Breaks, Drunks and a distinct lack of tea

No one warns you about falling. Yet so many do exactly that. In fact for the elderly a fall is the most common entry into the hospital/residence home system. It is a sad fact of life that almost any of us who have a severely broken leg will struggle to cope. When you cannot reach things, make your own food and suddenly become dependent on others, it feels like being a helpless child again. All your plans including work of any sort is shelved. Usual routines like housework, coffee breaks, visits to friends become challenging. But however difficult for those who are middle-aged and younger, it is as nothing compare to that facing the elderly in the same situation.

Their responsibilities may well include being a caregiver for an elderly partner. Suddenly, what was a 24-hour job becomes untenable. Often a fracture in an elderly person will not just lead to their hospitalisation but also institutionalisation of the remaining partner. Added to the anguish of pain and medical procedure is is the realisation that the closest person to you has been left vulnerable and taken from your home by the social services. Confusion reigns as the elderly quickly lose a sense of where/who they are when moved out of familiar surroundings and company. Recovery from major injury can take months not weeks and always there is a very real possibility that there may be no recovery. 

In many places hospital care has been centralised. This means people are often taken far from their family, friends and neighbours.  When they most need support and care, that lifeline is severed by the long distances travelled to receive medical procedures.  Waiting time in casualties the world over are now in excess of three/four hours.  Even after you see a doctor no one tells you what has happened.  For fear of litigation or lack of staff, communication is minimised.  So the elderly are left in beds confused as to what injury they have sustained.  Not sure what will happen next and completely disorientated by this new and frightening environment.  Trained not to complain they endure in silence while others shout for attention.  I have visited relatives who have been in hospital for days and they still have not been told what their injury is. Even basic things like fluid intake are neglected.  There used to be a lovely little lady in Coleraine hospital who would come around casualty and hand out tea and toast.  In the chaos and confusion her smiling face offering hot tea and warm toast was like an angel in a war zone.  

Nowadays, she has been replaced by on duty police officers to restrain the many drunks who attack staff and other patients.  These officers are really needed. I had a young student friend, John who was in casualty for a broken arm.  While awaiting treatment for this injury a violent drunk broke his nose as well.  I must confess to losing my sympathy for such violent individuals.  It feels as if they have decided to get drunk and in that state injured themselves.  Then, when brought to casualties up and down the country they wreck havoc on staff trying to treat them and even other patients sharing the waiting room.  It tests compassion indeed when the elderly have to share such spaces with these drunks.  The injured elderly are particularly vulnerable to abuse and know it.

Regained mobility is not taken for granted by the elderly. They know like health, mobility can be gone in the crack of a bone. Who you are and how you think about yourself all can change in a single second.  The only aspiration becomes regaining what you once had and that seems an epic battle fraught with setbacks and unexpected complications. When they have wrestled and fought to regain normality they cannot easily forget this torment.

So understand when the elderly want to tell you the details of their illness even after they recover. It is a form of post-traumatic stress and having fought on a battlefield filled with pain, sleepless nights and vulnerability they need to retell their suffering. Talk through the trauma and understand their life’s journey has changed. All can play an important role in helping them, take ownership of themselves and their path in this world by just listening. With each retelling the experience becomes more of their past and less of the present. They gain perspective on what has happened to them. Your listening ear provides a recognition of what they have been through. But don't be afraid after listening, to move the conversation on. Your insights and interests are exactly the world of outside hospitals they need to rediscover. It's just for many the hospital corridors have been long and agony filled.  It takes time for them to mentally navigate and find their exit. 

Parallel universes exist in this earth. There is the life inside hospital and life outside. Two completely different worlds.

