I had a dream

Dream a little dream....

I wake. I am standing on my roof, my tee shirt and shorts soaked amid the teeming rain. I can hear myself shouting, though the words are drowned by the storm. In my head I hear Lennon chewing out: All you need is love.... but the wind blows it spinning away.....

I wake again. This time I am in my bed, the storm thrashing against my duvet, the carpet rocks foaming with sea surge. It is the start of a new term and the kids are herding into the ruined chapel, high on the cliffs above Tintagel, above the Giant's Causeway, above the cliffs at St Ives.....

Vaughan Williams, A Sea Symphony is ringing in my ears, while the wind howls like a hammer on the anvil of the altar.....  The pupils mill like flour, like chaff....  I have my prepared address, pages of A4, selected poems to suit the occasion, one from the past (Shelley perhaps, or Spenser?) the other more contemporary (Heaney, or Hughes, perhaps?) interspersed with tentatively typed text that I must have composed carefully in hope that my wisdom might fall on receptive ears.....

The Head (or is it the Chaplain?) precedes me, as Vaughan Williams/Walt Whitman fades....

a rude brief recitative

Of ships sailing the seas..... 

—of waves spreading and spreading far as the eye can reach

Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing

I cannot hear the voice, the students cannot hear, the waves, the wind, the storm is fast.....

I am supposed to climb up to the ruined, windowless, Gothic arch, to stand above the seething sea, to hurl my speech toward the shivering children, but I realise it is purposeless, the gale is overpowering.....

I turn to climb the wall of trees, the wooden wall of the nave, to clamber onto the roof where the pupils perch, like jackdaws, ruffled by the wind.....

A vast similitude interlocks all, ...

All distances of place however wide

All distances of time,

The wind is too wild, it tugs at my papers, rips them from my hand and they swirl down to dissolve in the frothing brine.  But my turn has come, their eyes turn to me, bedraggled, gaunt, leafless against the light:

This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd

And shall forevеr span them and compactly hold and enclose them

I scramble for something to say, and I yell, atop my voice, the words I left behind me over thirty years ago on leaving Rome, the words I stole from Dylan, the mighty cliches I had so often sung.....

May God bless and keep you always

May your wishes all come true

Ah who shall soothe these feverish children?

Who Justify these restless explorations?

Who speak the secret of impassive earth? ...

I held my grandfather by the arm, gently lifting at his elbow, guiding the 86-year-old up some shallow steps, some sixty years ago now, guiding him calmly up some minor steps to our door. And he turned his head toward me, saying, Don't get old, boy.  Don't get old.....

The school is standing, the wind is dying, the sea moves from passion to passivity, and only the rocks remain.....

And we say together:

May your hands always be busy

May your feet always be swift

May you have a strong foundation

When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful

May your song always be sung

May you stay forever young

Bob Dylan

Forever Young

And the sun breaks through as we move on out into the glade, the path leading us forward:

The sea is calm, the tide has receded, the broken jetty is still above the silt, the sun is going down merging coolly into the clouds:

I wake again. I am reclining, white light flooding over me, a hand grips my lower jaw, a hand wrapped in rubber.....  a strong man wrenches at my wisdom tooth, rocking from side to side, cracking the enamel, tugging, pushing, pulling..... 

Waves of the ocean bubbling and gurgling, blithely prying

Waves, undulating waves, liquid, uneven, emulous waves

Toward that whirling current, laughing and buoyant

And then I am free, disconnected from the pain, disjointed, released from the struggle.  The storm has abated, and the woods are hushed, save for the lyrical repetition of a Song Thrush high above me.....

And the song thrush sings, repeatedly, All you need is love.....

All you need is love....

And I wake, again. This time I am silently, soundlessly screaming.....

So long ago

Was it in a dream?

Was it just a dream?

I know, yes I know

It seemed so very real

Seemed so real to me

John Lennon

#9 Dream

Shadow Kingdoms

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

I suppose I first became a carer when my children were born, though perhaps I always cared, in some ways, and, indeed, professionally.  I suppose I cared for my pupils when cycling up to the Valley of the Kings in 40 degrees with Elena Kimble on my cross bar (because she couldn’t ride a bike....) for example.....

 

So, I cared for my children, as one does, and I cared for my wife (who was caring for our children....) 

