Thora

Perhaps it is unfair to try to assess the quirks of our clients especially those with boring characteristics which pervade the whole of their environment; whose sole conversation centres around their particular disadvantage.  It is not easy to avoid the temptation to try and end the constant repetition of a supposed grievance by some devastating explanation which shatters the confidence of the sufferer even further.

 

Maud, for instance, used to tell us regularly and at length about her neglectful family.

 

“He seldom comes to see me”, she complains pathetically.  “He only lives just over the bridge and even his wife never bothers”.

 

The complaint spills over into all the conversations in which she joins.  Would-be friends shy away.  She sits in her wheelchair somewhat isolated among a crowd of merrymakers.  She waits for an opportunity to join in with the relating of incidents, the tales of minor accidents, the accounts of the current day’s activities, all with the half-hearted listlessness of indifference.

When someone mentions a son or daughter, she perks up.  “I haven’t heard from my daughter”, one declares accusingly and this is Maud’s cue, “I didn’t expect to hear from my son”, she announces with saintly patience and all faces turn in her direction and everyone waits patiently for a logical explanation.  Perhaps the son is in some faraway corner of the world seeking new fauna or flora; maybe seeking fresh avenues of trade for his employers.

 

Maud is ever ready to exploit the attention she has managed to engender “No!” she continues, he hardly ever comes to see me and as for his wife…” She waits patiently for the implied criticism to soak in.  She continues revelling in the attention she has managed to achieve.

 

“When he was a little boy, I gave him everything”.  Still her onlookers offer no comment.  Their interest begins to waver and to divert to more interesting topics.  But one onlooker is more astute than the others.  She might even be more interested.  Her attention seems to be motivated by an interest in psychology.

 

“Is he your only child?” she enquires.

 

Maud is gratified, at last she has gained the absorbed interest of a sympathiser.  “Yes!” she admits disdainfully.  “I wish he had been a girl.  Daughters seem to look after their old parents better than sons”.

 

The listener has a nasty shock in store.  She regards the pathetic Maud with a discerning gaze.

 

“… and you gave him everything when he was a little boy?”, she enquires with disarming pretence at incredulity.  Maud nods her head and opens her mouth to elaborate on her said circumstances but her companion continues with devastating assessment.

 

“You make a rod for your own back when you spoil children”, she accuses the astonished Maud vehemently.  “You can give him nothing now that he has grown up so you are superfluous to his world”, she declares cruelly.  She walks away after this devastating comment and joins the rest of the group leaving Maud speechless and puzzled.

 

So Maud, bothered with arthritis and poor sight, sits herself in a wheelchair at every opportunity and relishes the extra attention this attitude affords her.  She also gets into the dining room in front of the active guests.  She energetically claims the front seat in all the coach trips, “….. because of my arthritis” she bleats wistfully.  “I can’t walk to a back seat” and she waits doggedly for someone to be moved to allow her to occupy the most favoured position.

 

The coaches were all drawn up, bumper to bumper, ready for loading up with a hundred or more passengers.  The wheelchairs, on instructions were lined up ahead of the walking guests.  Their smug occupants sitting relaxed with a “pusher” behind each.

 

Along came nemesis to shatter their content.  A dig into one fat back in the front of the queue alerted the passenger.

 

You can get out and stand for a few minutes”, said an unsympathetic voice, “we need that chair for someone else”.

 

Reluctantly the stout passenger heaved herself with help from those around her and stood disconsolately on her stick behind one or two others.  Several others were treated to the same procedure and had to relinquish their comfortable carriages which were then wheeled in an uneven line back to the chalets to collect more passengers.

 

Maud, gazing wistfully after her wheelchair and giving a baleful glance at the retreating back of her unsympathetic wheelchair thief comments aggressively, “Maggie forgets I am supposed to be on holiday”, she mutters.

 

But it was Thora who practiced the disability act to perfection.  She was brought to the station by car and an attempt to off load her and escort her to the train ended in failure.  As she was levered from the seat and pulled to her feet, her knees buckled under her weight and she landed on her bottom on the floor of the car with her bulk wedged in between the door jamb and the seat in front.  Frantically a call went out for a wheelchair and Thora was pulled, manoeuvred and lifted into the chair and wheeled away.  With the help of two behind her and two in front, Thora was lifted bodily and pushed into an empty seat beside the window and settled herself comfortably.

 

For the rest of the week, Thora enjoyed the attention and respect given to a wheelchair occupant.  She was helped with dressing and undressing supported at every turn and given the special treatment reserved for those unable to help themselves.  She was taken everywhere she wanted to go without having to move a muscle or to raise a beckoning finger.

 

It was after her glorious week away, when she was taken back to the old peoples’ home where she lived that the final act dramatically unfolded.  Carefully, Thora was half carried and half pulled out of the car and her useless legs began to fold under her as the wheelchair was pushed under her wide rump and she was wheeled to the big front door.  From the office just inside, the Matron emerged.  She stopped and gazed interestedly at the little group paused and gave Thora an astonished examination.

 

“What are you doing in that chair, Thora?”.  There was no response from the passenger but the wheelchair pusher explained.  “She can’t walk, Matron”.  For two seconds, no one spoke.  Then resignedly, Thora put her hands on to the arms of the chair, pushed herself upright and walked away across the broad foyer and through the door on the other side.

 

The escorting retinue gazed at the spectacle in fascination.  Matron smiled at the astonished faces.

 

“Her tea is ready, she said, “She wouldn’t want to miss that.  Thank you for taking her”.

 

It was eventually discovered that, although Thora’s daughter had paid for her holiday, had made the necessary arrangements with the staff at the home, that, apparently, she considered was the extent of her commitment.  Thora’s daughter was far too busy to call often to see her mother or to take her out to tea or for an outing or home with the family.

 

So Thora just had to organise her own attention and she did it efficiently and splendidly.