Spiritual illness, assaulting us all

It has been lovely having visitors in Malta. The island worked its magic and my mum’s lung infection healed in three days after having had three weeks of suffering in Northern Ireland. My mum and aunt are regular visitors, popping over in spring and autumn for usually three weeks. They are both over 80 full of energy and good humour. As we live in Sliema, they have instigated their own SAS style training. One day they will walk to George’s beach by far their favourite direction and the next day they head off to the Point and then around to the direction of the Black Pearl. They are creatures of habit and only stop twice. Once for ice cream and once for a large cappuccino. Walking from 11:30 AM to 4:30 PM is made more sustainable by regular bench stops and all their endeavours are fuelled by constant chat. You’d think after eighty years these two sisters would've said everything they had to say before now but even late at night they lie in bed laughing and reminiscing. Four years of such visits have become a lovely routine of life and they are touched by the huge ice creams served by the Maltese. “I like lots of ice cream”, my mum informs them. Huge towers of ice cream are obligingly constructed by easy-going shop assistants. There must be something about these two smiling ladies that brings out the goodness in most folk. But not all!!

This year their visit was somewhat marred by unexpected events and I feel duty-bound to expose them because I fear they are happening to other elderly in our communities. When walking at Saint Julians up the pavement from MacDonald's a young tall English man shouted, “Excuse me, Excuse me!” and pushed his way past as he raced through the crowds. My mother was shoved into a nearby wall and the damage to her forearm was considerable. 

The Englishman didn't stop to see the fruits of his rudeness and was already pushing others ahead shouting “Excuse me, Excuse me!”  I’d like to think that if he’d seen the painful results of his lack of manners, he would've been horrified at what his thoughtless action caused . I'd like to think that, but I'm not sure. 

Later in the week I took my mum and aunt to Gozo and they loved the bus tour of the island. It was the return journey that caused challenges. Waiting for the 222 bus from the ferry to Sliema, a crowd of young people raced up and down the pavement next to the bus stop. They obviously felt that with the odd car/taxi parking in spots they would be better positioned to get a seat on the bus by being in the right place. So herds of people ran from to one spot  to another only to move again when the cars/taxis cleared. Knowing my aunt and mother would not be able to stand for the whole bus journey I began to feel a frisson of fear.  They suddenly seemed so much more vulnerable in this frenzy of activity. The bus came and the driver stopped almost in front of my aunt and mother. I was relieved to see my mother enter safely but within a few seconds a group of people surrounded us and with much pushing and shoving fought to get on the bus. My poor aunt was practically lifted off her feet by the press of the mob. Despite my best efforts to shield her, the momentum of the crowd pushing to get on board could not be held back. Shouts from the bus driver had no effect and my fear grew. My aunt was carried along by the crowd and was terrified and in some pain. The pressure only eased when two dozen of the most anxious to board had pushed past and grabbed seats. When I was able to follow her on board, all the seats including those for the elderly were taken. I found my mother seated and the seat beside her occupied by a large German man. Approaching him I asked if my aunt could sit beside my mother. He told me he was saving the seat for his wife who had yet to get on board the bus. I remonstrated with him that due to my aunt’s age she could not afford to stand all the way to Sliema. He replied in a determined fashion that his wife was 65 years old. I found myself in an awkward conversation with a complete stranger where I pointed out that an eighty-year-old should have priority over 60-year-olds. Reluctantly, he rose to allow my aunt to sit but sullenly and with great sighs of annoyance. 

I know it is probably just me but do general everyday manners seem in short supply these days? Have the elderly among us become like canaries in the mine flagging up the toxic nature of society’s selfishness? I'm not sure where I'm going with this but surely society makes rules to protect the vulnerable, the young, the sick and the elderly. It does so because our civilisation is built on such principles. They are the bedrock of our society and speak of the priorities that should be in place for all members of the community. Bad manners undermine that foundation. The insidious selfishness that fuel such behaviour has to be tackled. All of us have to set ourselves higher standards. Acts of kindness fuel the same in others but harmful selfishness can also become endemic to a society. We must guard against such infection as it is a sign of spiritual illness and influences all who are its victims even those who observe it and come to see it as normal.

It reminded me of two seemingly unrelated incidents.  I taught animal management for three years in a College in Northern Ireland.  One lesson was on animal abuse and we covered the new legislation that if for example a dog is admitted to a vet's with clear signs of abuse there is an obligation for the vet to inform social services immediately.  Why?  Because there is now a known link between cruelty to dogs in a home and cruelty to children in the same home.  The person who mistreats a pet will usually have no qualms about abusing children under their roof.  In fact the link is so strong that authorities are using the treatment of pets to flag up those danger zones for children.  

