When it comes to
arranging a trip anywhere, to town, to the city, to the far reaches of Mars, I
am the one who does all the arranging. The job starts in my head, and the work
is nightmarish. I take account of all the shit that could go wrong.
Look at all these blocks of shit in my way.
Shitty blocks.
Planning means knocking shitty blocks away,
and it also means not dropping fresh blocks of shit in the burbling place of
the shitty blocks I knocked away. Luckily, this is all just talk. Or thought.
Come the day, I have to deal with the same
random nonsense everyone else faces all the fucking time. But I will have the
cared-for in tow, for added fun and games. When you have someone in tow, it’s
important to be in charge of the towing. Don’t let the other person tow you.
But allow for slight changes in direction.
Stay flexible. If
you have a routine, stick to the routine…just…make sure you can handle that
routine earlier in the day. A recent trip to the dentist illustrates this,
almost perfectly. And that’s a fucking surprise, for a start.
The trip to the
dentist begins with the previous trip to the dentist.
On the way out, we arranged the next
appointment. I always need to know the day of the week and the hour of doom. It’s
best to avoid a day with supermarket shopping being delivered…
I have leeway with the shopping, but I don’t
want to disrupt that routine too much. Almost any day of the week will do, for
a dental appointment. The hour of doom is a different matter. Arranging a time
for an inspection, I have to take an hour that is well into the morning.
There’s no problem with 11.00 or with noon.
When I go to the dentist, I take the
earliest appointment so that I can be back home and acting as a carer as soon
as humanly possible.
But I can’t inflict a 9.00 o’clock start on
the cared-for. There’s a whole routine to slog through before we get out the
door. And I am already awake at 7.00 for a dental appointment at 11.00. I don’t
see the point in getting up at 5.00 in the morning for a 9.00 o’clock dental
check.
Pills. Brushing
those teeth. Arranging outdoor clothing. Watching the weather fall in big drops
from a steel-grey sky. These things burn time. I see the bus fly past at 10.30.
We march out for the next bus at 10.40, and make it to the dentist in that
narrow window from 10.50 to 11.00.
The whole trip is tense. And funny as fuck.
First, I make sure
the travel card is in place, zipped up. That’s my opening move. Her first chess-move,
when she is in the coat, is to unzip the pocket and take the card out. Before
she can deposit the card in at least twenty different places, I am on that
problem like flies on shit.
No, we really are zipping that up.
Why does she need to wear waterproofs?
Because it is cold and windy and almost
rainy. Elderly people feel ice and snow when it rains. They feel ice and snow
when it is sunny. There’s a law of physics that makes old folks feel cold when
it is warm. This is Scotland.
It is warm for five minutes. If you are old, even that feels cold.
Why are we walking
along this path?
If we disappear behind the trees, the bus
driver won’t see us. But if we walk along in front of the trees, the bus driver
will see a little old lady struggling to reach the bus in time. And that bus
driver will stop right next to her and be the saviour of the hour.
Unless the bus driver roars past with evil
intent. Then the bus driver is renamed Cunty
McCuntface.
But we are there at
the stop in plenty of time to meet everyone. My mother knows everyone, and all
their pals. The dementia makes her think she knows everyone. I don’t know
anyone. All these people my mother meets…hell, they could be known to her. How
would I know?
She knows Billy Connolly rather well. And
Robert De Niro. Clint Eastwood, now I think of it. She’s met them all. I’ve
met…three famous people. I wouldn’t say any of them are famous. Wait. I’ll run
an internet search on them…
Two out of three are
on Wikipedia. To my knowledge, two out of the three published books. One out of
three was a dick before he was famous – which is when I encountered him. I
don’t believe he renounced his total dick status once he became known. In the
final analysis, I’d say one of them is famous today. The one with a Wikipedia entry
and a book out. He’s not a dick.
Hugs all around at
the stop, as it started to rain. We all ushered my mother under the shelter,
and she hugged good friends. I don’t know who they are. Another fellow stumbles
out of the downpour, and he gets a hug as well. These people all know her by
name.
