Being a carer: 01 (The ex-teacher) (Paris)

 

I was WhatsApp messaging with my nephew, asking how his mother had been coping with widowhood since my brother’s death a year ago.

    He said she couldn’t be happier because it’s very stressful being a carer (my brother had cancer).  She would often wonder how she’d be able to tell if he had died or was just sound asleep.

    This reminds me of my time in the mid-90s caring for my Hong Kong-born ex-teacher (from my SOAS / School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London days back in 1978).

    I’d taken it upon myself to look after her in 1995 when I found out she had been on a diet of tinned food.  She was born in 1912, so she was 83 at the time.

    I’d buy fresh food on Saturday and cook up loads for freezing, for her to eat throughout the week.  I’d cut her hair and do her garden.  Basically kept her company and then ran (yes, ran) to the station to catch the last train home.

    She expressed an interest in going to Paris for two Buddhist art exhibitions, so I went with her, organising everything.  (A lot of work, as there was no internet at the time.)  

    I shared a twin room with her in Paris.

    Her snoring was loud but I could put up with that — I’d just stay up and read.

    What was frightening, however, was her frequent apnoea.

    She’d be snoring away, then suddenly the noise would stop, and I’d be thinking, “Oh my goodness, what is happening here?”

    I’d hold my breath during the silence, sitting bolt upright, looking across at her from my bed, wondering if she might’ve died in her sleep, and what I was supposed to do.

    Then she’d let out a long and loud breath, and I’d do the same in relief.

    This would happen almost every hour between 9pm when she went to bed and 7am when she got up.

    It was quite scary.

(Paris, 1996)