Just a Thought

An afterthought.

I was listening to the young women who come to our home every other week to help with the cleaning. This is a huge treat for me, now gainfully unemployed I am still not receiving any income from the unemployment compensation folks, as they are concerned about my whopping pension; $112.00 per month, tipping me over the eligibility edge. The Captain has looked about the house and decided it’s a good investment to continue to have domestic help. Good man, getting his priorities straight. They clean and scrub and polish and shine in places I never think about, they find the task un-daunting and never make me feel like a slob. They don’t complain about the dog hair and they do windows, ovens, anything we ask of them, without judgement or hesitation. And they chat. They talk at a high volume as they run the vacuum cleaner. Whilst one is upstairs the conversation will be launched downstairs, so that it never ceases for the 4 hour duration of their bi-weekly visit. Due to the ongoing dialog I get an insight into their lives that leaves an impression of great kindness on their part. They are both in their mid twenties, one is married; the other, I am still searching for the perfect mate for her! They tolerate my irreverent sense of humor and giggle at all the inappropriate suggestions I make for them. While not Mennonite they are members of a clearly conservative Church which they adhere to faithfully, they never wear pants and they take a Mission Trip annually. So when I suggest to them that the guys who are building the outdoor fireplace look kinda hot, they laugh, blush and shush me! 

They both take care of elderly homebound clients in the last throws of life’s journey. I overhear them talking about bathing and caring for intimate aspects of living in a way that is respectful and generous of spirit, the washing of hair, the trimming of nails, small details of daily life no longer able to be accomplished by those in their care. They discuss manners in which they can help one another without causing either pain or discomfort to the client. The little insights into this world are a constant source of interest to me. They have spoken of teeth brushing and make up application, hair styling and all manner of foot care. They talk about the importance of fresh air and the difficulties involved in bathing a woman who is wheelchair bound. They give the families and permanent caregivers a much deserved break for shopping, or their own hair care, and maintenance, they bring respite. I overhear the talk about laughter and tears, about hope and reluctance and most of all about grace and acceptance. I am in awe of their candor and their can do, I am grateful on behalf of their clients for their innate decency. But mostly I am in touch with aspects of my own future which terrify me. 

My own mum died under the horrific roof of Alzheimer’s Disease, alone in a nursing home dedicated to her specific needs. She was well looked after, but the saddest little things upset me when I would visit. The name tag on a cardigan that did not belong to her, she abhorred polyester, that read Patsy. She was ALWAYS and forever Pat. She would have been incensed at being called Patsy, she always wore pearls, she never wore pants, she was no one’s Patsy. She was an avid reader, as am I, I wished her books and magazines had been around her at the end, I think she would have enjoyed their company. She was a life long knitter, there should have been knitting in progress on every surface in her room before she died, it would have made her feel more at home. She never left the house without full makeup, she wore heels everywhere even to drive. My mother had driving shoes into which she changed, in the car then out again, everywhere she went. She had plans and routes and manners which never changed, so the onslaught of this dreaded illness brought early terror to her life, long before it was diagnosed. She lied to my dad about the reasons for her lateness home, (she got on the wrong bus or forgot entirely where she lived). She stopped driving because it was dangerous to her and those around her, and really had no need to as the bus went everywhere she wanted to go. She was utterly independent then suddenly completely reliant on others. I wish I had been there, 3,000 miles across the sea in England to guide her last year through, with some familiarity for her. I know she didn’t know, I understand she couldn’t have cared less about the details that upset me so much, but now just in case I go the same way, here’s what I would like in my room at the end. 

No fresh flowers, I hate them, I hate the way they smell, I like them in a garden. I’d like a view of the garden, not a vegetable patch which is what garden means in America, an English garden which simply means whatever is behind the house and looks pretty. I want music, I need music; classical, jazz and ancient choral music. No show tunes and no schmaltz. Just hook up my iPod and set it to shuffle, I have over 2,000 hours of music on it, it will suffice. Please, someone paint my nails once in a while, feet too and apply to me, a little blush, some mascara and a light grey eyeshadow. And STOP me from doing my own makeup once anything stronger than a 10X mirror no longer works for me. Check my mustache on a regular basis, and get rid of it for chrissake. Wherever I go, at the very least make sure I can have an open window, hear birdsong and have access to at least some of my own books. I know I may not be able to read them; hire someone who will. Read poetry to me, read Shakespeare and Milton and a little Nora Roberts for good measure. Read my blog to me. Make sure there are pictures of all of you around me at all times. If I have any friends left by this point in my life, bring them to me, let them sit a while and allow us wine to drink. Dark, red, dry wine, no crap. I won’t go quietly, but if I have to go like my mum did, please try to help me make a decent exit amongst my own belongings, so that any new friends will get to know the real me. Don’t let anyone label my clothes incorrectly and call me honey or sweetheart, I am to be called Mrs. Smith or Annie. If you see something labeled Ann rip it off and admonish those charged with my care to get it right. I don’t want a room mate but understand the Captain’s means may have dried up by this time, at least try to find someone who doesn’t snore, doesn’t mind if I do, and has no hearing left so we can listen to my music! 

I think what I am saying, is that when we go, we wish to be remembered for who we believe we are. I can't think of anything worse than to have lived a life as great as mine, so filled with pretty much everything I ever hoped for and worked for, to be forgotten or lost simply because we weren't careful enough with it at its conclusion. When the Captain's grandpa died in his nineties, one of my daughters made sure that a comb was placed in his pocket. She did this AT the viewing, she was only eleven at the time, she wasn't hysterical she was practical. He always had a comb in his pocket and she wanted him to have this on his next journey. He died with a full head of thick, silver hair which she had combed many times as a small child and knew enough at this tender age, about what was of importance to this elderly, gentle, man; good grooming and a complete set of accessories.