Beyond a Century

 

It is a common belief that this wiry people enjoy better health, longevity and energy than plump ones.  So far as Cicely could be regarded as an example, the theory was factual.

 

At seventy, Cicely was thin, knobbly and cantankerous.  As she reached eighty, she hardly appeared to age at all but a visit to her little bungalow betrayed to a caller some evidence of receding youthfulness.  Around the radiators were draped odd pieces of rag and tattered clothing which gave off a smell of musty damp.

 

The evidence of incontinence soon came to the attention of her home help, her volunteer visitors and the Meals of Wheels callers.  Within a few days Cicely received a call from an official Social Services visitor.  A call was put through to the local Health Authority who promptly delivered an ample supply of rolls of absorbent material which ought to have solved the effects of the weakness.  The supply would have been adequate for most incontinent folk but Cicely had tow disadvantages.  Firstly, she devised a method of keeping her protection in place by pinning it to her liberty bodice.  Thus she needed a length of twenty inches or more each time she needed to replace the wet wadding.  Secondly, she was of such a thrifty generation that she could not persuade herself that such a useful article could be discarded if it could be so easily put back into use with little attention.  So her lengths of wadding in their flimsy gauze covers were hung, as her old strips of rag had been, on the radiators like a string of white bunting.  The resultant pong became more obtrusive and several nearby neighbours sent out calls of distress.

 

But all to no avail.  The rolls of protective material continued to arrive with customary regularity but not really frequently enough to keep Cicely supplied.  So inevitably all the torn and soiled strips were placed on the warm radiators ready for reuse as they dried.

 

It was about this time that Cicely’s only son lost his wife.  He lived in the same town as his mother.  He was a good son and although he had been unable to persuade his wife to invite the unwholesome old lady into their smart little flat, he decided that it was now his moral duty to take over the care of the aging parent.  So he called on his mother to see how she would respond to his proposal.  She was delighted.  In spite of frequent visitors, she often spent many lonely hours with no company to grumble to, no one to run errands for her and no one to do the many small jobs whi8ch needed to be done.  It seemed it would be easier for the son, too.  He would not need to make a two mile journey daily to make sure the old lady was still alive, still complaining and still in need of attention.

 

In many ways it became easier than caring for a sick wife.  He still had the cooking and the washing to do.  But Mum, sitting in her wheelchair, did not make any extra housework; she was happy with the companionship and would sit in a corner of the sitting room, holding a long conversation with herself on directly at the busy son with no expectation of any comment other than an occasional yes or no.  She was fit and lively and ate anything put before her.  She enjoyed a twice weekly ride to the shop in her wheelchair and would site by herself in front of the television set while her son enjoyed an evening out with his buddies at the local club.

 

Furthermore, the old lady benefited.  She lost her odour of stale mustiness.  Her clothes were always clean and respectable.  She could be seen sitting in her wheelchair on the grass in the small front garden, an ancient flowery hat rescued from the top of the wardrobe from her bungalow, her ancient sticklike legs protruding from under a faded pink dress belonging to the nineteen twenties.  Neighbours passing to the shops called to her or stopped to talk.  At close on a hundred, her brain still alert and her health still good, there was nothing more she wanted.

 

It was in the year that she reached her century that mother and son applied to go on holiday with us.  There was barely a hint from the seventy year old that perhaps, he might be able to be off mum’s apron strings for a short period during the week.  We readily agreed.  Mum was housed in a chalet with another elderly companion near to the helpers.  Her son, with another gentleman of about the same age, occupied a chalet at the other end of the row.  Other than a short visit to bid mum good morning before breakfast every morning and her company at the table in the dining room mother and son saw little of each other.  Just enough to ensure that they could exchange news of their activities.

 

But Cicely had occasional lapses of good health.  Early in the morning was the most crucial time.  At home, she had been able to get up and dressed with the help of her devoted son at any time she liked.  On holiday she had to be washed, dressed and toileted before nine or else she would have missed her breakfast.  In spite of spindly legs, knobbly arms and scraggy body, she had an appetite like an ostrich.  She could consume piled plates of meat and vegetables; her breakfast was a programme of fruit and cereal, followed by bacon and eggs or sausage and beans with two cups of tea.  Her digestion seemed to be able to cope with anything.

 

But one morning an urgent call from her chalet alerted us.  We hurried to find out what was the emergency.  She was partially dressed in a long yellow woolly vest, blue knee length bloomers and a frilly petticoat.  She was lying prone on her bed, her eyes closed and her two bony hands raised as if in prayer above her chest.

 

“I’m going” she announced dramatically.  “The good Lord is taking me”.  Her sagging cheeks evidenced a different tale.  The colour was bright and reassuring.  Someone took hold of her raised wrist.

 

“No, you’re not” she was told.  “Your pulse is too good”.  With a delighted grin, she raised her head; her hands dropped to the bed and she attempted to push herself to a sitting position.  “Is it really all right?” she queried nervously.  She gazed at the faces surrounding her.  She realised the potential of her dramatic situation.  “Were you frightened?” she asked.  She laughed and let herself drop back on to her pillow.  The little group in the chalet were cautious.  The pulled her bedclothes over her and pulled her pillow round her ears.

 

“Now you rest till breakfast time” the admonished.  Cicely’s bright eyes in the dimmed light through the curtains, glistened like shiny buttons in the faint light of the early morning.

 

Someone went to tell the son just stirring in his chalet at the other end of the long row of doors.

 

  He laughed.

 

“Oh, yes, she does that to me sometimes.  I put her back to bed and let her rest for an hour or two.

 

---- an hour or two?  By the time Cicely’s chalet companion was washed, dressed and tucked into her wheelchair, Cicely was sitting up anxiously, her thin legs over the edge.  She thought of the cornflakes, the toast, the fried egg and bacon, fried bread and tomatoes, as well as two cups of steaming sweet tea.

 

“Get me up,” she wailed plaintively.  “I’m hungry”

She enacted the same little drama later the same week and again she was left to rest for a short while, while preparations continued to prepare the rest of the handicapped guests.  Otherwise she seemed alert and lively.

 

She reached home the following weekend with her caring son.

 

A day or so later, a weary voice relayed the latest sad bulletin.  Cicely had asked if she could have a little sleep following the long journey home.  She was put on the bed and covered with a counterpane.  About half an hour later she had called out she wanted the skirt of her new cherry red suit to be pulled off.  Her son sat her up and gently slid the belt down over her legs and then she lay back on the bed and went off to sleep again.  Every twenty minutes or so, the son looked in at her.  She slept on.  Night drew on and the son decided to rouse her to give her an evening meal.  He crept in and touched her hand.  It was limp and cold.  He shook her gently and realised suddenly that she had gone.

She was a hundred years and two months old.