Jennifer Worth - In the Midst of Life

‘I can’t remember. A few days, perhaps…’

Muttering words of disapproval, the nurse started work.

‘And what has she been eating recently, if your wife has not been here?’

‘I don’t know. Porridge, I suppose. She likes porridge.’

‘Well, it’s not good enough. We can’t allow her to live on porridge. Meals on Wheels will be arranged as an emergency, from tomorrow. And I advise you to light a fire, young man. It’s freezing in here.’

Clucking her disapproval, the district nurse left.

Slavek did not light a fire. He went to the pub and got blind drunk.

Days passed, day after desolate day, and Slavek was utterly alone. Hatred and resentment built up inside him and he could hardly bring himself to go near his mother – stupid, useless old thing. Why hadn’t she died when she said she would, why was he stuck with her now, a miserable old bag of bones with no mind? Why couldn’t she just die? Every day, when he got home from work, he was hoping against hope to find her dead – but she wasn’t. She was always there, in Karen’s nice sitting room, where the children should be playing by the fire, and having crumpets toasted on the red coals, and stories read to them before bedtime. Every evening he spent in the pub, drinking until closing time.

Men in Slavek’s position – having lost wife and children, heartbroken, lonely, angry, frustrated, drinking more and more – can quickly spiral into a crisis from which they cannot escape. Self-neglect, repeatedly arriving late for work with a hangover, unreliability, led to warnings from the management, which were only half-heartedly observed, then ignored. Slavek was dismissed. He was too ashamed to tell Karen that he had been given the sack, so he drew his dole money, sent half to her, and spent the rest in the pub. He had never been a good manager; Karen had always handled the family finances. Perhaps he thought that he was doing enough by sending her money each week; perhaps his brain, fuddled by drink, refused to accept the inevitable consequences of the fact that no money was going into his bank account.

In March he received a letter from the bank manager, saying that there was insufficient money in his account to pay his monthly obligation to the building society. Slavek ignored it. April brought a similar letter. He didn’t even open it. Each month a letter arrived, but was ignored.

Karen knew nothing of all this. If she had, she would have done something about it. But by the time August came and Slavek was six months in arrears with the mortgage, the sum outstanding was so huge that there was nothing she could have done to rectify the situation.

In September, the building society obtained an order for distraint. The house would be repossessed and sold to recover the loan the society had made. Slavek didn’t really understand what had happened until the bailiffs arrived and ordered him and his mother out of the premises. The district nurse arrived at the same time, and, as no provision had been made for the old lady, she took control of the situation and a week’s grace was allowed.

The Court Order was the first news Karen had of the financial crisis. She was utterly distraught and rushed over to see Slavek. How had it happened? It couldn’t have happened suddenly. There must have been warning letters. Where were they? Slavek rummaged around amongst a pile of unopened letters and produced a couple.

‘You fool!’ shouted Karen. ‘Why didn’t you let me know? Why did you ignore them? Now look what’s happened. We are going to lose our home. Don’t you understand? They are going to take our home away and sell it. We will be homeless.’

At last Slavek understood. But it was too late. There was nothing either of them could do. Karen returned to her mother, and stayed there. Slavek moved into a men’s hostel, and drink took over his life.

As soon as the nurse informed the council of the eviction order, they assumed responsibility for Mrs Ratski. She was taken to a short-stay home for the elderly, but was terrified by the new surroundings, and became so disruptive that she had to be moved. This was a pattern that repeated itself several times. With each new move she thought she was going to be poisoned and wouldn’t eat or drink. With puny strength she fought the staff and other residents and had to be forcibly restrained.

Mrs Ratski ended up in a psycho-geriatric ward where she could be kept under nursing care and more or less continuous sedation. All her fear, suspicion and aggression faded away and she became quiet and docile. She no longer resisted the nurses, and meekly swallowed the tranquillisers, and everything else that was given to her. Every so often she developed a chest infection or a kidney infection and obediently she swallowed the antibiotics. She lived like this for three years, not able to understand where she was, or how she had got there; maybe not even who she was. She could not speak to anyone, nor comprehend a word that was said to her. She had no visitors. The hospital chaplain arranged for a Latvian priest to come, but she stared at him strangely and did not speak. Her loneliness and isolation were more total and more terrible than if she had been transported to a distant planet inhabited by aliens.

The end came in 1957 when she fell out of bed and broke her pelvis. It was virtually impossible for the pelvic bone to mend because it could not be immobilised. An operation was performed to try to pin the bone, but the wound did not heal, and staphylococcal infection developed, which did not respond to antibiotics. Generalised septicaemia set in. From this, Mrs Ratski died, alone, in the brittle whiteness of an English hospital.

This is a family tragedy that could only have been prevented by the old lady’s death. Yet there is not a doctor in the civilised world who would fail to treat a simple intestinal obstruction. Nor, I think, are there many lay people who would say, ‘Leave her alone – she must die.’ No one could have foreseen that it would lead to the break-up of a family, and the downfall of a good man.

It’s some years since

I felt my servant’s discontent;

The vigour of his service seemed to pall.

I noticed this without undue dismay

At first.

The sometime faltering foot

Or wheezing breath

Or jack-knife on the exit from a car —

All brushed beneath the carpet

Of my mind —

An easy-going master.

But the incidents grew more

Till, patience fled, I turned on him,

Upbraided him with negligence, or worse.

He said: ‘Your lifetime, now

I’ve been your faithful slave,

Attending to your every need,

Drew in clean air for you

And made your blood,

Remodelled you from food,

Ejected what was not required,

Enabled you to see and hear

This varied world;

Gave you mobility,

Produced your thoughts and passions.

But now, at last, I’m weary,

Wish to rest,

Return to earth and air

Which nourished me,

As all things must,

While you go free.

What say you, master?

Will you grant me my release?’

‘That is not mine to do,’

I countered;

‘I serve too;

I serve one who

Would rage at my presumption

If I gave you leave to go.

He is the great Disposer.

For Him, it’s you who must depart,

Give notice, go,

Not wait for your release.’

And so it was;

My servant went

And left me here and everywhere,

No longer part but whole.

— Philip Worth

My grandfather’s death has an idealistic quality about it. His span of life had run out, he was cared for by his family, and he died peacefully in his own home. We would all wish to die like that. But, half a century later, we have to face the stark fact that for most of us it is unlikely.