For the past few months he has been living in his ex-wife's little terraced house in a different part of the city - about four miles away. It's a two-bedroomed house and their youngest son - Philip - usually sleeps in one of those bedrooms. Bizarrely, Bert and Pat sleep in the double bedroom - top to tail. They separated thirty years ago.
All three of them were glad to see me. I brought Bert a birthday card I had made myself. It included the top picture I took of him a few years ago - before he broke his hip and before dementia began to creep into his brain like a white rot fungus. I also gave him two cans of Bacardi and Coca Cola which was often his tipple of choice after a hearty pub session in "The Banner Cross Hotel". In addition, I gave Pat a bunch of flowers I had just picked up from a nearby supermarket.
It was snug and warm in the little house but quite spartan too with few pictures or adornments - just some framed family photos. And it was quite untidy and grubby with stuff piled up here and there. This was not a home to accommodate visitors or incidentally show off one's worldly wealth or tastes in decor. In the corner, a forty two inch television screen resided like an idol to be worshipped. Fortunately, the volume had been turned right down.
I wish I could have videoed or tape recorded the visit. It would have made a great basis for an existential TV drama.
At one point, I was trying to participate in three different but simultaneous conversations that seemed to have no connection with each other. Pat was talking about how much she despises Donald Trump and her vaginal bleed. Bert was talking about climate change as some Antarctic imagery had appeared on the silent TV screen. Philip was talking about yellow label bargains he had picked up in supermarkets and a band called The Cardiacs that I had never heard of.
Perhaps I had unwittingly entered a miniature asylum. Maybe I would get sucked into it and never leave but after ninety minutes and with some tactical difficulty I managed to extricate myself.
At one point, as Pat was making me a cup of coffee in the kitchen, I said to Bert, "How old are you tomorrow?"
"Eighty. Seventy something. Ninety - what's it?... November 24th 1936. Pat! Pat! How old am I tomorrow?"
"You're eighty nine Bert! Eighty nine!"
It was good of you to visit Bert and remember his birthday, but I'll bet it was a relief to get out of there. I don't think I could have lasted 90 minutes!
ReplyDeleteIt's sad for all three of these people. As much as you hated to go there it may help these people a little..
ReplyDeleteOne of my biggest fears, dementia. Poor guy, both you and Bert.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure they were all happy to see you!
ReplyDeleteYou certainly know how to have fun up in Yorkshire!
ReplyDeleteYou are a good, loyal friend to Bert. Don't know why but Bert reminds of Tony, the man who tends the memorial in Endcliffe Park to the American airmen killed during WW2.
ReplyDeleteI am glad you went even though the visit sounds a little nightmare-ish with all talking at once.
ReplyDeleteI hope he liked the rather good photo. I think seeing your own photo when you have dementia may trigger some memories.
ReplyDeleteOh dear. Poor Bert, Pat and Philip. I honestly can not imagine living like this, but from what you describe they seem to be trundling along well enough, probably having reached some sort of contentment with their strange living arrangement.
ReplyDeleteYou are a good friend to Bert, still visiting him when I suppose many others who used to know him before don't.
I have been caught in conversations like that: each person talking like there's nobody else around. Its tricky to know what to do.
ReplyDeleteBert will enjoy his drinks. I'm glad you recorded the visit. Nobody knows when the "last" might come.
I am sure we all wish Bert a Happy Birthday. He is looked after by his ex-wife, the state of the home is part of old England when everything is so tidy. As for African music yesterday Ladysmith Black Mambazo is my favourite group.
ReplyDeleteWhenever I visit my sister in law's partner in his dementia care home I often remark that the whole situation would make a good comedy programme. Dementia is an awful thing to have but it sounds like Pat and Bert are happy in their own little world.
ReplyDeleteSounds like a welcome visit for all, dementia is a twat of a condition- saw it take my Nan slowly and then covid robbed me of a chance to see her at the end. For the record I have trouble keeping track of my age these days, guess I'm not that interested in the number.
ReplyDeleteAs they say, it is not for wimps.
ReplyDeleteIt does sound a somewhat chaotic situation, but Bert is being cared for by his wife, rather than being put into some terrible care home.Your visit would cheer him up and maybe revive a few memories for him.
ReplyDeleteHappy birthday to Bert. He sounds happy, if confused. I smiled at the image of Pat and him sleeping top to toe, like sardines in a tin.
ReplyDeleteI would have been ready for a stay in an asylum after that.
ReplyDeleteThat conversation might have had n=me running for the hills.
ReplyDeleteCarlos' mother has no idea how old she is, and no one seems to remember but rumor has it she is just shy of 100 or a hair past it.
I joke that when she goes we need to cut her open and count the rings like a tree.
I'm impressed that Pat is taking care of her ex-husband. I definitely would never want to do that for my ex-husband. Sounds like Pat, Philip, and Bert are doing the best they can in an awful situation. They are supporting each other through very difficult times.
ReplyDeleteA hatred of Trump and a vaginal bleed!
ReplyDelete