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of himself – how on earth could such a frail old
boy possibly even walk to the gate, let alone leap over it?
Case dismissed.
Pop was guilty as hell, of course. The
feud between him and his neighbour had been going on for years, and
irascible old Pop, having toiled the land virtually every day of his
octogenarian life was the toughest old boot in the village.
Everyone in my father’s
family is long-lived. Pop continued to do a full day’s work until he was
96 – when he decided he’d had enough and went to bed, finally leaving us a
few weeks later. The life of Pop is a much-loved family tale and one from
which I have derived comfort – if Pop lived that long then it’s obvious Dad
will too.
Until the other day, this
had lulled me into a false sense of security. My dear, wonderful father
showed all the signs of following in Pop’s footsteps (not the felonious
ones, I trust...) Having left school at 13 to work in a plant nursery, he
studied at night school all the way from O level to PhD. For the last
twenty-odd years before retirement he was professor at East London
University.
Even now, at 72, he still
can’t quite retire. He travels the world giving scientific papers and is
in charge of several projects at the college. He is also rebuilding my
sister’s house from scratch, refusing professional help and going at
bull-at-a-gate speed because he refuses to accept that he can’t go as fast
as he used to when he was twenty. Two days ago he arrived at my allotment –
and dug three weed-congested beds before going off to play badminton (he has
grudgingly accepted that he may not be quite as fast as he was at squash).
We’ve been worried, of
course. Dad really should slow down a bit – not stop, naturally – just
take it easy a bit. But it’s been an abstract kind of fear. “Dad’s strong as
an ox,” we say to comfort ourselves, trying to ignore his obvious tiredness
at the end of the day.
Last night my mother called
to tell me that they would not be going to my sister’s house to fit the
bathroom after all today. It transpired that Dad, trying to “save money” – a
throwback to childhood poverty – had decided to take a bus the eight miles
into his university to see how an experiment he had set up was going. He ran
for the bus, missed his footing and fell. Bleeding profusely, instead of
going the 500 yards back to his house to be mopped up, he got on the bus and
sat down. A couple of concerned passengers gave him tissues and
handkerchiefs to try to stem the bleeding, but apparently the bus will “need
a clean now. When my Dad got to the college, his assistant took him to A&E
where he received six stitches.
Why am I telling you this? Because I am
angry. In all that time after the accident, it never occurred to Dad to call
me for help. When I finally spoke to him I couldn’t let my anger pass. Why
hadn’t he gone back? Why didn’t he call? Didn’t he realise that I live
just three miles away and that his bus passed the bottom of my road? I let
rip to the poor invalid – who of course gave me as good as he got. “Oh it
was alright. I didn’t want to bother you.” But I wasn’t listening.
I felt rather like the
mother of a toddler who has run into the road. My gut reaction was fear,
and that made me speak such angry words. But in truth and with retrospect,
it is also a profound feeling of hurt. My wonderful dad, who has been there
for me and my sis for the past forty-odd years – and even two days ago was
tackling a particularly deep-rooted bramble bush for me – denied me the
opportunity to help him in his moment of need in return.
Dad’s injury, in the scheme
of things, is minor, but this has been a wake up. Just how bad will he
have to be before he realises that he is denying me the honour of being
there for him?
I am writing this while I
bake a cake to take round later. There is some tough talking to be done.
I have to tell him. It is a privilege to be needed, one he has enjoyed for
many years. Now it is my turn. I don’t want Dad to stop being active, just
to let me be there for him. He owes me - forty years of care.
What’s worse, I have it all
to come with my mum too. I’ve finally persuaded them to get a mobile
phone, but can I get them to charge the battery or, heaven forbid, turn it
on?
Dad hasn’t learned of
course. “I heal quickly, you know,” he tells me cheerily over the phone
after my outburst. “The stitches will be out in five days and I can get back
to that bathroom.”
“You won’t,” I hear my mother
growl in the background.
I can’t help feeling
that it’s not the last word on the subject.
 Do you have any
experiences or comments for Sandra, or ideas to add to this feature? How
does it feel when you become the carer instead of the cared for? Have you
ever felt anger and frustration over parents who seem to be unreasonable or
even uncontrollable? And how do you cope?
Share you stories with us by emailing:
comment@laterlife.com
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