Spring cleaning in September?

It began simply. Over Sunday lunch my mum was trying to tell visiting family members just what she’d done the previous day. However, she just couldn’t bring to her mind the words necessary to describe exactly what she had achieved. Sitting beside her I felt deep sympathy because I too have reached an age when perfectly simple words do not bubble up when you most need them. My mum adopted her usual approach, in these circumstances, she pointed out of the window and said “I painted the thing below the kitchen window outside”. The ‘thing’ of course was the windowsill. She had spent a happy hour painting the mucky grey windowsill a blistering white colour. In fact, this cleanness she had appreciated so much she had decided to paint another object white as well. Sitting at the table, I felt quite sorry for my mum when the word ‘windowsill’ wouldn’t come up and wanted to rush in and provide it. But I have learnt that when you start to talk for the person, though you think you’re helping, you’re actually sabotaging them. Longer term they start to cease using this tricky language business and rely on you more and more for translation purposes. However, having struggled to describe the windowsill paint job the other painted object was even trickier. I felt genuine sympathy as I couldn’t remember the name of the thing she had painted either. So, I explained, she had painted white the cement inside the tyre wheel holding up the post with the clothes hanging above it in the garden. I had forgotten the word ‘rotary washing line’. Such is life at present! Just when I begin to feel sorry that life is so confusing and tricky for my mum I discover that life has snuck up behind me and is proving equally problematic for me. This amuses my mum who often tells me triumphantly, “You become like the people you live with, you know!” It doesn’t stop with language quirks. Last week I discovered my mum has started spring cleaning. I should’ve guessed when the week before she started painting the windowsill. But to be honest it was only when she cleaned all the shelves in the sunroom and all the material on a nearby trolley and the windows that I suddenly tweaked that this spring clean was a real thing she had begun. I remonstrated with her that this is the end of September, no time to start a spring clean, but she smiled and said confidently, “Better early than late!” Since then she has gone on to tackle the kitchen cupboards, the large corridor storage cupboard and all the drawers. It is exhausting just watching her busily hauling out, cleaning and rearranging stuff. By the fourth day I was caught up in her wake and I started cleaning the bathroom even removing shower doors to do it properly. It is a contagious thing this spring cleaning. The problem is once you start you suddenly realise how dirty everything has become. In comparison to the sparking clean surface you have wiped, the tiles above it appear yellow and grease stained. Once the walls have been bleached into shiny submission the skirting boards take on a disgusting complexion. And so, it goes on! Having cleaned some tiny aspect of the house with much effort we both have a ridiculous evening show and tell session. She shows me what she has done, pulling open cupboard doors to display ordered shelves neatly stacked and I point out my cleaning achievements to her. I suspect with time this will grow into routine mutual applause at both our efforts. At first, I was annoyed especially when my mum was totally exhausted and stiff with pain after each cleaning frenzy but now I can see why she is enjoying it. There is a deep satisfaction from seeing the visible improvement around one. We catch each other examining our own work already done with a slightly smug air. There is a momentum developing and I hesitate to say it but we seem to be getting slightly better and try to raise our game with each passing day. There is also the deep satisfaction that this spring clean has got to be the earliest we have ever attempted. For once we feel we have a head start on life, after all it is months and months until spring. The other joyous discoveries are that you don’t need to know the name of something to clean it and we are gradually finding things we thought we lost. “It’s time for a spring cleaning of your thoughts, it’s time to stop to just existing it’s time to start living.” Steve Maraboli

Words we need to hear from those who have been shot!

Over a hundred and ten years ago an ex-president of the US was shot in the chest by an assailant. Ten years ago, a young schoolgirl in Pakistan was shot in the head on a bus.  Just six years ago a UK female politician was shot twice in the head and once in the chest and then stabbed fifteen times before dying.  These events may span over a century but the victim’s voices were targeted deliberately in an attempt to silence and stop them.  

It seems fitting that we in response should not, for once, focus on their attackers and their motives but on these three individuals and what they have to say to us.  I feel their words are especially relevant today and worthy of reflection.  Perversely, those who have faced such violence and abuse, while treading a path of integrity, are also those from whom there is much to learn.

