Never have I met anyone so self-absorbed. Went within a whisker of reaching across the table, grabbing her by her turkey throat and squeezing the life out of her. I almost lost it with Alice at lunch today. Our joy is matched only by the disappointment of today: back to hard butter, not even wrapped … they're tiny squares hacked from a big lump of the stuff. Three days ago there was a butter revolution: a different brand of pat that spreads like water on a flood plain. There's nothing I can do at the top of the pile, though just soldier on, ramming hard butter against soft toast. My tactic is to trap one little pat between the two pieces of warm toast I always have. It's cold and hard but there are strategies to soften it, to make it more spreadable. For weeks it's been on the table in those little wrapped pats you find in hotel-room fridges. We have a crucial conversation about the butter. But it's the silent ones I find disturbing. There are some sorry cases among the residents, men bent over, women whose legs are bad. There are various competing opinions expressed on that possibility. What's coming up for lunch, what for dinner? Is Alfredo going for a walk today? Will he get wet? That's of course if it rains. If they want to be miserable, that's their problem. After a sustained campaign of hello-ing them cheerfully for four or five weeks, I've given up. Some residents have remained mute from day one. We catch the same creaky lift down to the dining room, make the same jokes with the same people about it crashing one day. So, how's it going? I'm at the start of my seventh week and life is closing in on me.
#Spring days of my life cracked#
I'm going out with a song on my old cracked lips, a spring in my limp I just want my mates to recognise that I've slipped into another phase, the last of Shakespeare's seven.
I mean no disrespect for the Dalai Lama, whom I admire. Don't be alarmed if you can't reach me, I'll probably be in deep meditation. Forget my former name, I told them, forget the byline I used all my working life, from now on I wished to be known as the Dalliance Alarma. The night I began calling the home my home, I sent out an email to friends and former colleagues to keep them in the loop. The doctors have told me of other failings: Barrett's oesophagus, hiatus hernia, swollen legs and a whole list of conditions I don't understand and really don't want to. My eyes are failing through macular degeneration and glaucoma. I'm beginning to grasp for the right word, my voice has softened and often comes out confused. Parkinson's has slowed my gait, my reactions, my mind. I'm 82 and multiple vital parts of the body are starting to fail. There are some sorry cases among the residents, men bent over, almost doubling on themselves, women whose legs and feet are so bad they can barely shuffle along. They sit in the lounge room watching television, a row of metal-framed walkers parked in front of them. Unapproachable, unresponsive, mostly men. They're in some other world, cut off from communication. They sit in the garden, staring into space. I don't think it is put on, though some of the residents would demoralise a saint. One of the good ones, run by caring people who smile and laugh a lot. I've just moved into an aged care home in Sydney. We hang around after we've finished eating to make sure Theresa doesn't start spooning with a knife again. She's a woman, I believe, who has suffered some deep trauma that's closed down her mind. Some residents will tell you Theresa is retarded. She says a humble "thank you" after every helping hand and sometimes, "You are very kind." She looks lost when one or another of us guides her through each meal. Theresa cannot get through a meal, or anything, without help. She's a little mouse, European, about 50, who has lost her way in the world. It can take several minutes and multiple signs of the cross, and he doesn't miss a beat as he pours his coffee mid-way through. When the food arrives he begins saying grace, sometimes silently, sometimes in a low-key mumble.
He has a shock of white hair and a fervent manner. He shakes hands every morning and evening and, sometimes, in between. Alfredo is an Italian of my age who has been in Australia since he was 12, but the Mediterranean runs deep in his veins.
“I’m going out with a song on my old cracked lips, a spring in my limp.” Credit:Getty ImagesĪs Alice protests, Alfredo takes his place.
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