My second point was a neighbour of ours in Rhodes, Greece.  He was an architect and he called at our door one evening as his mother-in-law had badly injured herself and he had decided to move her into his flat until she recovered.  Unfortunately, they lived on the third floor and there was no lifts. He had called because he wondered if one of my sons could help him lift her up the stairs.  My son Lewis, was delighted to oblige and only complained that their staircase steps were too small for his feet.  It is hard having size 12 feet and being over six foot when you are only 14.  This architect was involved in the tree planting association on the island and also would feed all the cats in the neighbourhood on a daily basis.  My father teased him one day, watching him put out piles of dried cat food at the street corner while cats ran in great numbers from all directions.  My father shouted from the balcony, "Well, you have earned your place in heaven!"  To which the elderly architect replied with a smile, "perhaps I will be allowed in cat heaven anyway". The thing which shouldn't have surprised us was that the person who cared about the environment, cared about his family and about the animals in his neighbourhood also was kind to his neighbours.  

These things have ever been linked.  Just as our cruelty radiates out to all in our vicinity (including our pets) so too our inherent kindness illumines those we come into contact with.  May you be that light for those around you.

"Words must be supported by deeds, for deeds are the true test of words."

Baha'i Writings

San Anton Palace and the Romonov connection

Queen Maria of Romania came to Malta aged 12 with her parents. 

Her father was Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh and son of Queen Victoria. Her mother was the the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrova of Russia daughter of Czar Alexander II. The young Marie was a granddaughter of Queen Victoria and was expected to marry into royalty. She spent her teenage years living in the San Anton Palace. 

The Russian Orthodox chapel within the palace was constructed for her Russian Orthodox mother and has been recently beautifully renovated.  

Within three decades Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrova would live to see huge numbers of her relatives executed including her nephew, Tsar Nicholas II his wife and his five children.  

For the family of Queen Marie their stay in Malta was the quiet before the storm of the first World War. Marie was becoming a young lady whose hand in marriage was sought by many.

Marie

She had several proposals of marriage including one from her cousin George who would be the future king of England.  These were turned down by her family.  In 1892 she was chosen as the future wife of Crown Prince Ferdinand of Romania, the heir apparent of King Carol I. Her life as Queen of Romania would be a challenging one and she had her share of suffering.  Apart from political intrigues and war she suffered the loss of her youngest son who died aged 3 in 1916.

3 year old son Prince Mircea

Later in 1924 she would return to those gardens and a tree was planted in her name and can be found there still. Her time in Malta was one of the happiest of her life and in her autobiography it became clear how important this happy period of her life was to her.

For the Baha’i community of Malta, which has existed on the island for over 60 years, Queen Maria's connections with the island has another significance. Beginning in 1867 in Adrianople and continuing later in ‘Akká, Bahá’u’lláh (Founder of the Baha'i Faith) wrote to the kings and rulers of the world, including Emperor Napoleon III, Queen Victoria, Kaiser Wilhelm I, Tsar Alexander II, Emperor Franz Joseph, Pope Pius IX, Sultan Abdul-Aziz, and the Iranian ruler, Nasiri'd-Din Shah. In these letters, Bahá’u’lláh openly proclaimed His station as a Messenger of God. He urged the leaders to pursue justice and disarmament and exhorted them to band together into a commonwealth of nations, warning them of the dire consequences should they fail to establish peace. 

Two of these recipients were Queen Victoria and Czar Alexander II of Russia. During Baha’u’llah’s long imprisonment and exile under the Ottoman Empire he was offered assistance,at different times, from both the Russian and British governments.  Although he refused to avail himself of their offers of protection it is significant to note that Queen Marie, who was a grandchild of both Victoria and Alexander II, spoke movingly of the Baha’i Faith and what it meant to her. The acceptance of Bahá'u'lláh's station by this Queen - made her the first crowned head to embrace the Baha'i Faith.

