Padded Echo

Is that really - me? An aberration crossed with lines and lifeless blotches, a used crossword puzzle? I stick out my tongue but the gesture is returned, how apt. Even that appears numb in this cavernous collapsed old sock. It is so depressing when you have to think really hard about how you are going to consume an apple when your apparatus have systematically been stripped out. Is that why they always feed us soup? I'm sick of soup.

My face is now more hairy than my legs. If there ever was a God then He has a sadistic sense of humor. Why with increasing wisdom and knowledge are you forced to consider such a crumbling biscuit? Now whenever I see something remotely repulsive it reminds me of my own naked form. The nurse wonders why I am so rude to her when she attempts to wash me. I know I smell of, well, what old people always smell of – a mixture of urine, egg mayonnaise and farts from too much tea – but, I’ll take that over someone glimpsing my disheveled form. Well, actively touching it with an oversized toothbrush. Some of the others don’t care, they have probably wanted to revert to baby status all their lives, but just when I think that I can succumb to humility I see this, the mirror, and it brings it all back. Pride is a much understated emotion when you can no longer lift yourself off the toilet seat. Why do people ever question why old people are grumpy?

"No, its okay I'll be over in minute children."

You can criticize the Yanks all you want for their plastic surgery and Goji berry diets - one must age gracefully - but when you get a passing look at your hair that would lose out to a Brillo pad in a fashion contest you have to wonder. Youth is the only thing worth living for according to Oscar Wilde. I'm not sure about that but youth is the only period in your life when ignorance is to be cherished, it’s beautifully charming. Take Sally over there, just look at her. Not a care in the world but how to comb her dolls hair.

You simply cannot age gracefully, not on the outside - not when a day out is compromised by requirements to change your own nappy. I am no cherished antique mantelpiece. Years do not add to my appeal, my allure, and value. You don't see the young gentlemen from the kitchen queuing up outside my green door desiring a date. Well if you do, they are a bit bloody odd. No, old well made furniture doesn't bite you like Linda, require you to rescue its dentures from a tough pickle like Hilda, or even fart in your face for kicks like Beryl does.

"Bob, are you keeping an eye on those children?"

Old furniture does what is told, it’s polite and graceful. It is inanimate history without the necessity for a pacemaker. Steven's is positively audible, a clock counting down to death - no wonder they continue to find contraband in his room, it’s the depression of having an egg timer in your chest. Anyway, we do have some similarities with old wood - we both go where it pleases the owners. We may scratch the walls on the way out but even if the hinges need to come off, we're out of there.

The old Grandmother clock - the face of which you never think will one day be you - the once prominent loveable feature of the house, its life, soul, and annoying chimes. Witty asides and repetitive parables no longer enough when weighed against the crumbling bricks and mortar that inhales them, dulls them to an earthen, spinach moss green. It is incredible how it can all become a little tedious and discounted once, or rather when, you become incontinent. You think that you can blissfully mind your own business, watch countdown and be only mildly abusive to people you don't recognize - until that person is your son. Your own business develops an uncompromising capitalist ethic. Requesting privacy is futile when you can no longer get yourself in to a bath. Markets court a solution, time moves on. It’s all corporate polite nonsense to me.

Little argument can be made when you can no longer open and pass through a door in one single motion, or, okay, no longer open your mouth to argue. My memory creates my pride, my pride my stubbornness', my stubbornness' my irrationality and it is that gradual process that ironically washes away your right to a private life. Mistaking your husband for a redundant chair doesn't exactly help.

"Oh do you remember this track Bob? Always reminds me of that night with you wearing that bright yellow shirt. Do you remember? Honestly, what a fool. Still, you were my fool."

You realize when you are older, well, this old, why eyes are so important. Why they provide such an attraction and why if you are nervous it is difficult to look in to another set. It is not the romantic notion of gazing in to the soul. It is reliability, dependency, comfort, and honesty. A burst in your heart, the adrenalin sourness in your mouth – they can be re-imagined sixty years after their initial act. When I looked in to Bob’s eyes, every day felt like the first time he asked me my name. The only trouble now is that the burst in your heart is likely to cause you a heart attack. I am pretty sure that is what killed randy Fred, an attempted erection. In fact, he may have committed suicide with a dirty magazine. Plus, that taste in your mouth is no longer the adrenalin of life but the acid paste of your denture cream.

Still, in this place, your eyes remain your soul. That is why we feel compelled to close the eyelids when death has knocked on your green door.

Knocked just the other day – next door that it is. Poor old Bett. She smelt pretty badly you see, although I thought that was her prerogative. If you cannot smell of rotting shrimp at our age then when can you? Well, I am convinced that the white devils bullied her in to doing something about it because one night, during bridge, she was annoying us with repetitive moaning about good quality soap and tough inner city water before she was helped up and left on a specially made Zimmer frame. Fred, before his edifying erectile death built the getaway frame for her. He was in prison once and was more than willing to forget more than his own name by applying himself to crime. The frame was even painted black for stealth purposes but crucially it was so well designed for this purpose that, somehow having made it to the road, Bett was run over by a Boots truck. I’m surprised that the driver even noticed she was that frail. Perhaps Fred never realised that she was planning a night-time raid or else he would have installed flashlights and flares.

“Right then Bob I’m just going to pop out to see Lynn, see how she is holding up with the angina.”

[KNOCK KNOCK] “Mrs Jones.”

Oh, “my”, what, “who”, is, “fire”, it? Blinding green flames and blue triangles surrounded in white silver swirls scored marks in tea sets so long forgotten. “Fondly remembered, my son the misunderstood, brown curly hair.” Melting, butter to grease reverie release in rectangular mirror form.