In 1912 four years after leaving the White House, Theodore Roosevelt was shot. He was in Milwaukee about to give a speech and had his notes in his thick coat pocket. His assailant used a revolver and the bullet lodged in Roosevelt’s chest wall.  However, its progress had been slowed by his thick coat pocket containing 50 pages of his speech. The amazing thing was that Roosevelt insisted on giving his talk, despite just being shot. In fact, that bullet remained in his body for the rest of his life as removing it was deemed too dangerous by the medical professionals of the day. You can read the entire talk he gave on the 14th of October 1912 as we still have the transcript of his words.  Despite the advice of his assistants Roosevelt tackled, among other things, a very important issue of particular relevance today. He felt that the level of public discourse had become contaminated and demeaned. He claimed vicious slander and abuse were being routinely thrown by political opponents against each other. With his chest aching from his gunshot wound, he pointed out that weak and vicious minds could be easily inflamed to acts of violence by the torrents of abuse in the media. He said,

“I disown and repudiate any man of my party who attacks with such false slander and abuse any opponent of any other party; I now wish to say seriously to all the daily newspapers, to the Republicans, the Democrat and socialist parties, that they cannot month in month out and year in year out make the kind of untruthful, of bitter, assault that they have made and not expect that brutal, violent natures or brutal violent characters, especially when the brutality is accompanied by a not very strong mind; they cannot expect that such natures will be unaffected by it.    

On the 9th of October 2012, the Taliban gunmen boarded a school bus in Pakistan and shot 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai in the head. They picked her out specifically as, from the age of eleven, she had been campaigning about the importance of education for all children.  Subsequently, she went on to address the UN and give an address that is especially relevant, since this year the Taliban has denied education to girls in Afghanistan. During her address, she pointed out,

“Today is the day of every woman, every boy, and every girl who raise their voice for their rights. There are hundreds of human rights activists and social workers who are not only speaking for their rights, but who are struggling to achieve their goals of peace, education and equality. Thousands of people have been killed by the terrorists and millions have been injured. I am just one of them. So, here I stand … here I stand, one girl among many. I speak not for myself, but so those without a voice can be heard. Those who have fought for their rights. Their right to live in peace. The right to be treated with dignity. The right to equality of opportunity. The right to be educated … I am here to speak up for the right of education for every child.”

On 16 June 2016, MP Jo Cox was on her way to meet her constituents at a routine surgery in Birstall, West Yorkshire, when an assailant shot her twice in the head and once in the chest with a modified hunting rifle.  He then stabbed her fifteen times outside a library on Market Street. Jo Cox, the mother of two young children, died of her injuries shortly after being admitted to hospital. Her assailant had cried out "This is for Britain", "keep Britain independent", and "Put Britain first" during the attack. The judge, at the following trial, said he had no doubt Cox had been murdered to advance political, racial, and ideological causes of violent white supremacism and exclusive nationalism most associated with Nazism and its modern forms.

Cox had previously worked for the aid groups Oxfam and Oxfam International and had been head of Oxfam International's humanitarian campaigns in 2007. She helped to publish 'For a Safer Tomorrow', which aimed at preventing the brutal targeting of civilians in war. From 2009 to 2011, Cox was director of the Maternal Mortality Campaign, and the following year, she worked for Save the Children, the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, and the White Ribbon Alliance for Safe Motherhood. This was the quality of individual that was taken from us so brutally by ignorance and hate.  In her maiden speech to parliament as an MP she spoke as follows,

“Our communities have been deeply enhanced by immigration, be it of Irish Catholics across the constituency or of Muslims from Gujarat in India or from Pakistan, principally from Kashmir. While we celebrate our diversity, what surprises me time and time again as I travel around the constituency is that we are far more united and have far more in common with each other than things that divide us.”

........................................................................................

... the rise of justice ensures the appearance of unity in the world, all who take on the formidable challenges of struggling for it have indeed captured the spirit of the age epitomized in the principle of oneness.

The Universal House of Justice

Reflections on Character fuelled by my P3 art piece

 My Mum is a custodian of epic proportions.  Things from decades even 50 years ago, of worth, are carefully stored.  In her garage, there are even the school exercise books of my children with their early writing, poetry and stories.  My grandfather’s old medals, certificates, and awards for shooting etc are all on shelves safe and sound.  My father’s letters of reference as a young teacher, his qualifications and his many letters are wrapped up with care.   The very first letter he sent to my mum over 70 years ago can still be retrieved and read.  The pages worn thin, with lines from folding and unfolding, show my father’s handwriting and thoughts.  On the wall opposite me is an oil painting by my grandmother which is around a hundred years old.  I’ve known this about my mum for years that she takes care of things and people with tenderness.   In her attic, above the garage, there is even a huge bag of my artwork from school.  It includes work from my primary school years P3 and P4.  Today, for the first time in almost 60 years I got a ladder and braved the spiders and their webs, to get the bag down.