“The Baha’i teaching brings peace and understanding. It is like a wide embrace gathering together all those who have long searched for words of hope. It accepts all great Prophets gone before, it destroys no other creeds and leaves all doors open. Saddened by the continual strife amongst believers of many confessions and wearied of their intolerance towards each other, I discovered in the Baha’i teaching the real spirit of Christ so often denied and misunderstood: Unity instead of strife, Hope instead of condemnation, Love instead of hate, and a great reassurance for all men. “– Queen Marie

Squeezing oranges - undiluted self, pips and all

I write, I pour out my angst,

My guts, my blood.

This is no way to earn a living

It is an opening of the heart

For no reason, but passion.

The need to create,

To let the energy flow.

Not because the world thinks it's worth a jot.

But because such outpouring

is beyond its creator’s control.

I do not ask myself why be creative?

I ask myself, how can I stop?

So judge not, if crap flows.

Or at times worthy insights emerge.

The need to pour

Oneself undiluted, 

good or bad

Is a call to be alive

All must answer in their own way.

Burnishing the Soul, polishing the wood

The conversation around the table ebbs and flows. From laughter to remembered incidents designed to entertain. All ages are represented from grandchildren to grandparents. The food is good. The room massive and ornately decorated as if from an earlier period. Candelabra, fluted glasses on intricate embroidered white runners contrast with the dark shiny walnut wooden table underneath. Sitting 16 people easily, the large dining room set gleams in its splendour. Around the huge room sits antique furniture polished carefully and positioned precisely. The walls are covered in old oil paintings of ancestors who made good. Each piece has a place in the memories of all here. This is a great grandmother's rosewood writing table, over here a display cabinet of delph displayed on six deep shelves behind glistening glass. Everywhere mementos remembered from childhood. Voices pointing out where it used to sit older houses. As the courses come to the table one senses how much care is lavished on these pieces of history. How polishing has to be undertaken regularly, pads positioned to absorb the unnecessary bangs from careless users. The wood of the huge table shines unprotected in its beauty, but one feels those who love it, wince with every glass or plate clicked down with not enough elegance and respect. 

I have nothing of value in my home, but I recall my mother's table in the dining room. She would cover it its wooden top with thick blankets of woollen protection. Designed to cushion all serving dishes it hugged the wood in tight protective cotton wool. This was but the first layer. Like astronaut's suits my mother believed in layers of defence. The second layer was a specially designed thick rubber tablecloth and then the third layer was the intricate pretty tablecloth purely for appearance. But even with this bullet-proofing nothing was placed on her table unless a solid wooden platter was anchored beneath it. On some some rare occasions she would peel back the layers of cover to show the immaculate table top free of every blemish and glorious as the day it was created decades before. Then gauging my impressed reaction she would tuck the tanned wood safely back into its bed. 

I recognise in some faces around a table my mother’s concern. Yes, you want to show the piece to its best. Allow it’s living dark flesh coloured wood to glow but in doing so you have opened it to rape and pillage. One miss-placed coffee cup could damage that perfection. These faces show both their pride in this epic table combined with a fearful expectancy of risk. Fathers must feel the same when their daughter emerges out of adolescence into fresh stunning beauty. Suddenly, they glow in the evidence of their bloodline’s perfections but alongside looms the fear of predators. Why does beauty always instil such a powerful mixture of awe and fear? As people drink other emotions surface. Being teetotal, I am shocked at how quickly alcohol removes the veils of civilisation. Conversation descends into politics, corruption and bare breasts? Alongside this curious diminishing of quality other issues make their disturbing appearance. 

Resentments over historical family slights, possessions that were inherited are searched for like lost children. How could she have ended up with my aunt’s glorious sideboard? As more alcohol flows unhappiness and resentment are stirred up. There is love here and you sense it but also so much pain and disappointment. Strangely, it is the younger generation who seem to demonstrate the most damage. They sit as if among museum pieces with which they have little affinity. Aware that eventually they too will become custodians of all this opulence but resentful of the weight of expectations. All these things seem like anchors to their future keeping them here, marooned among the family history. Glorious, expensive, filled with ancient memories of greatness and position but not of them. They do not seem content in this landscape. Their spirits flutter to escape and are not reassured by the quality around them but wearied by it all. There is a depressing unhappiness that leeches from all that alcohol seems to fuel. I suspect we all hug our pains away from prying eyes.   Alcohol loosens our grasp. All this pain and resentment circles the once happy group and one wishes like table tops people could be wrapped and protected from harm and hurt. Remain  unblemished and pristine. But I fear our purpose here is to learn from the ring-stains of life. To be tested by the careless and thoughtless and yet to use it all to find quality within. To polish and restore what may have been damaged and burnish our souls with worthwhile deeds.