The nurse had waited for a response but the hand primed on the handle was indicative of an inherent confidence that this was unlikely to arrive in a coherent manner. Music was playing inside the room and it was doubtful whether Mrs. Jones had even heard the knock and call. She was an 'advanced’ patient that was still termed a resident but was in effect, anything but. Requiring constant attention this was the second visit of the morning.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Jones, how are you today? Good”. The door had been unapologetically swung open, the numbers, twenty-four, swinging on their golden nails.

“Let’s just turn this music off for a moment shall we? Oh that is better; I can hear myself think now. You must be hot in this room Mrs. Jones, it is very muggy.” At this point the nurse had not looked at her once. She could have been dead. As it was, the patronising intonation and impatient dart around the room was enough to captivate the unearthed worm. At first paralysed by the discovery of her realm, her impulsive reaction was an attempt to wriggle her foot in to a bruised brown cushion on the floor.

“Are you okay Mrs. Jones, why don’t’ you sit down instead of standing up next to that mirror again?” Funny how carers ask their patients so many questions when they are fully aware that no reply is forthcoming.

Mrs. Jones sat down in to a pale dishevelled throne, legs dangling listlessly underneath – inverted crimson flag poles. The Nurse could now revert to ticking off troublesome chores in peace; in theory at least. Pulling apart the congealed curtains a fruit bowl was inadvertently knocked to the floor. A banshee wail left the leathery torso of Mrs. Jones.
“My babies, what have you done? My family, are you okay children? What have you done? Who are you?”
“Now, Mrs. Jones…” The reply lost amongst the sudden repetitive wailing and exhales for air, represented the only moment that Mrs. Jones, eyes a blistered nutmeg white, looked directly at The Nurses’ clinical white pupils. Mrs. Jones was alive; it garnered an unfortunate response. The nurse turned away displaying nothing but the plump rear end of her apron. Failing to repeal the eerie sman that manifested itself the gentle ripple from her diaphragm worked its way down and across her bottom.

“My babies, stupid woman.” She muttered in to the crease of her forearm. “They are absolutely fine Mrs. Jones, fine. No need to get upset now Mrs. Jones, stop crying now. Now what will your family think?”

With each utterance of ‘now’ matters became increasingly worse, as if the very prospect of realising this present reality was abhorrent to the psychosis of Mrs. Jones. Her eyes rose towards the ceiling, flush with crimson anguish glazed with a translucent film.

“I need my blanket, I need my blanket.”

Pain and anguish had ironically delivered life in to the once pale sullen cheeks. Her arms had become active if confusing in their intentions. Criss-crossing like a drunk teenage rapper.

Desperate to please through comical compassion the blanket was retrieved from a hopelessly over stuffed, yet pristinely varnished, cabinet. Placing it delicately over the legs of an already sweating Mrs. Jones, The Nurse walked away offended at the unrecognised effort, tutting loudly as the cupboard door was slapped shut before pirouetting like an owl observing an ungrateful spared shrew.

“I need my blanket, I need my blanket.” The volume was retreating with the exhaled lungs but its effect was increasingly provocative. Perplexed to act, The Nurse moved forward to joust a pointless pale finger towards Mrs. Jones’ midriff. She however, was transfixed on the resurfaced fruit bowl with dilated, eager pupils trained like marbles in a school play yard. Attempting to rearrange the blanket Mrs. Jones kicked her in the shin shouting incoherently about scalene triangles and the ‘impervious blue’. For a moment it appeared enough for The Nurse to protest at this injustice of paid servitude and leave.

“I need my blanket” Mrs. Jones incessant repetition stopped short The Nurses’ internal dialogue of protest. It engendered rage for the old lady was positively reclining with a brash arrogance.

“Well what is THIS?” Holding the blanket aloft the message was being relayed to someone seemingly lost to an exchange of the sane.

“That? That is my dog Charlie, just leave him alone.”

It froze the senses. To mock, to reason or to indulge? The Nurse was stuck in a paradox but catching the engorged pupils of Mrs. Jones she noticed her eyes dart towards the open green door. It was the family of Mrs. Jones.

[SLAP, CLICK]

Well that is that, they have left. Assured that their mother has finally given way to complete mental amnesia I see in their eyes the compassionate wait for my death. It isn’t being overtly depressing or morbid – I am surrounded by these issues everyday, you become immune to your own necrosis; much in the same way that as a teenager you are inoculated from mortality no matter how many life assurance policy posters are thrown in your way. I do not blame them. I do not blame anyone. The person they knew only exists here in the eyes that they cannot face.
True, I do become pre-occupied with wistful regret from time to time. Ungrateful and unresponsive it is a thankless task keeping such fruit that has passed its sell-by-date. Not bearing to throw it away – they await its silent submission sub-consciously looking forward to opening the varnished door one day to pour over more palatable memories.

Yet, Gandhi once said that there ‘are more important things in life than increasing its speed’. The devil is in the detail, the small print and the care home. My family inadvertently desire life to move as quickly as possible now. For me an hour constitutes a year. My used-by-date is very different.

Solemn brows inject their excessive pity. I was once the same. As a race we are still over committed to the physical, the appearance of matter. If food looks unappetizing we do not eat it. We believe that this is not life. I cannot tell them any different because how do you reason with someone when you cannot reason with your own faculties?

They owe it to me though; I only hope that they know it. Not the pity but the desire to live. Not in the daily monotony of existing but to live. The present is the most important time; after the minute, hour, and day have passed time becomes another scar on your palm.

I remain here, with my family. I am, despite it all, living.