As I took out one of my earliest pieces (see above) from P3 in primary school the art took me back.  Made of material stuck on a sort of canvas, I can actually remember making it.  It is indelibly branded in my memory. I did it in the room used for sewing and knitting.  That must sound odd to a modern audience but there was a time when very young primary students would spend hours mastering all kinds of stitches (both in sewing and knitting).  As our artwork required material we were making our creations in this room.  

The teacher was the wife of the headmaster a man who had suffered from polio as a child and limped badly.  His father had been a captain of a tea clipper (merchant sailing vessel of the 1860s) which shows how old I am! Anyway, Mrs Philips, his wife, mostly taught P1s those innocents to whom school must have seemed a bit of a shock.  In Northern Ireland you start school aged only 4 and if you happen to have a birthday in July you would be a 3-year-old who had just had turned 4 a matter of weeks previously. 

Mrs Philips was terrifying indeed.  She seemed permanently furious with all children.  I am not sure if she was born like that or had morphed into this type of enraged teacher with age but the end result was awful.  This particular picture, of mine I remember so well because while I made it one of her P1s was locked in the sewing box room adjacent to the class and roared and wept the entire period.  Someone whispered that he had wet himself with fear and as punishment had been locked in the storage cupboard.  The sound of his howls and his suffering was heart-breaking and being young myself the horror of it went deep.  Sometime during that endless class, I promised myself I would never become immune to the suffering of others.  As I stuck material with a shaking hand onto my board I pledged that if there was any other choice as an adult I would choose not to inflict pain such as this.  

In later years I could rationalize and tell myself that perhaps Mrs Philips had not always been like this.  Maybe, she had been a good mother and treated her own children well.  Indeed, it was possible she had taught primary school for years and did a tremendous job and this present version of herself was not characteristic of the real person she had been for most of her adult life.  I began to think of people like a graphic line with goodness on the y-axis and time on the x-axis, sometimes down and sometimes up.  Perhaps, Mrs Philips was in the abusive phase only at this point in her life?

Then, at university, I suddenly thought that a simple line is not adequate to reflect a person. Perhaps instead we should use an extra dimension, making an area.  What if a person’s character is proportional to the area under the line.  That would be much harder to determine but be more accurate because if you stayed loving for 40 of your 60 years then you would have a larger area under the curve.  It makes sense, doesn’t it?  If you had been a vicious person for 60 years you could end up with an area of roughly 120 but a loving person for that length of time would have a tremendous score of 600!  But, what if you are a hurtful teacher but a loving mother? 

Obviously, we need another dimension.  What if we added a three-dimensional approach to our diagram? This could represent all the other aspects of our lives, how we treat our parents, grandparents, neighbours, our dog etc.  Instead of an area, we would be looking at a volume where that line is rotated through 360 degrees in space. Here it is shown for a simple line rather than our jagged line but it gives the principle.  Our character is now represented not by a line or an area but by solid volume.

But though this might reflect much more about a person’s character it still fails to take into account all the interactions that happen to each of us as we pass through life.  You can meet an amazing person who inspires you to be better than you ever were before.  So perhaps 3-dimensional shapes that interact with others to substantially change would be closer to reality. Not a totally solid volume but a more malleable shape. 

Then, we have had occasions when religions have come along and changed not only individuals but whole civilizations.  It often seems that at the start of a religion dramatic positive changes happen to a whole populations' spirituality and then with time corruption can set in. Meaningless rituals and corrupt clergy can play too big a role.  Perhaps, then the character can be represented as malleable solids/volumes interacting with each other in a liquid (representing for example religion).  When religion is a dense, deep, inspirational contribution to life the molded volumes/solids all float higher on top.  When, religion becomes corrupt, materialistic, divisive, and fanatical the liquid becomes less dense and lighter without meaning or sense at which point the shapes sink into its depths far from the surface above.

Knowledge is praiseworthy when it is coupled with ethical conduct and virtuous character ...

Bahá'í writings

The Favourite Daughter!

I cannot remember when it was first said to me exactly, but I can remember the location. My dad and I were driving up to a forest walk near Ringsend high in the mountains with our black Labrador Monty in the back. 

He was singing as he drove and then he turned to me, out of the blue, and informed me that I was his favourite daughter! As a very young primary school pupil, this new status felt epic indeed. It was a title that had never been bestowed upon my other siblings so I felt exceptionally honoured. If my siblings resented my new title they never showed any evidence of this. Perhaps the baby of the family is normally treated with undue deference. They do seem to get away with much more than their older siblings. Parents know that this is their last offspring and generally place fewer demands on them than they did on their older children. 