warmth and freckles

The sun massages muscles 

easing tightness

The very bones begin to melt

Losing the rigidity of stress

Body sinks into the oblivion of heat

Nothing here to fear

Relaxes out of its foetal position

Stretches out limbs to seek the sun

Light hugs the contours of the skin

Which tingles in delight

At all this attention and exposure

After a winter hidden

Beneath the woollens and layers

Within one week the cosiness of socks

Have become an obscene encumbrance

It seems to happen so suddenly

This winter summer transition 

in two more weeks I shall hunt out the shade

But now in this excitement of sudden summer heat

I soak up the rays that cook the skin

and generate both warmth and freckles 

in equal abundance.

Sticks and Stones - Sister Bernadette learning to float

Sister Bernadette held her coffee cup between her cold hands and heard the young woman at the table beside her scolding her six or seven-year-old son. 

“Eat it, eat it! If you don't! I'm warning you! Eat it, eat!”

The child was playing with the free toy inside McDonald's child’s meal pack mesmerised by the colours and shapes of the toy still wrapped in plastic. She berates across the table.

“Next time you ask for anything you’ll get nothing. I'm warning you!”

He says nothing but fidgets in his chair. His mother's voice rises in anger.

“I told you not to order the chicken, you never eat chicken, but that's what you wanted. Well, I'm sick of you wasting things. I work hard for my money and you don't care, you just don't care. Eat! Eat!”

It seems as if the Saturday morning treat is going down hill rapidly. The boy idly picks up a chip and chews it.  This seems to enrage the mother, who shouts,

“Don't just eat the chips, you have to eat the chicken. It's a complete waste to have the whole meal and not eat the chicken. You've done this before. I'm not having it, eat eat!”

Sister Bernadette lowers her head and prays. For what, she's not sure, but a more peaceful environment for the mother and son would do. The boy has not spoken since they arrived at the table in the cafe. His excitement in opening the box had been tangible as he searched for the toy inside. But now Bernadette notices a nervous twitch around one of his eyes. Her middle-aged cousin Henry had the same twitch. It was no wonder, Henry’s life had been difficult, full of trauma. Watching the young boy’s nervous mannerism made her want to weep.  Despite her prayers there is tension building and sister Bernadette feels her futility in the face of it. Unable to stop the storm reaching a crescendo.  

“Okay, that’s it! If you're not eating the chicken, you're not having chips!” 

She picked up the McDonald's children's box and threw it in the bin. 

“I warned you, I told you before, didn’t I? Why can't you listen. Why do you ruin everything. Even this is spoiled! Are you happy now?”

She is tidying away the trays slamming them down while clearing their table. The boy is holding tight to this free toy held below the table, out of sight, as the mother grabs his other arm and hauls him to his feet.

“Come on, that's all finished let's go!”

Her anger has a justified, righteous ring to it. As if she is enjoying being angry and making a clear point to the silent twitching child. As they pass Bernadette’s table, she wants to reach out a hand and ask the mother. 

“Who are you really angry at?” In gentle curious tones. But that would be unforgivable. 

The mother and son have reached the front glass doors are exiting when the mother spots the toy still wrapped in its plastic wrapping unopened in his hand. She snatches it from him and throws it in the bin at the front door.  He howls his distress and tries to reach in the bin to retrieve the toy. She pulls him away from the bin and suddenly both are gone. This righteous angry young mother and her thin tiny nervous screaming son.

