hunchbacked apathy.
In the early days, we try to fill our time with minor interests: a film night or seminar, a book, a walk, a visit. Later, anything that breaks up the day becomes vaguely appealing, despite being otherwise intolerable: bible readings, Indian head massage, school choirs and recorder recitals. In the end, we go where we are told, because it is good for us, they say, because it will do us good.
“Tucking your tailbone under and floating the spine,” the instructor says. I cannot tell if anyone has changed their posture but someone farts and this is no longer a source of humour, but simply the sad punctuation of weakening sphincters.
Paul’s harmless small talk will eventually metastasise into the putrid growth of dissatisfaction - an endless griping and grousing about day-to-day pains and ailments. Irritation will begin to creep in whenever he mentions his previously beloved family, the nurses, the staff, the management, the government, the foreign, the young. His audience will listen but no-one will offer sympathy. A knowing, callous nodding will accompany the monologues instead, as though we are wound up in perpetual motion. Humility and tact will be tossed aside for frank discussions about bowel and bladder, prolapse and prostate.
“Relax the shoulders and sink the elbows.”
A woman at the back has fallen asleep in her chair. Another next to her is attempting to adopt the correct posture with a cup of tea in her hand. Something in my shoulder grinds and when I look down I see that my left arm is in a cast. I don’t know how it got there but the sweating skin itches underneath. The plaster taps against the buttons of my shirt with the trembling of my hand, stretching my arms forward in slow motion supplication just like the instructor does.
Once Paul is rid of his pride, next will come the pacing, the checking on others, the checking on whether it’s tea time, the checking of the minute personal details of the other residents, the nurses: “How did your Jack do in his driving test on Wednesday? Did you remember Ahmed’s laxative this morning? Make sure you wish Lorraine a happy birthday when you see her.” We sit because we cannot bring ourselves to move. We walk because we cannot bring ourselves to stop.
By the end, no-one speaks of their family; the darling grandkids are unimportant, milestones provoke only a passing flutter of acknowledgement. By the end, no-one bothers to mention the pain or the discomfort. Daylight and moonlight illuminate the same blank stare, the same shadowed face, the same absence of being.
And after that? I truly hope there’s nothing.
“Touch the tongue to the roof of the mouth and connect the meridian channels of Governing and Conception,” the instructor says, with an absolutely straight face. “Now integrate the whole body.”
I sidestep until I have left the room. Even listening to Paul is better than this. But when I reach our little end-of-the-line corridor I find his room empty. He must be leeching out the will to live from some other recipient of his latest thrilling piece of news. The man will not be dissuaded from telling me details of his family that I could not value any less if it were a list of out-of-date train times for a place I will never visit. He tells me about his daughter, Sharon, her partially deaf husband, Harry, their curly-haired brat, Franklin, their recent trip to the Isle of Man and, repeatedly, the time Franklin hilariously decided that he wanted to ride a cow. At no point have I led him to believe that I am interested in anything that comes out of his mouth, yet most afternoons he finds his way to my doorway and updates me on some pointless piece of information or other. A lost green sock. A magazine subscription. The chance of snow later in the week. I could spit in his face and he would no doubt launch into some amusing tale regarding the cuteness of his grandchild’s dribble. I hate him for reasons that have nothing to do
In the early days, we try to fill our time with minor interests: a film night or seminar, a book, a walk, a visit. Later, anything that breaks up the day becomes vaguely appealing, despite being otherwise intolerable: bible readings, Indian head massage, school choirs and recorder recitals. In the end, we go where we are told, because it is good for us, they say, because it will do us good.
“Tucking your tailbone under and floating the spine,” the instructor says. I cannot tell if anyone has changed their posture but someone farts and this is no longer a source of humour, but simply the sad punctuation of weakening sphincters.
Paul’s harmless small talk will eventually metastasise into the putrid growth of dissatisfaction - an endless griping and grousing about day-to-day pains and ailments. Irritation will begin to creep in whenever he mentions his previously beloved family, the nurses, the staff, the management, the government, the foreign, the young. His audience will listen but no-one will offer sympathy. A knowing, callous nodding will accompany the monologues instead, as though we are wound up in perpetual motion. Humility and tact will be tossed aside for frank discussions about bowel and bladder, prolapse and prostate.
“Relax the shoulders and sink the elbows.”
A woman at the back has fallen asleep in her chair. Another next to her is attempting to adopt the correct posture with a cup of tea in her hand. Something in my shoulder grinds and when I look down I see that my left arm is in a cast. I don’t know how it got there but the sweating skin itches underneath. The plaster taps against the buttons of my shirt with the trembling of my hand, stretching my arms forward in slow motion supplication just like the instructor does.
Once Paul is rid of his pride, next will come the pacing, the checking on others, the checking on whether it’s tea time, the checking of the minute personal details of the other residents, the nurses: “How did your Jack do in his driving test on Wednesday? Did you remember Ahmed’s laxative this morning? Make sure you wish Lorraine a happy birthday when you see her.” We sit because we cannot bring ourselves to move. We walk because we cannot bring ourselves to stop.
By the end, no-one speaks of their family; the darling grandkids are unimportant, milestones provoke only a passing flutter of acknowledgement. By the end, no-one bothers to mention the pain or the discomfort. Daylight and moonlight illuminate the same blank stare, the same shadowed face, the same absence of being.
And after that? I truly hope there’s nothing.
“Touch the tongue to the roof of the mouth and connect the meridian channels of Governing and Conception,” the instructor says, with an absolutely straight face. “Now integrate the whole body.”
I sidestep until I have left the room. Even listening to Paul is better than this. But when I reach our little end-of-the-line corridor I find his room empty. He must be leeching out the will to live from some other recipient of his latest thrilling piece of news. The man will not be dissuaded from telling me details of his family that I could not value any less if it were a list of out-of-date train times for a place I will never visit. He tells me about his daughter, Sharon, her partially deaf husband, Harry, their curly-haired brat, Franklin, their recent trip to the Isle of Man and, repeatedly, the time Franklin hilariously decided that he wanted to ride a cow. At no point have I led him to believe that I am interested in anything that comes out of his mouth, yet most afternoons he finds his way to my doorway and updates me on some pointless piece of information or other. A lost green sock. A magazine subscription. The chance of snow later in the week. I could spit in his face and he would no doubt launch into some amusing tale regarding the cuteness of his grandchild’s dribble. I hate him for reasons that have nothing to do
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