I did not gloat over my siblings as my father’s favourite daughter. Instead, I held the privilege of that station close to my heart. As a child, there are so many things that hurt you, bullying, failures, slights, being ignored or self-doubt but this unexpected title acted as a mighty shelter to a rather supersensitive and easily bruised child.

It took me far too long to work out what my father’s words actually meant. I was his favourite daughter indeed but I was also his only daughter as I have only brothers.  No wonder my brothers did not resent it, they had worked that all out years ago. It makes me smile now when I remember how much my title of “favourite daughter” meant to me.

I am grateful for so many other things my dad taught me. He stressed the importance of honesty, having integrity, being free of prejudice and the importance of being really curious about everything.  I now devour books and love the sea as he did. I still respect so many of the principles he strove for his entire life.  I loved the way he let me wrestle with him on our landing at home and made me, a small child, believe that I could defeat a 15-stone grown man like him.  Okay, he played tricks too but even that I remember with fondness.  When we walked together to school, I wanted him to hold my hand really tightly and to tease me he would deliberately loosen his hold. In later years when I lived abroad, his weekly faxes were the high point of our family life. That distinctive hum of the fax machine and his handwriting appearance brought all of us together as a family to read his words which were full of good humour and insights. I will remain infinitely grateful that he always held my heart tenderly and lovingly. Perhaps knowing you are loved is the mightiest remedy of all.

Darnell strikes a low blow

‘Millions of women have bladder leaks let’s talk about it’, proclaimed a leaflet dropped through my mum’s letterbox this week. Strangely, despite being 89 my mum’s bladder control is phenomenal.  Better in fact, much better than mine.  Mine has a strange mind of its own.

I can walk 3 to 4 hours everywhere around this town and its surroundings with no problem. But as I near the street where we live, my bladder seems to get overexcited. “Steady on”, I tell it. I have noticed that in one’s 60s you begin to address organs and limbs and even other parts of your anatomy as if they are separate entities. I reckon it’s because they tend to play up in unexpected ways on the quality of life. This gives them a sort of character of their own. My knee for example will suddenly dislike steep or downwards slopes.  The pain generated feels as if the knee doesn’t like such slopes and this capricious nature gives it a particular identity of its own.  

My bladder also has a sense of humour. I used to think of it as being darn right malicious but I’ve grown to realise it just has an incredible sense of humour. This means at certain critical points when it is not possible or inappropriate to use a bathroom, at a wedding or funeral service or when being examined in a doctor’s surgery etc my bladder will signal a sudden need.  I call my bladder Darnell because in part I used to say to myself at such times “Darn it!”  The darn grew into a Darnell because something that could be both overexcited and yet so playfully humorous deserved a name.   

This process of addressing body parts continues apace with age until even inanimate objects seem to acquire a personality of their own. A dear aunt of mine comes down into her own kitchen every morning and asks “Where are you, kettle?” She has my sympathy I already have a strange ability to make inanimate objects disappear, such as keys phones etc but as yet I refuse to address them.  Give it another decade and I can imagine quite nasty conversations with these perverse objects which hide so effectively. 

Where was I? Oh yes, my bladder. When I am a good 10 minutes from my destination my bladder begins to sense relief is coming soon and gets over-excited. I usually sit on a small wall and pretend to tie my shoelaces telling my bladder firmly we are not home yet only close! On bad days I feel all my neighbours are noticing my predicament and on good days I don’t care. Given my mum’s camel-like ability to store water for long periods I was perplexed when she produced free coupons for discrete bladder leak pants and pads for me to get while doing the weekly shop. When I asked why she wanted them she shrugged and pointed out that they were free as if we would be fools not to use these freebies popped through our letterbox. The fact they were unneeded did not matter. Reluctantly I found myself in Tesco’s looking at shelf after shelf of bladder protection products trying to identify the brand that corresponded to the coupon in my hand. It was all too confusing so I asked a staff member who was stacking shelves nearby. She suggested ones that seemed to correspond to my coupon and I threw them into my shopping basket with all the other purchases. 

It was only when I reach the checkout and handed through all the groceries that I came upon the bladder protection stuff and remembered my voucher and held it up. The cashier said she wasn’t sure the voucher corresponded to that particular pack. She told me to wait a minute and shouted over to a colleague a few rows away, "Deidre, are these the bladder protection pads that match the coupons?” Deidre couldn’t make out the details of the coupon from that distance and told her many customers to wait while she came over to inspect first the coupon and then the pads. At least two queues of shoppers were now paying close attention to our goings-on. Deirdre frowned confused, “I’m not sure, I made a mistake earlier on and handed out the wrong pads to a customer. Let me call Dave the manager!” 