Bernadette's coffee has become tasteless and cold. The cafe feels contaminated by the toxic argument. When a novice Bernadette had hated the arguments in the convent. They had made her stomach churn and her constant indigestion that meant she seem to live anti-indigestion tablets for months. In those early frightening months it had been a red haired novice with a furious temper who seem to be at the root of all disputes. She seemed ready to explode over the slightest word, perceived slight, inconvenience, shortage of biscuits or even an accidental nudge on the way to the chapel. Bernadette remember going through a long mass with the red haired girl glaring angrily across the cold chapel. The unpleasantness lasted two days and nights Bernadette had practically overdosed on anti-acid tablets during the long weekend. Such was her dosage the elderly nun on nursing duty called her in to question her.

“Do you have problems with the food here?”

She had asked when looking through the dispensing records. She was in her 60s and was called Gerty. The face was wreathed in smile lines and she spoke with a heavy Yorkshire accent. Bernadette had admitted.

“I've always had a sensitive stomach, if I get upset about anything my stomach seems to suffer.”

Gerty smiled,

“We will have to find a solution to that, won’t we?

Bernadette had lifted her face at that benevolent tone and asked somewhat tearfully, 

“But how sister?”

“Well, I suggest we start with prayer, shall we?”

Gerty rose and beckoned Bernadette to follow her. They went down a long corridor to the empty chapel. In an alcove the two kneeled in silence. At first, Bernadette felt disappointed. She had begun to hope Gerty had sensed the reason for her distress, the red haired girl’s toxic presence. Or had a treatment apart from the constant diet of anti-acids that she consumed all her life. But no, here they knelt in the darkened chapel, back where Bernadette had started the morning with her adversary’s toxic glare.

But as she peeped at Gerty kneeling beside her, upright, habit folded neatly, hands covered, with her shoulders relaxed, she was shocked at the intense expression on the elderly nun’s face as she prayed. She was so obviously asking for divine help that Bernadette shut her own eyes and copied. It seemed the very least she could do, given all this effort on Gerty’s part. After a long silence Bernadette had another sidelong look at the elderly nun beside her. The expression had changed.  It was now a listening face. As if somewhere in the chapel a voice had begun to speak and Gerty was taking in everything said.

Bernadette closed her eyes and tried to listen too. Not to ask, pray or demand but wait for the answer to come. The quietness stretched out and a stillness settled within her. She felt the hardwood under her knees, the smell of the candles in the corner, she fancied she could see their flickers through her closed eyelids. Then, the silence of the empty chapel seem to embrace her. With her hands wrapped in her habit the coldness of the chapel did not make her restless for the sunny cloisters. Instead a thought bubbled up.  

“A servant is drawn unto Me in prayer until I answer him; and when I have answered him, I become the ear wherewith he heareth….”. 

Bernadette breathed slow and deep, feeling her heart rate change. A memory of the stream near their home came to her. She could see the boulders, the grass verge, hear the bubbling sound of water swirl round the stones. The river racing down the slopes of the mountain, clear, cool and fresh. As a child she love to hold her head above its surface and observe the pebbles below the water. They were shiny and coloured and so beautiful. Sometimes she would reach down and stir at the bottom of the stream so that stones and mud mixed and the water would become brown and mysterious. Then she would lie and watch as gradually the constant trickling stream would clear away the debris until again crystal clear pebbles appeared magnified in all their beauty. Returned to an ethereal beauty that could not be destroyed by intent nor time. In the chapel Bernadette breathed in deeply and opened her eyes. This time it was sister Gerty who was watching her and smiling.

“You look much better! “She queried, “But are you?”

Bernadette felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. But not at all sure how.

“Thank you, sister, I do!”

As they left the small chapel Bernadette felt as if she'd learnt a lesson of value and for the first time found herself looking forward to all the other valuable lessons ahead. When she’d finished the novice training, she was given a new name, sister Bernadette. At first, she been in a state of disbelief at being given this of all names! She had admired the Saint of course. But it had to be a horrible coincidence that it was also the name of that angry red haired novice who had tormented her throughout her training. Then, she learnt to let that go too and could laugh at the coincidences that come along in life. Let it all go.  Her acidic stomach, hurt feelings, discomfort, breath deep and let it go. Sometimes you had to laugh at the journey we are all on and be patient until the water clears and translucency returns, which it will!