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

 

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

Then, everything went a bit quiet, as our children decided they preferred us not to care too much (so long as it wasn’t a financial consideration), until.....  My dad got ill, which, I find it difficult to credit, was some fifteen years ago now.  Being well organised, he showed me his filing cabinet, but said he couldn’t give me a date.... and so it goes.  He became ill, and was in and out of hospital. Being the geographically nearest of three sons it was natural that I would to and fro when I could, and take mum to see dad in hospital, or visit them both, or meet them somewhere if the going was good.  This is what one does.  I have no regrets – indeed, it was what I expected and partly, at least, why I moved and took work nearer to their home.

 

Then he died.  So, I did my best to sort out the arrangements, the finances, etc, and to look after mum.  Of course, I was not alone in this – don’t get me wrong – but I was there.

 

I visited mum as she coped - so well - with the bereavement; but dementia kicked in, gently, offside perhaps, and she was not able to manage.  So, she moved into care homes....  We sold the house, and, again, because I was there, I dealt with the business and we settled her down....

 

Or so we thought.

 

Nothing is for ever.  She had to change home – four times, I think, as they don’t all do what they say on the tin.  But she remained in our vicinity and I kept up the appearances.

 

Then, eventually, she folded her hand of cards, and was rowed across Lethe.  A serene passing, but not something my wife could understand, as she had already drifted into a form of dementia, the control of language wasting away, like a sandcastle washed by the tides.  As an anecdote, last Christmas, well over a year since we had cremated my mum, Amanda insisted on going to the care home on Christmas Day, only to find, not surprisingly, that we couldn’t get in because of Covid, but also, not surprisingly, because she wasn’t there....

 

And so I sorted out the death certs, and the banks and the probate and so on, and we moved on, finally, sort of, being released from Hertfordshire, and able to move to somewhere with enough space for a care plan for Amanda....

 

And here we are.  Amanda, my wife, not quite the wife I espoused, but then in a mirror world I guess she could question the pretence that I was the one she had selected all those years ago...  

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

 

And here we are.  

 

I care. 

 

And I care because that is what you do.... Till death do us part?  Who now remembers Else (Dandy Nichols)?  Who remembers Al Garnett?  And, inter ales, who might pick out of those memories any real affection or care in the relationship?  Silly old Moo!  

 

I think it was there.  Johnny Speight had a heart.

 

We all care, I hope, in our own ways.  Some have heavier crosses to bear, and some walk on water.

 

At sicksty-seven, Amanda is really quite well.  It’s just that her mind is plated up and the connections aren’t there anymore.  Chewing doesn’t always lead to swallowing.  Needing a wee, doesn’t always mean going to the toilet.  And so I - we - the whole team - are carers.  

 

Financially this is burdensome. We are currently spending around £2.5K a month to have other people attend to Amanda’s needs some 34 hours a week, though this does not quite mean we can abdicate all responsibility during those hours.  And then, there are still 134 hours a week when, while she may well be resting, she cannot be left alone.

 

Don’t get me wrong.  I am not lamenting.  Things could be far worse, and I know only too well that many others have been dealt a worse hand than me.  But, for those yet to experience the trials that may come with ageing and slow deterioration, here’s the picture.

 

You are pretty much on your own.  If you have a heart attack, or break a leg, or perhaps eat yourself into diabetes and kidney failure, the NHS (i.e. the tax payer) will pick up the bill.  For those whose misfortune is to lose their minds (i.e. to suffer from dementia) the responsibility remains with the next of kin, if there are any.

 

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

We have been fortunate.  And we are grateful.  We have received support from Queen Square in London and, since our move to Norfolk, from Chatterton House in King’s Lynn, but their resources are limited and stretched.  I cannot help but feel that behind these good people there is a government department energised in getting their agents to keep me alive to look after my wife, so the state doesn’t have to pick up the tab.

 

And in the meantime?  

 

Life goes on, all around.  We see disasters here and there on the TV.  We hear of Covid striking down able-bodied postman on our doorstep.  We live on.  We do our best to care, whether for our partners or our family, or for our friends who may have different problems....

 

I know this is selfish, and who cares?  But I now realise that my carefree life as a youth was a dream.  I had a full life of fun and extravagance and foolishness – and I enjoyed it.  Then I had children and learned to care.  And so it came about.....

And it hasn’t really changed much.  Dad.  Mum.  Amanda. Then girls still seeking true independence.  That seems to be what life is really all about. 

Care. 

 

Why should I question it?

 

Though....

 

 

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

Leisure

by

William Henry Davies

May you stay Forever Young.....