There’s an old man I used to care for. Let’s call him H. He was an ex-naval officer who had a handsome pension that he didn’t like to spend. He was 90 years old and had been a bachelor all his life. A lot of H’s carers thought him cranky. They would say he was difficult and miserly.
But I liked H.
He was intelligent. He had soft, boyish eyes. He spoke in a slow, considered manner and listened attentively – when your conversation interested him.
The retired naval officer’s bockety house was perpetually cold. He would never afford himself use of the heating. Instead, he sat with a hairy blanket across his lap and a thick woollen vest that gathered falling saliva as he spoke. On frosty winter days, carers attempting to keep H warm by turning on the heating, would find themselves in trouble.
'I'm going to a party tonight!' I beamed. H immediately pointed to a plastic sack in the corner and asked me to rake the leaves in the spitting rain outside
H did not like his decisions to be made for him.
One day, I arrived to H’s house with my hair and face nicely made up. I was wearing heeled black boots and skinny jeans beneath my blue smock. It was the only time I had ever shown up to H’s house in any semblance of glamour. The old man commented that I was very dressed up. ‘I’m going to a party tonight!’ I beamed. H immediately pointed to a plastic sack in the corner and asked me to rake the leaves in the spitting rain outside. H had never asked me to do garden work before. He kept his smile hidden as I pulled on my gloves. I laughed. When you’re 90 and housebound, you have to get your kicks somehow.
I liked H even more.
At his advanced age, H’s legs were now failing him. This meant he could no longer live independently as he had done the rest of his long life. He relied on carers to cook, clean and complete his shopping. Relinquishing independence made him cranky. And frankly, why wouldn’t it? He had had a long life of doing things just as he liked.
Intimate care
Sometimes, he required more intimate care. During periods of infection, or following a fall, H required assistance dressing and cleaning. On these occasions, he softened and welcomed the care.
Each visit, I would rub emulsifying ointment into H's cracked legs. As I would do so, he would tell me about his travels to the far-distant lands of his youth; Australia and Canada; exotic locations for someone of his vintage. He would talk excitedly of the people he had met, and meals he had eaten on his travels, so much in contrast to the traditional Irish diet he now kept.
H was particular about his diet. It was in part for this reason that other carers considered him difficult. Though frugal, he would consume only real Irish butter and sliced ham bought from the butcher’s counter. He liked his meat fried in lard, a substance, I learned, that spits viciously. Vegetables were to be boiled, and the cabbage water kept as a nutritious drink.
H became gruff if you got his order wrong. You were reproached for not paying attention to the specific details of his requests. His playful, dependent eyes were quick to temper.
I spent one afternoon shouting through the door of my brother's apartment directing him on what size menstrual cup to buy for me in the pharmacy
I was reminded of H recently when I contracted Covid-19. For my 10 days of isolation, and my ensuing period of recovery, I became dependent on others to do for me what I can normally do for myself. I relied on others to cook, clean, and shop for me. I spent one afternoon shouting through the door of my brother’s apartment directing him on what size menstrual cup to buy for me in the pharmacy. And when this brand wasn’t in stock, what size to buy in the competing brand. No, it wasn’t particularly awkward but I would have liked to have done this myself. As would I have liked to buy the groceries I wanted, cook the food I liked and make tea when I wanted it.
Within H’s petulance, you see, there a vulnerability. He was relying on you to do what he could no longer do for himself. He could not fix what you got wrong.
Becoming dependent on others can not only be frustrating, it can be scary. We relinquish a portion of control to those who are looking after us, and hope they do so with care and in good faith. We hope also that they do so with kindness, and attention.
So, I understood H when was he was cranky. And I listened to him, when he requested salt in his porridge, rather than sugar. Or asked me to remake his tea.
Sometimes, you can no longer do things for yourself, but that does not mean it is easy allowing others to take charge or to relinquish the autonomy you once had.