This whole affair was rapidly turning into a circus. Red-haired Dave arrived but seemed reluctant to tackle this incontinence problem. He explained to the cashiers, “Actually I’m due my break now, let me get Richard”. His voice boomed out “Richard, Richard!” towards a dark-haired man with greasy hair at the back of the store near the freezers. “Richard, can you come and sort out incontinence pads for this lady?” This particular lady wanted to hide under her trolley at this stage but there was no escape. I suggested to the cashier closest to me, “Never mind, leave it.” But she explained she’d already scanned in the pads.  Richard arrived looking worried and announced to both tellers in a concerned voice “I don’t know much about incontinence stuff”. I said “Look, it’s okay I don’t want it anymore.” The teller explained sulkily to the manager, “I’ve already entered the coupon and pads in the system we just need to find the right bladder protection thing it refers to". Fearing Richard would head off looking for more brands and wanting this whole affair over I repeated more firmly, “I don’t want it anymore, I just want to pay for the groceries.” Richard looked relieved and said “Sure, but we just need to remove the voucher and pads from the receipt.” He told a teller to give me the receipt and then said “You just need to go to customer services and they will remove the item and settle the balance.” He smiled relieved the whole thing was no longer a problem needing to be solved.  He accompanied me part of the way to the customer service desk near the door and then stopped and said in a loud voice, “Daphne, could you help this lady!”  

To be honest I wanted to hug this greasy Richard. By this stage, I felt sure he would mention bladder control to this part of the supermarket too.  After all, at this end, there was a whole other audience that didn’t know I was trying to get a product for a leaky bladder. Daphne was suitably helpful and quickly removed the item from my receipt and prepared to give me the money in exchange.  She whispered across the counter to me that many women had found it impossible to find the right product matching the coupon sent out.  That made me feel much better and I began to relax, I smiled and explained my mother was particularly keen on using all coupons that provided free goods.  Daphne, responded, “I know, if there is a coupon available my mum is exactly the same and gets it even if it is something she never eats!”  We both laughed and to be honest I was feeling much better as I awaited the change she was taking out of the till.  

But Darnell would have the last laugh, at that precise moment she struck and I had to take my change and rush into the nearby toilet beside the customer service.  When I emerged from the facility Daphne said nothing but there was a rueful expression on her face that had a small smirk to it.  I could be wrong, I know I am super sensitive, my mother points this out on a daily basis, but I have taken to avoiding Tesco’s for a while.   Even free coupons can cause humiliation to this soul!  

Lessons learned in a dark A&E

Heartbroken by the rows of trolleys packed back to back in corridors at 2 am in a darkened A&E department. Most seem to hold an elderly patient grey-faced and loosely bandaged in a twisted blanket embalming the old and sick. Heads hang off necks too weak to support them. The trolleys are bereft of pillows with cold and plastic surfaces easier to wipe down and clean. Their inhabitants, if strong enough, repeatedly plead for pillows to any passing staff member. Pillows are banned now along with much of the expected humanity one would hope to find in a place of healing. 

They usually only end up here as a last desperate resort. When really in pain beyond endurance or unable to draw breathe properly, the elderly, like my mum at 89, break their daily vow never to go to hospital, and 999 is dialled. Mum’s ambulance had raced from Limavady to Ballymoney to collect her as Coleraine Hospital had all their available ambulances parked outside A&E unable to offload patients.   My Mum was shaking uncontrollably for hours with severe back pain, vomiting, and breathing fast shallow gasps of air until we eventually called the emergency services. 

The ambulance arrived in response to the call in just over half an hour and the dispatcher stayed on the call talking to me while we waited.  A team of three determined ambulance personnel arrived with loads of equipment and quickly checked measured blood and heart measurements. They administered pain relief and insisted on taking my mum to the hospital. They said there were just too many worrisome medical indicators and we reluctantly agreed. They decided to go to Antrim hospital because of the queues outside Coleraine A&E.  But when we arrived outside Antrim A&E there was a five-hour wait in the car park. My poor 89-year-old mother gasped in agony at the hardness of the stretcher in the back of the ambulance. The wait seemed never-ending, those trolleys are not designed for comfort. During that long and unbearable night, I was struck that so many elderly and vulnerable patients are lying for hours and hours waiting for help in such conditions. Some die on these hard-cold trolleys outside hospitals and it seems to go on getting worse and worse instead of being improved. We wouldn’t let a badly injured dog howling in pain sit in the back of the van outside a vet’s so why do we expect the vulnerable, the ill, and stoic elderly to endure such conditions?  

