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I don't know why editing books and taking care of grandfathers seem to inevitably coincide, but they do. Also, in this case, I've been desperately trying to finish a pro story and running my creative writing course. (I can't believe I HAVE a creative writing course) So, I OWE EVERYONE COMMENTS AND I NEED TO WRITE MORE STORY. It will be SOOOOOON. I gave in the page proofs on Tuesday and today was the last day of grandfather-watching. Despite everything, ti was immeasurably much easier than last time. Now he's installed in the flat beneath my parents' house... I just can't tell you how much difference it makes. I could make him food, leave the kitchen in a mess, do my work and tidy up when I had time, without a censorious audience watching and peremptorily demanding napkins and sherry. Meanwhile, he could turn up the television as loudly as he wanted and never have to look at an out-of-place shoe. I could lie on the living room floor and have a bad headache in privacy. My friends could come and visit me part of the way through which was fantastic. So -- hard work, but it hasn't drained my sanity anything like as much as I feared it would, and apparently he tells my parents (who've just come back) that I've taken very good care of him, so everyone wins.
My grandfather's situation is strange. When he first arrived here from Devon, he was in an absolutely ghastly state. On the journey down, he'd lost it completely, started grabbing at the wheel of the car as my mother drove and then forgot who my mum was. When ninety-two-year-old people do this, one tends not to expect them to get any better. But, as it turns out, a lot of his apparent dementia was down to malnutrition. After my grandmother died, he more or less commenced starving himself to death. And this is why, my dears, no matter how good an idea it seems, you DO NOT MOVE TO THE REMOTE COUNTRYSIDE WITH YOUR BELOVED AND SHUT OUT THE REST OF THE WORLD FOR YEARS AND YEARS. I know it sounds romantic. But eventually one of you will DIE (and if you have been telling everyone to go away for years they will NOT KNOW WHEN YOU DON'T ACTUALLY MEAN IT nor when you are about to DIE and they will DO AS YOU SAY because that is how you have trained them and then they will have GUILT about it. My poor mum.) and the other of you will have FORGOTTEN COMPLETELY HOW TO BE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN.
(Grandpa, very, very pointedly and dramatically, lost interest in me when I was eleven. So I do find it a little rich when he gets all mopey and "Do come and see me -- I always like to see you!" at me now. Not for the last TWENTY YEARS, you didn't, mate. But oh well.)
So now, we'll never know how well his mind might have held up WITHOUT all that. He can read French and he can tell me what an isotope is. But he can't learn at all, really, ("Your class is on what?" x108. "This class -- are you teaching or studying?" x239. "When will you be back?" x12736) He can't extrapolate from recent experience in the slightest, and the bit of his brain that handles how people are related seems to be buggered (i.e, my mum is the only one of his kids to have had children. He still found it difficult to work out/remember that all his grandchildren are therefore all siblings) . And the other day he read me a poem, noted that the poet was born in 1880 and died 1946 (or thereabouts) and said, "...hmm, so that's my generation -- and yours, too!" Which must be filed under "Things I Never Expected Anyone To Say To Me." I mean, normally I just have to worry about whether I'm a Gen X-er or a Millennial.
He can make himself tea and pour himself sherry and that's about it.
ANYHOW. I've been running around like a blue-arsed fly. However -- and I mention this because if one's going to angst all over LJ I feel it's only right to note when things look up --- I've been feeling pretty good lately. Which considering all this work and considering the recent rough patch and the fact that a simple work related phone call used to reduce me to a gibbering wreck for hours this time last year, is fairly remarkable. Other people notice it and everything.
I saw one of those "Writer's Block" things on someone else's page recently, and it said "What would your 12-year-old self think of you? Would she be pleased or disappointed?" And I thought "Good lord. She'd be pleased. Fuck, I think she might actually be THRILLED. I have/am almost everything she ever dreamed. And anything she wasn't pleased about, I could just wave my REALLY LONG HAIR at her and she'd immediately be distracted. I don't think she'd get what I was so anxious/sad about AT ALL." It's not often that those little perpsective-shifting "count your blessings" things make more than the most fleeting of differences, and of course, that wouldn't have made any difference if I wasn't already doing better -- but I've found myself thinking of it often.
