Cec wanders in and sits with the staff as they focus on the trainer. She nestles into a chair, in amongst everyone, and once comfortable she falls asleep. Blissfully unaware through the soft veil of dementia, she is oblivious to what everyone is doing here, her primary need simply to seek the comfort of connection.
Over the past few months I have come to love this feisty little lady. She is 93, and every afternoon at the same time, she appears in front of me with her pal Miss K, and they head out for a walk around the block together before dinner. I started to call them the Bobsy Twins when I saw them together, hoping to get a smile. They never let me down. Sometimes one appears without the other, reflecting the stomping ground of the elderly and often fluctuating health.
A few weeks ago Cec swung past looking a bit down. When I asked if she was ok, she told me her pal wasn't feeling too well, and hadn't been out of bed for a few days. She stated very clearly she was a bit lost without her. We discussed how long it might take for Miss K might be up and at 'em again, and we both hoped it would be soon.
Fast forward a few days and Miss K came by without Cec. When I enquired after Cec she told me matter of factly she was at the hospital for treatment, and kept on going, a spring in her step, not wanting to dwell on the matter and making the most of her own newly regained health.
There is an ebb and flow in a retirement home; the rhythms of the day are consistent and mostly predictable. So when they both turned up early on another day, I knew this was something new and different. Cec told me they were going out in a taxi. When I asked if she could advise me where so I could sign them out, she told me that she thought Miss K would like a day out, so she was taking her to the hospital with her whilst she received her treatment. Cec was smiling and asking me to hurry up: an outing is an outing and when you and your pal are both feeling good it’s something to smile about and important not to waste time. Smiling at this lovely pair and their friendship, I bid them farewell.
Another day arrived as did Cec. She leaned into the counter and matter-of -factly tells me that she has cancer of the vagina, and that's why she goes for treatment. I like this forthrightness in older people, it can be a bit confronting when they tell it like it is but it’s refreshing and real. When I say I'm sorry to hear this, Cec just shrugs and says what can you expect over 90? She then looks me straight in the eyes and tells me that if it had’ve been 20 years earlier she would have been extremely disappointed, as she well and truly needed her vagina back then. I smile broadly, soaking up her humour and honesty, but I also I acknowledge her frustration and discomfort and say I hope she isn't suffering. In her very pragmatic way she doesn't dwell on her pain or treatment, but she indicates it's not great, and that she's just getting on with it. I’m developing a bigger love and respect for her each time we see each other. And then, as quickly as she has delivered this information, she is gone again.
Last week Miss K became unwell. The story unfolded that she came in two years ago with her husband, but he died soon after. He had been waiting for their placement, to take care of Miss K and ensure she was settled in, and only then did he let go. Apparently his loss hit her very hard, and she was depressed for some time. People thought she might not hang around too long in this world either. That was until her friendship developed with Cec. Everyone believes their friendship has kept them both going. Seeing them together I believe this is true.
Miss K died on Saturday. As I look at Cec snoozing beside me, I reflect on our need for comfort gained though loving connection. Having a sense of connection is nourishing and life-sustaining, it expands us, bringing us joy and comfort - no matter what stage of life we are at. The grief we experience and the loss we feel when someone dies is a tribute to the depth and meaning of that connection. Elderly people are experiencing loss on a much broader scale than the rest of us, by the very nature of their stage of life. They might give up their home to go into care, lose their car, they might lose physical function, perhaps memory, they certainly lose independence, and they lose life partners and friends. Some even outlive their children, which is a loss most of us cannot fathom. I wonder what all of this loss must feel like, as I have certainly experienced loss in my life but nowhere near that scale. I place my hand on Cec’s. It’s clear she is lost without her friend, and her own memory and function seems to be in a faster decline, as if she’s lost her compass. I’m not Miss K, but I still want her to feel the comfort from being here and being held by the world around her.
People start leaving the training session, and I gently wake her up. She's lost for a few seconds, so I explain what's happening, and ask her what she'd like to do. She wants to go back to her room for a rest, so I stand to assist her. As she gets to her feet she tells me that she really misses her pal, with deep sadness etched into her face. I acknowledge this fully, and enquire about Miss K’s funeral as we walk to her room. Cec's memory is a bit shaky at times, but not when it comes to her pal. She recites the details clearly, and tells me how important it is to say goodbye. Cec has her outfit chosen and talks me though what she has chosen and why: the meaning in connection. This is a farewell to her closest friend and so every detail is important. She is such a spunky old gal. I give her a hug and confirm someone will be here to take her to the funeral on the day.
We say goodnight. I wonder what it’s like to be the last person standing in your own life, and my heart feels a bit heavy. Elderly people are teaching us so much, just by living. Bless you Cec, and RIP Miss K xx