Shame on this system of abuse. Is it due to a lack of funding, gross incompetence, a lack of staff, shortage of beds or equipment, staff burnout, or GPs hiding in the trenches while emergency services face all the flack?  I have no idea, what is wrong with the system. I cannot fault the kind ambulance staff or the over-pressured hospital staff but it is not acceptable. Too many are in corridors or in the back of ambulance vans suffering pain and whatever we are doing is not fixing it. On my worst days, I wonder how truly awful everything will have to get before we throw off this strange stupor and make even small changes to improve these conditions. I know there are amazing souls working their hearts out to try and make a difference it’s just I just feel we need to do more than just applaud them.

When we had eventually entered A&E mum’s trolley was wheeled into a corridor filled with other patients on trolleys end to end like carriages of a train awaiting a missing engine.  In the nearby ward, there is a shouting angry man and there seems to be three staff remonstrating with him.  I think they want him to wear an oxygen mask but he doesn’t want it and shouts violently and aggressively, he pulls it off and the staff tries to reconnect it.  Their arguments go on hour after hour and there is a tiny part of me rather ashamed to resent that this nosy intoxicated patient is draining all the efforts of so many staff.  After all, the softly moaning old lady two trolleys away may need more help but is not getting much attention.  Another patient in the ward is a young teenager who has tried to commit suicide and two staff try to convince her to stay rather than discharge herself immediately.  Her father arrives and joins the team pleading that the results from blood tests need to be checked before she can leave.  She is dressed and standing close to the ward door trying to push past them as they valiantly encourage her to stay.  This discussion lasted a good 40 minutes and was conducted with a lot of shouting.  It seems that, like in most places, those that have the energy to protest louder get a lot more attention.  Even here in this world of sickness and pain, it is the noisy demanding patients that drain valuable resources their way.  The very ill and old have little energy or will to make such demands and just endure the lack of attention, the noise, and the disturbance.  

I stayed by my Mum all night, beside her trolley, on a plastic chair kindly provided by a night nurse.  In the early hours of the morning, I could rub her sore back, and whisper answers to her questions.  In this frightening and foreign place, we had each other.  My Mum hates hospitals and on the rare occasions, she has had to go in refuses to eat or drink and seems to withdraw into herself not speaking to staff.  She can lose so much of her body weight in days.  When the morning shift arrived, I was told to leave the A&E immediately.  

Perhaps if the health system all had looked efficient and professional I would have accepted this better.  But in the chaos of so many patients and shortage of staff, I felt that I was being asked to desert a loved one to uncertain unsteady hands.  I was told they would do some tests on my Mum and I needed to leave but when they finished the tests they no longer allowed me to enter the A&E.  I remonstrated with staff to no avail and waited in a closed hospital café restless like a dog that has left its post.  A nice passing nurse, from a different department, let me back in with her card and I found mum had been moved to a different alcove, she seemed more withdrawn and silent.  The nurse in charge found me back in her A&E and was understandably annoyed and insisted I leave immediately.  I am ashamed to say after an hour or so outside I followed a passing cleaner into A&E who kindly let me in behind her.  This time the head nurse was angrier to find me back again beside my Mum.  I felt like a loyal dog that was being chased from the side of its owner but even embarrassment and shame could not stop me from wanting to be there with mum.  I felt sorry for the already short-staffed A&E department that I was being so unreasonable.  But another part of me could not condone deserting my Mum.  That seemed an even larger more unforgivable wrong.  

I have no answers.  I know so many died alone during this pandemic far from loved ones.  The privilege of those last moments of being there, where it is hardest to be, at the passing of a dear one was denied.  It feels inexcusable and we sense so many other mistakes were made. It is difficult to rectify them all or even reflect on the lessons that need to be learned.  So many hearts have been broken.  Perhaps one solution is to find our humanity again and ensure it is expressed in all the different settings that matter.  One of the important lifelines for those who are ill may well be loved ones.  Even some animals will not leave a wounded family member, surely such instincts should be supported by institutional systems rather than blocked or denied?  

