Carol became angry with me a time or two. I made sure I stood in such a way that she would not feel threatened. She had room to move away from me, easy access to the door. I wanted our conversation to stay on the issue at hand and not become a source of fear. I partially succeeded, but her history crept in. How could it not? I spoke quietly and appealed to her intellect. Reason and logic were her domain, even though common sense was sometimes foreign. I reminded her that she was here, in our shared home, not in the house she’d lived in previously where she had to protect herself from verbal attack and psychological abuse.
Talking with a 50+ year old woman while remembering that she has not matured emotionally is a heartfelt challenge. You can’t help but get some things wrong and just hope you can reverse course or draw her in before things get out of hand. Trust is precious, especially with someone as wounded as Carol.
Carol exercised constantly so as to manage her anxieties,
keep her weight down and exhaust herself enough to be able to sleep. She swam twice a day in a pool and then later in the sea. She’d come home and snuggle up with wheat bags and a heater to bring her body temperature back up to normal. She’d cycle longer routes than normal on weekends and days when her routine was interrupted. Was it challenging or punishing?
When she’d come off her bike and hit the ground hard, only skin and muscle cushioned her fall. Scars from numerous such collisions kept her together. Staying out of the water long enough to heal properly was torture for Carol. The district nurses visited regularly to change dressings and admonish her to take it easy. They were patient and gentle when they must have wondered what drove this scrawny sinewy woman.
When I’d see Carol about town during the course of our day, I’d try to get her attention in a way that would not startle her. She was often in her own space and seemingly oblivious to others. I’d do a U turn to park on the opposite side of the road before honking the horn or I’d approach her from the front at the university so she could easily look up and see it was a friend who was shouting at her. She’d perk up on recognition and then seek to move on as she hadn’t had time to prepare for the social interaction right then.
If I visited her in her study space at the university, I’d try to let her know I was stopping in so as not to startle her. The wounded bird had the emotional resources to cope with things if she knew what was coming. It was the unexpected, or the unprepared for that would often throw her into a spin.
Another Christmas Carol joined our small gathering upstairs in the lounge.
She sat on the floor not far from me, or from the open door. Since that earlier Christmas she had come up for a movie and stuck her head in a few times to say hello. It wasn’t quite as foreign to her as before.
I was preparing to read from Luke’s Gospel about Jesus’ entrance in to this world. As I had a couple of nativity sets handy on the coffee table, I asked Carol if she’d act out the story with the little figures as I read. I didn’t know if that would make her more comfortable or not, but thought it’d give her a focus and something to do.
She popped up on to her knees by the coffee table and took stock of the figures, sorting out the animals from the people and identifying the players. I started reading. Do you know how hard it is to read when your eyes are blurred with tears. It’s not easy to write blurry either, as I struggle to do now. I read, Carol mirrored the words with a miniature drama on the table. Our other housemate, Jane, was struggling too, but neither of us wanted to spoil the moment or confuse Carol with our emotions. Not only was Carol part of our little holiday celebration, she was comfortable and participating. No Christmas reading will ever top that one; No nativity set be more valued by me.
Carol gave gifts all year long. A piece of fruit or an out-of-date muesli bar would often hold down a note she’d left at the bottom of the stairs for me to pick up on my way in or out. All of those gathered at her memorial service at the university commented on her generosity.
How does one who has been so maltreated in life, continue to summon such generosity and humour? How does a person continue to hope for the best in people and respond so eagerly and childishly to it?
to be continued . . .
Talking with a 50+ year old woman while remembering that she has not matured emotionally is a heartfelt challenge. You can’t help but get some things wrong and just hope you can reverse course or draw her in before things get out of hand. Trust is precious, especially with someone as wounded as Carol.
Carol exercised constantly so as to manage her anxieties,
keep her weight down and exhaust herself enough to be able to sleep. She swam twice a day in a pool and then later in the sea. She’d come home and snuggle up with wheat bags and a heater to bring her body temperature back up to normal. She’d cycle longer routes than normal on weekends and days when her routine was interrupted. Was it challenging or punishing?When she’d come off her bike and hit the ground hard, only skin and muscle cushioned her fall. Scars from numerous such collisions kept her together. Staying out of the water long enough to heal properly was torture for Carol. The district nurses visited regularly to change dressings and admonish her to take it easy. They were patient and gentle when they must have wondered what drove this scrawny sinewy woman.
When I’d see Carol about town during the course of our day, I’d try to get her attention in a way that would not startle her. She was often in her own space and seemingly oblivious to others. I’d do a U turn to park on the opposite side of the road before honking the horn or I’d approach her from the front at the university so she could easily look up and see it was a friend who was shouting at her. She’d perk up on recognition and then seek to move on as she hadn’t had time to prepare for the social interaction right then.
If I visited her in her study space at the university, I’d try to let her know I was stopping in so as not to startle her. The wounded bird had the emotional resources to cope with things if she knew what was coming. It was the unexpected, or the unprepared for that would often throw her into a spin.
Another Christmas Carol joined our small gathering upstairs in the lounge.
She sat on the floor not far from me, or from the open door. Since that earlier Christmas she had come up for a movie and stuck her head in a few times to say hello. It wasn’t quite as foreign to her as before.I was preparing to read from Luke’s Gospel about Jesus’ entrance in to this world. As I had a couple of nativity sets handy on the coffee table, I asked Carol if she’d act out the story with the little figures as I read. I didn’t know if that would make her more comfortable or not, but thought it’d give her a focus and something to do.
She popped up on to her knees by the coffee table and took stock of the figures, sorting out the animals from the people and identifying the players. I started reading. Do you know how hard it is to read when your eyes are blurred with tears. It’s not easy to write blurry either, as I struggle to do now. I read, Carol mirrored the words with a miniature drama on the table. Our other housemate, Jane, was struggling too, but neither of us wanted to spoil the moment or confuse Carol with our emotions. Not only was Carol part of our little holiday celebration, she was comfortable and participating. No Christmas reading will ever top that one; No nativity set be more valued by me.
Carol gave gifts all year long. A piece of fruit or an out-of-date muesli bar would often hold down a note she’d left at the bottom of the stairs for me to pick up on my way in or out. All of those gathered at her memorial service at the university commented on her generosity.
How does one who has been so maltreated in life, continue to summon such generosity and humour? How does a person continue to hope for the best in people and respond so eagerly and childishly to it?
to be continued . . .
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