, a full inquiry was launched, and arrests were made, and as I write, various bankers are being tried and sentenced. The Icelandic people then set up a consultation group of 27 ordinary Iicelandic citizens from all walks of life to draft a new constitution that was written online for all Icelandic citizens to read, putting both Britain and America to shame. Sometimes I wish that I were Icelandic.

It seems to me that we can learn a lot from the way that the Icelanders have dealt with this crisis, and watching this program it also seems to me that the Americans have a lot to learn with regard to how their actions affect others. They can no longer continue with their insular existence, pretending that the rest of the world does not exist.

I am not of course condoning what happened, but it seems to me that the World Trade Centre and what happened on that fateful day was also a wake up call with the same message. It was called the World Trade Centre for a reason, the reason being that companies from all over the world had their headquarters and offices there, and that as such people from all over the world worked there. The terrorists who flew those planes felt that it was America's fault, yet it was not only Americans who lost their lives and it was not only American families who were devastated. In the same way, it was not only Americans who lost their jobs and their homes through this crisis, but citizens throughout the world. While it would be unfair to lay the blame for either crisis purely on the Americans, they have to accept their share of resonsbility for what happened, and with the banking crisis at least, I see little sign of that.

My hope for next year is that every person on the planet in some way experience compassion, compassion for their fellow man and for the planet on which we live. For each person that will be different, but it seems to me that this the only sure fire way to make sure that something like this does not happen again. It is the attitude that needs to change, and no amount of regulation or taxes on bonusses will do that, it has be brought home to them exactly how it feels to experience a personal crisis of this magnitude and compassion is the only way in which this can really be achieved.

Strength in What Remains

I have read some interesting books this month, from various other cultures around the world including Africa and South-east Asia, but the one that stands out more than any other has been one set in the impoverished central African counnty of Burundi. The book, entitled Strength in What Remains is written by an American named Tracy Kidder, and tells the true story of a survivor of the genocide that took place in that small African country in 1993. It really made me think and question many of the things that we take for granted and which are in the scheme of life, frivulous and really quite insignificant.

Last night we had our work Christmas party, and I was fretting over what to wear. There was a lovely gold top in Sainsbury's that I have had my eye on for some time, and when I saw it was 25 percent off I was in two minds over whether to get it or not. In the end I decided not to, as I reasoned that it was not worth spending that much money even with the reduction, on something that I would in all probability wear just once for a few hours at most. I was also moaning about the standard of the vegetarian food that I was served compared to the carnivorous option, which as usual was far more substantial. Yet Burindians, and for that matter, those in many other countries worldwide, cannot afford basic clothes and have no idea as to where their next meal is coming from. The amount of money that was spent last night by some people that were there was akin to more than most Burundians make in a whole year.

The book quotes some frightening statistics about life in that country - Burundi has the lowest GDP per head of population than any other country on earth with one of the lowest literacy rates and life expectancy, particularly for women, who due to the high infant mortality rate go through pregnancy after pregnancy getting old and worn out way before their time.

The things that the main character in this book saw and experienced cannot begin to be imagined - the book describes a scene where he was fleeing from his own country into neighbouring Rwanda, and he was sheltering in a banana grove surrounded by dead bodies. It was then that he noticed the baby - a live baby trying to suckle it's dead mothers breast. He knew that there was nothing whatsoever that he could for this child and it too would die, a victim of those intent on killing those that they felt were different to them.

If I am honest, I did not really want to go last night - I like a dance as much as the next person, but prefer to do it in a quieter, less showy environment where I do not have to worry about dressing up and pretending to be something I am not in order to impress. Don't get me wrong, it is nice once in a while to be able to dress up, but it is really all about impressing others and trying to fit in and look the part. We do it for others rather than for ourselves. I had arranged to meet the rest of my work colleagues at the venue, and was so nervous on my way there and on my arrival that I drove straight past the car park and ended up having to go round the roundabout and back in again! That should really have given me a hint about what was to come.

When I entered the building, the noise of people talking hit me like a wall. I stood and waited for the boss to bring me a drink while I attempted to make small talk about how nice people looked and how much I was looking forward to the evening, all the time feeling excruciatingly uncomfortable, and wishing that I could just turn round and go back home again.

When it was time to go upstairs for our meal and the disco that followed, I found that I had been placed on a table with staff that I hardly knew, away from my friends that I had more in common with. The conversation was stilted and awkward to say the least, attempting to make yet more small talk, while at the table behind, the wine flowed and they laughed and joked among themselves. When the meal did arrive, I found that the vegetarian starter was half the size of the meaty one, and the main course, which I had been assured was gluten free, contained couscous - last time I checked, couscous is not gluten free. When I knew that I would be attending this party, I telephoned the venue to discus my dietary requirements and make sure that they could cater for them, and specifically requested that I not be given fruit salad for dessert, which seems always to be the default option at such things, what did they give me - you guessed it - fruit salad! So, while my meat eating colleagues tucked into prawn cocktail, roast turkey and chocolate mousse, I got a small salad with a few pearls of cheese, stuffed aubergine with overcooked vegetables and a fruit salad - all for the princely sum of £63 - like I said, almost the equivilant to the average Burundians annual income. Oh well, I guess it is par for the course. I may or may not bloat in a day or so's time from the couscous, but I do know that I not be returning to that venue in a hurry. At least I do know that any bloating I do experience will not be due to hunger...

For me then far from being the big night out that I was hoping for with fun and laughter, it was a bit of a damp squib. I made an excuse and left just after 10.30pm and was home before 11pm.

It left me wondering though, why do we put ourselves through all that in an effort to fit in? I could not work out whether I was more angry with myself or with my colleagues, and came to the conclusion that as always, it was about me (who else is there anyway). I should know by now that these events with their glitter and sparkle, are not me, but about glamour and falsehood, concepts which I find alien and more than a little uncomfortable. I know that this may sound like a judgement, and that I do work with those who are in their way surrounded by death, but I prefer the company of those who think about the deeper things in life, and to let my hair down in a quieter more genuine and authentic environment - the village hall rather than some glitzy racecourse with flashing lights and blaring music, where the alcohol flows freely. For some it is a chance to let their hair down, but for me it is falsehood. I will not be making the same mistake again. Real strength, like the character in the book that I mentioned at the beginning of this post, comes from being willing to face your demons and work with them, not by blotting them out with destractions, which for me at least, is what last night was really about.