In this depressing world of increasingly isolated living, that leaves so many alone and afraid we must rebuild the vital links with family, friends, and neighbours that fortify all of us.    There are times that instinctually you feel the direction of flow is in a negative direction and you need to consciously head the opposite way.  Perhaps rebuilding broken or neglected human bonds is the upstream movement that all of us need to focus on in these testing times.  

Mud holes, heroes and homes that nurture

My grandfather was a brave character. He enlisted in World War I and when he gave his age of 16 years the enlisting officer told him to walk around the table and come back and say he was 17.  He was then accepted into the Irish Fusiliers and subsequently shipped via Folkestone to France and the killing fields of World War 1.  When he returned to his village after the war had ended he hardly ever spoke of what he had seen.  Perhaps, the horror could not be shared with family and friends, it had to just be endured.  He seemed to regard the world differently as if fear of death had been erased on those blood-soaked muddy fields.

He was mentioned in dispatches and his photograph and the message from Churchill are on the wall here in my parent’s home.  He was shot in the arm and badly wounded but was indomitable and even volunteered to go out on extra missions from the trenches. This was no small thing as often the commanding officer would a handgun ready to shoot those who wouldn’t go over the top, such was the fear felt in those wretched mud holes.  On emerging from the shelter of the trench, too often, young soldiers were simply walking into deadly machine-gun fire as this article describes.

“On 24 June 1916 1500 British guns began a week-long bombardment to smash German defences on the Somme before the infantry attacked.  Many of the shells they fired, however, were duds and when the infantry advanced it soon became clear that the artillery bombardment had failed.  German troops emerged and gunned down advancing British infantry, killing 20,000 on 1 July alone.”

20,000 in one day, no wonder soldiers didn’t want to go over the top into a hail of bullets! In the battle of the Somme, the loss was even higher with 60,000 British troops dying in one day.  Several awards are given to those who show exceptional bravery on the battlefield in the face of the enemy.  I just had no idea how many there were   It turns out that being mentioned in dispatches is one of the lowest awards given and at the other end of the scale is the Victoria Cross (VC) which is one of the rarest.  This medal was introduced in January 1856 during the Crimean war and has only been awarded 1358 times. You need to do something pretty spectacular in order to get the VC,

“The VC is awarded for most conspicuous bravery, or some daring or preeminent act of valour or self sacrifice, or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy.”

That degree of bravery can get you killed. For example, a quarter of all the Victoria crosses given during World War I were posthumously awarded.  Any VCs medals made since 1914 have come from two antique Chinese bronze cannons (captured during Opium Wars in the 1840s). At present, there are only 85 medals left. However, don’t worry, this supply will not run out soon as only 15 VCs have been awarded in the last 76 years. 

The Victoria Cross (VC) is the highest and most prestigious award of the British honours system.  Quite recently one VC has been sold for half a million pounds. So, it is startling to learn that Captain Noel Chavasse won two Victory crosses during World War 1.  This is a unique achievement even among the elite of VC holders.   Even before being awarded his VC he had already been previously mentioned in dispatches and awarded the Military Cross. It is surely worth knowing more about this unusually brave man and just why he received these awards.

He was awarded a VC for his actions on 9 August 1916, at Guillemont, France when he attended to the wounded all day under heavy fire. The full citation was published on 24 October 1916 and reads

"Captain Noel Godfrey Chavasse, M.C., M.B., Royal Army Medical Corps.

For most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty.

During an attack he tended the wounded in the open all day, under heavy fire, frequently in view of the enemy. During the ensuing night he searched for wounded on the ground in front of the enemy's lines for four hours.

Next day he took one stretcher-bearer to the advanced trenches, and under heavy shell fire carried an urgent case for 500 yards into safety, being wounded in the side by a shell splinter during the journey. The same night he took up a party of twenty volunteers, rescued three wounded men from a shell hole twenty-five yards from the enemy's trench, buried the bodies of two officers, and collected many identity discs, although fired on by bombs and machine guns.

Altogether he saved the lives of some twenty badly wounded men, besides the ordinary cases which passed through his hands. His courage and self-sacrifice, were beyond praise."

 Chavasse's second award was made during the period 31 July to 2 August 1917, at Wieltje, Belgium; the full citation was published on 14 September 1917

"His Majesty the KING has been graciously pleased to approve of the award of a Bar to the Victoria Cross to Capt. Noel Godfrey Chavasse, V.C., M.C., late R.A.M.C.,

For most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty when in action.

Though severely wounded early in the action whilst carrying a wounded soldier to the Dressing Station, Capt. Chavasse refused to leave his post, and for two days not only continued to perform his duties, but in addition went out repeatedly under heavy fire to search for and attend to the wounded who were lying out.

