Conquering Authority

 

Clara lived in hospital, in about the most deadly of that type of incarceration called a geriatric unit.  Not all geriatric units are alike; some are lively, bright and full of laughter, but Clara’s home was not.  It consisted of two long rows of pale blue covered beds occupied by, apparently, human vegetables.

 

Clara’s husband booked for his holiday and mentioned, casually, that if Clara had still been living at home, she might have been able to come as well.  I commented that she did not have to live at home to be included.  He seemed dubious and suggested that ‘they would not release her’.  I felt the hackles rising.  I sent an application form to the Ward Sister with a polite covering letter and waited.  Clara’s husband appeared about a week later, morose and defeated.  “She can’t come”, he announced.

 

“Why not”?

“You can’t manage her”.

“Why not”?  “The staff at the hospital manage her”.

“That’s what they say”.

 

There is nothing so satisfying as seeing a challenge, pulling it to bits, examining the fragments, and providing a solution to each of them, but one had to be sure that this was not just an excuse not to be bothered with an invalid wife while on holiday.  Or was it all official obstruction?

 

“Do you want us to take Clara?”  “Oh, yes”, the reply was immediate and convincing.

 

“Does Clara want to come?”

“Yes, she does.  She cried when they told her she couldn’t”.

“Who said she couldn’t?”

“Doctor and the Sister”.

 

So, once again a helpless victim had been made to feel possessed by caring staff.  Individuality squashed flat; the privilege of decision-making withdrawn ruthlessly and irrevocably.  The fight was on.

 

It lasted three months.  Eventually, very reluctant agreement was reached.  It was important to wring some king of mutual arrangement from the authorities or Clara might have been reported as having discharged herself from hospital care and yet bigger problems would have met us after the week’s vacation.

 

Clara was collected from the hospital one bright morning, dressed in her outdoor clothes and tucked into the corner of the back seat of a car.  A bedpan and spare clothing were stored in the boot and an envelope delivered to the driver, drawing attention to all the treatment required and emphasising all the problems which would afflict those trying to look after her.

 

Clara and her husband were allocated a twin-bedded chalet near to the roadway, to provide easy access for Clara’s wheelchair and any transport needed to carry her around.  Clara’s commode was placed between the two beds and a bathroom-cum-toilet led off opposite the front door.  We found a wooden ramp and pushed it into place to obviate the shallow step.

 

On arrival at the Camp we took off Clara’s wet clothing, and sat her on her commode.  The state of her back was shocking.  No wonder the hospital was reluctant to release her.  The term used in the letter accompanying her was a “urine rash”, but it was unlike anything ever seen by any of us before.  A large oval patch of saturated skin, like blood-red beef ridged deeply, covered the bottom of the spinal region.  This was covered by a thick layer of cellulose and all enclosed in plastic pants.

 

Deciding that something must be done about this immediately, Clara’s husband was asked to fetch a bowl of warm water, soap and a towel.  He protested.  He produced a large jar of her ‘cream’ and assured us that he had been told that the patch must not be wetted.

 

In spite of all his objections, we washed the bloated red mess with warm water and soap and then smoothed the cream over it.  We tore up a clean soft draw sheet and covered the area with a large square.  From that time, throughout the week, the rash was treated five times daily.  Clara was put into the bath every other day, a process which gave her ecstatic enjoyment.  At the end of the week, all that remained of the rash were three little patches of redden skin, the largest no bigger than a crown piece.

 

Among all manner of limitations which were supposed to afflict Clara, we were told that she was double incontinent, which she was not.  We did have a couple of wet beds during the week but most of the time she managed to wait to use her commode.  She was supposed to be mentally confused.  Apathetic she was, but she always seemed to know where she was and what was happening.  She was paralysed down her right side.  She seemed interested in what was going on around her but did not join in any conversation.  She accepted what was given her or done for her without comment or thanks and we guessed that her stroke might have damaged her speech mechanism to some extent.

 

The first time we had a remark from her was on the third day of her holiday.  Her husband had wrapped her in her big blanket and put her into the wheelchair and had taken her shopping.  It was a chilly day and they returned with red noses and cold hands.  He had bought her a new hat, a large round blue straw cartwheel, which spread out around her small face like the rays round the high speed gas-ring.  They both went into the chalet and we followed.  We pulled on the switch of the wall heater and took Clara out of the chair and put her on the commode.  “I bet you’re both cold”, I said.  “Why not just slip across to the snack bar and get a cup of tea for you both”.  Clara’s husband looked down at her.  “Would you like a cup of tea, dear?” he enquired.  Clara raised her eyes to his face under the wide blue canopy of her new hat. “You can shut that bloody door first”, she said, vehemently.

 

He looked at her with gaping, startled, open mouth.  Twice he tried to say something and then he turned round to us with a delighted grin.  “That’s the first time she has spoken to me for months”, he declared jubilantly and went off to fetch the tea.  We started to laugh and Clara looked puzzled for some seconds, then she joined in our merriment.  After that, Clara joined in any conversation going on around her spasmodically.  Until the day before out return, when she became silent and morose again.  She was crying bitterly when we delivered her back to hospital.  We never could quite decide whether we ought to have taken her or not.  She did not live for us to repeat the experiment.