There are a few jokes. A good spot of
banter. You might see she’s a bit frail, but you’d be hard-pressed to say she
has dementia. Inevitably, one man drops in a piece of sad news about so-and-so.
Yes, my mother heard about that.
Who the fuck from? No one. She’s inserted
herself into the conversation, and that is part of history now. The bus comes,
and everyone plays at being polite.
No, you go first.
On you go.
You go.
Luckily, there’s a limit to this. She goes
first, and I sweep in behind her to catch her if she stumbles. I’m the youngest
and fittest in the crowd, and it’s my job to see to shit like all these
high-powered stunts. You know. Stepping on a bus.
She knows where she is going.
This is true in a vague sense. She knows the
main destination that she must request, and she requests it. The travel card
works, and off she goes along the bus. I take my ticket, and turn to see that
she’s met everyone on the bus.
Hello here.
And hello there.
Hello to everyone.
They know her, and call her by name. These
people haven’t seen her in ages. Where’s she been? How is she keeping?
She’s fine.
There’s a sexy woman on the bus. A sexy
woman who dyes her hair a suspicious shade of auburn. But we let that pass. It
is not a crime. My mother makes straight for her and sits down to say hello. I
have one option. Take the seat across the aisle.
That way, I can earwig most of the
conversational blunders. She’s shouting to the back of the bus to say hello to
another old pal she’s discovered. Is there anyone on the bus she doesn’t know?
The driver is usually Jim. Jim is always the
driver. Today, the driver is a woman. She might be Jim, too, for all we know.
Later, in memory, the bus driver may well become Jim.
I recall from
previous excursions that my mother does indeed know a bus driver named Jim. And
he knows her. Or he is quick off the mark to let mistakes slide, and engages in
cheery banter with total strangers to avoid the unthinkable alternative…slashing
his wrists with a saw improvised out of a straightened roll of bus tickets, if
people dare call him Jim. Paper cuts are the worst.
This is Scotland. Everyone with a penis is
called Jimmy. Or Jock. Except for that famous guy. He’s always a dick.
The bus starts up
and we are off through the rain. I catch fragments of the conversation across
the aisle. Too many puddles swish and shush the words. Sexy woman clearly knows
my mother, and brings up a few details. Where is my mother going?
She’s
going to town. But where, though?
I chip in, as a reminder. Dentist.
That’s right. To the dentist.
Sexy woman adds to the chatter, above the
sound of the puddles.
Is that your son? He’s a good son.
Run away with me, sexy woman, and I’ll
overlook your curious shade of auburn.
More stops, and more people to say hello to.
My mother knows everyone getting on this bus. It’s as though we are on a
day-trip with all the friends. One friend has a suspect shade of black hair
that is only possible by means of a bottle. But we gloss over this.
I hope the sexy
woman is going all the way to town. If not, my mother must step into the aisle
to make way for her exit. That’s a danger I usually avoid. I try to make sure
she plonks herself down on the nearest seats, reserved for the elderly and
their carers.
Giving her the seat by the window offers a
vast panorama of condensation-streaked glass to stare out of. The landscape is
obscured by the window, and the rain beyond it. And by the grey buildings under
the rain. Leaving all that aside, the view is terrific.
We reach town with
no alteration to the seating. Now EVEN MORE people, emerging from the bus, stop
to say hello. We are cornered and queued-upon. Woman with suspicious levels of
black in her hair decides she can’t queue to say hello, and is swept away by
the tide of humanity.
This leaves us with
a woman who stays just over the way. She wants to know everything. Hasn’t seen
my mother in two years. Stays just there. What is she in town for? I furnish
that information with a sense of urgency. It is an appointment, after all.
My mother talks over family matters. She
doesn’t quite remember her granddaughter’s age, or if the girl is at school.
But she’s taller. Granddaughter comes complete with a fictional baby brother my
mother invented from half-memories. She tells this story consistently enough
for the tale to feel solid and real.