During these searches, although practically without food during this period, worn with fatigue and faint with his wound, he assisted to carry in a number of badly wounded men, over heavy and difficult ground.

By his extraordinary energy and inspiring example, he was instrumental in rescuing many wounded who would have otherwise undoubtedly succumbed under the bad weather conditions.

This devoted and gallant officer subsequently died of his wounds."

In another version of the same incident, it was recounted that Noel Chavasse received a blow to the head, from an exploding shell, fracturing his skull. He took off his helmet and bandaged his own wound and then carried on working as a medic treating the wounded.  He went on to experience two more head injuries as a result of additional shelling but continued to work arranging for other severely wounded soldiers to be stretchered to safer areas. Meanwhile, he continued to search for wounded soldiers still on the battlefield.  On the 2nd of August 1917 he was injured in the stomach by a Shell blast and died on the 4th of August aged only 32.

He is buried in Belgium in the military cemetery and is the only headstone in the world to have two VCs engraved on it.  

He did not have a promising beginning. Both he and his twin brother were so small and weak at birth that their baptism had to be delayed.  They were very ill with typhoid in their first year of life and as adults were below average height. Noel’s school report of 1897 was not complimentary and refers to him as an ‘Imp of mischief’.  

There were another pair of twins in the family May and Marjorie who were born in 1886 would live for over 100 years old.  Apart from these two sets of twins, there were three other siblings.  When Noel’s father, Francis James Chavasse, was a young man he felt he would never even find a wife because of his hunched back, bad stammer and state of poverty. He went on to marry have seven children and became an eloquent Anglican priest. Later, when the position of Bishop was suggested Francis wrote to a friend doubtfully, "A man with my feeble body, average ability and temperament can hardly be intended by God for such a diocese”.   Despite his own misgivings he was appointed as Bishop and served the community well. The family would start each morning with prayers in the chapel and although a fairly remote father Francis had a clear vision of how a home should shape a child’s character.  He wrote,

“Every moment which tend to make the home more bright, more orderly more clean and more healthy, above all more full of love … helps to ennoble the privilege and dignity of bringing up little children … and is the greatest factor in the formation of the character“

In fact, his wife must have contributed even more greatly to the atmosphere within the home.  It is recorded that,

“The kindness of the whole Chavasse family soon became legendary even among their servants who were taught to read and write by their mother.”

Noel himself described his parent’s home succinctly.

“There was an atmosphere of calmness and integrity in the house, which we took as a matter of course!”

Noel as a teenager provided sporting opportunities, Bible classes and singing lessons for boys in an Industrial School in one of the poorest areas of Liverpool.  Even when he subsequently went to Oxford University to study medicine Noel kept up his connection with the school giving up his vacations to help.  Noel’s attendance at Trinity College Oxford involved mixing almost exclusively with boys of a public school background but he clearly had the capacity to relate to people of quite different backgrounds.  As a qualified doctor, he was travelling in a poor area near the docks and saw a disabled child crawling on the road.  Noel stopped and gave the child his card and arranged for the boy to be treated by him at the Royal Southern Hospital.  After nine operations the boy was able to walk upright and went on to have a full and active life in the Merchant navy.   Both Noel and his twin represented Great Britain in the Olympic Games in the 400 metres.  When one reads of such a wonderful character from such a family the loss of such a life becomes even more painful.  That is what war does it steals from the world often the very best of us.

PS other siblings of Noel,

Aidan Chavasse served in World War 1 and died in Flanders 1917. “His Brigade-Major (Bernard Paget) considered him to be the bravest man in the Brigade due to his willingness to volunteer for dangerous missions. It was during such a mission to inspect German wire near Sanctuary Wood in July 1917 that he was wounded in the thigh. He sent his patrol back to safety and took cover in a shell hole. Subsequent attempts to find him, including three separate attempts by his brother, were unsuccessful and Aidan was never found.”

Chrstopher Chavasse, Noel’s twin became Bishop of Rochester, was awarded OBE and the Military Cross

Francis Chavasse, was awarded the Military Cross, and became an eye specialist

Marjorie and May (Noel’s twin sisters) volunteered at a convalescent hospital for soldiers.  Later May would travel out to France to work at a fully equipped mobile hospital during World War 1 and was mentioned in dispatches.  She qualified as a nurse and also served in WW2 as part of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Service.  Marjorie worked for Barnardo’s for most of her life.

“Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.”

Baháʼu'lláh