(21-year-old me would not be anything like so impressed, but sod her.)
Anyway, the main point of this post, which is now three times as long as I intended, is to say that two and a half of the four things that have been keeping me busy are dealt with, I'll be back with replies to comments and more story very very soon!
My grandfather's situation is strange. When he first arrived here from Devon, he was in an absolutely ghastly state. On the journey down, he'd lost it completely, started grabbing at the wheel of the car as my mother drove and then forgot who my mum was. When ninety-two-year-old people do this, one tends not to expect them to get any better. But, as it turns out, a lot of his apparent dementia was down to malnutrition. After my grandmother died, he more or less commenced starving himself to death. And this is why, my dears, no matter how good an idea it seems, you DO NOT MOVE TO THE REMOTE COUNTRYSIDE WITH YOUR BELOVED AND SHUT OUT THE REST OF THE WORLD FOR YEARS AND YEARS. I know it sounds romantic. But eventually one of you will DIE (and if you have been telling everyone to go away for years they will NOT KNOW WHEN YOU DON'T ACTUALLY MEAN IT nor when you are about to DIE and they will DO AS YOU SAY because that is how you have trained them and then they will have GUILT about it. My poor mum.) and the other of you will have FORGOTTEN COMPLETELY HOW TO BE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN.
(Grandpa, very, very pointedly and dramatically, lost interest in me when I was eleven. So I do find it a little rich when he gets all mopey and "Do come and see me -- I always like to see you!" at me now. Not for the last TWENTY YEARS, you didn't, mate. But oh well.)
So now, we'll never know how well his mind might have held up WITHOUT all that. He can read French and he can tell me what an isotope is. But he can't learn at all, really, ("Your class is on what?" x108. "This class -- are you teaching or studying?" x239. "When will you be back?" x12736) He can't extrapolate from recent experience in the slightest, and the bit of his brain that handles how people are related seems to be buggered (i.e, my mum is the only one of his kids to have had children. He still found it difficult to work out/remember that all his grandchildren are therefore all siblings) . And the other day he read me a poem, noted that the poet was born in 1880 and died 1946 (or thereabouts) and said, "...hmm, so that's my generation -- and yours, too!" Which must be filed under "Things I Never Expected Anyone To Say To Me." I mean, normally I just have to worry about whether I'm a Gen X-er or a Millennial.
He can make himself tea and pour himself sherry and that's about it.
ANYHOW. I've been running around like a blue-arsed fly. However -- and I mention this because if one's going to angst all over LJ I feel it's only right to note when things look up --- I've been feeling pretty good lately. Which considering all this work and considering the recent rough patch and the fact that a simple work related phone call used to reduce me to a gibbering wreck for hours this time last year, is fairly remarkable. Other people notice it and everything.
I saw one of those "Writer's Block" things on someone else's page recently, and it said "What would your 12-year-old self think of you? Would she be pleased or disappointed?" And I thought "Good lord. She'd be pleased. Fuck, I think she might actually be THRILLED. I have/am almost everything she ever dreamed. And anything she wasn't pleased about, I could just wave my REALLY LONG HAIR at her and she'd immediately be distracted. I don't think she'd get what I was so anxious/sad about AT ALL." It's not often that those little perpsective-shifting "count your blessings" things make more than the most fleeting of differences, and of course, that wouldn't have made any difference if I wasn't already doing better -- but I've found myself thinking of it often.
(21-year-old me would not be anything like so impressed, but sod her.)
Anyway, the main point of this post, which is now three times as long as I intended, is to say that two and a half of the four things that have been keeping me busy are dealt with, I'll be back with replies to comments and more story very very soon!