The woman nods, and drops sad news about her
dog. People are always dropping sad news on my mother at these bus-jamborees. I
wish they’d keep their lists of sad things to themselves. Animal, mineral, and
vegetable.
Were you there for the Grand Onion Massacre
last week? Shocking business. A great aunt’s neighbour’s rabbit had to go to
the vet after it caught a dose of the clap from the village idiot’s hamster.
Sad face.
I hustle the conversation to a close with
another reminder that the dentist awaits. We tear ourselves out of the wet
paper bag that is the sad chat about pets.
Crossing the street,
I have someone in tow. I make sure she is over the way before another bus comes
zooming along. A complete backside of a driver faffs about in the bus-only part
of the road and tries to knock me down at the treacle-coated rate of one mile
per hour.
Miraculously, I somehow manage to dodge this
flaming low-velocity turd. And I steer my mother to deeper safety, away from
the oncoming bus. She’s telling me to watch out for traffic. When you have
someone in tow, it’s important to be in charge of the towing. Don’t let the
other person tow you. But allow for slight changes in direction.
We change direction just enough to survive
crossing the road. My mother’s speed is around one mile per hour. It’s doubtful
that she’d have avoided the car. Strangely, though, she moves faster than the
speed of light when her ninja skills call for her to disappear inside a bus and
find a new seat beside an old friend – who may or may not actually be a friend.
Then the fun begins
at the dentist. We are asked to fill out the medical form. I’m not saying I
know this by heart, but I’ll be ticking NO
to most of the questions. The form is updated periodically. Just to be sure, I
ask the receptionist about a few of the finer points.
Filling out the form gives us something to
do while we are kept waiting. The television runs light cheery breakfast fare.
I want to smash the presenter’s face in with a blunt object…say, a steamroller.
Music intrudes, and my mother sings along to
the song. She informs me that Sir Rod Stewart sang that song on the television
the day before. Who am I to disbelieve her?
I rattle through the
questionnaire, stopping only to confirm or deny the minor quibbles set in front
of me. There’s a definite relief at noting no bouts of unconsciousness. Once I
mention this, however, she’s pretty sure she’s had bouts of unconsciousness.
Aside from knowing everyone, including Sir
Rod, my mother knows that she’s had every disease imaginable and unimaginable.
All we can do is laugh our way through the rest of the questionnaire. I reach
the part that asks if the female filling out the form thinks she is pregnant.
More laughter fills the room.
People come in after us and are seen before
us. Annoying. We don’t know the whole story, though. Hell, who does?
Ultimately, we head
to the chair. Care is taken here. The dental inspection is fine. I’m left
holding coats and bits and pieces, sitting in the corner to handle any
questions. The dentist floods my mother’s mouth by mistake, and sponges are
applied.
My mother laughs it off. No, really. The
whole thing is hilarious. We leave the dentist, all smiles. Except. That we
don’t leave the dentist. It’s such a slooooooooooooooooow day. We wait for the
appointment. Then on the way out, we don’t go out.
Instead, the gloves fail horribly. She can’t
get into them. The inner lining has worked loose, giving rise to degenerate
thumbs and alien fingers. I take a year of my life to sort the mess. In the
meantime, an elderly lady approaches the seats. She has a stick to help her
along. My mother naturally thinks she knows this woman, and begins to say
hello.
The other woman calls my mother by name,
never gives her own, and then reveals that they went to school together. She
remembers my aunt, as well. Very small world. It was lovely to see her, whoever
the woman was, and she disappears to see to her own affairs.
I am left struggling with the gloves of pain
for another six months. Almost time for the next appointment. And that takes us
to the next appointment. I approve the day, and the hour of doom. It’s High
Noon next time. Gary Cooper not included.
We head for the bus.
Apart from the dental flooding, we reach home without incident. I immediately
change the rogue pair of gloves for a pair that’s far more manageable. I’ve
lost track of the number of people we spoke to. My mother knew them all.
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