House of Cards

My poor old mother has lost the ability to sleep. A lingering chest infection over the Christmas period, the remorselessly grim weather and grief at losing her only sibling have combined to rob her of this most basic faculty. My Mum is not generally a moaner, being (as I have noted before) from a generation far more stoical and emotionally buttoned-up than the present one. She is blessed(?) with a vivid inner mental life which, when all is going well, is an asset but without an outlet has a tendency to toxic introversion, lying awake in the dark and dwelling on matters, or over-analysing conversations.

All the things that usually cheer her up, getting out and about, walking the dogs and gardening have been severely curtailed by the permanently icy ground, of which she is understandably wary. She has been on a very restricted round of activities, now rendered almost intolerable in their predictability, all with my Dad in tow. Although they generally get on well enough, being in such close quarters 24/7 has caused a great deal of friction, particularly as he insists on an almost military approach to life and won't countenance any sort of deviation. This entails breakfast, lunch and tea on time, but he would never consider lifting a finger to help.

To be quite honest, it is partly my mother's fault for putting up with this ridiculous situation for so long. The old-school bargain 'I'll be the breadwinner, you take care of the home' is fine up to a point, and that point is retirement. Then all roles should be reconsidered.

I think that they were probably happiest just before my father retired: Dad was immersed in a career he loved and Mum, who had learned to drive late in life, came into a small inheritance which allowed her (without having to ask permission) to buy a small car of her own. She happily pottered about, guiding at a local NT property, shopping on her own and visiting friends, or even me, when she felt like doing so. When my father retired she lost this autonomy in a matter of weeks, and her car became their 'standby' car which she drove less and less until she ceased driving at all.

I really couldn't believe the way that she relinquished this small measure of independence apparently without struggle -it was so hard won, she had passed her driving test at the seventh attempt - but when I quietly took her to one side and queried the wisdom of giving up her freedom, she said she'd basically done it for a quiet life. 'Your father' she said 'can be difficult and very petty' but wouldn't discuss the matter further.

Poor Mum. She painted herself into a very miserable corner, and there now seems very little prospect of escape.

I have absolutely no doubt that she is, unsurprisingly, grieving and depressed. Fortunately, she seems also to recognise this may be the case and has made an appointment with her GP. I hope that she will get a sympathetic hearing and some pharmaceutical help at least in the short term. But in this lies another problem: for many years both my parents airily implied that people with depressive tendencies are lacking some sort of moral fibre or 'intestinal fortitude'. My father, cornering me for 'a quiet word' intimates that he considers my mother's current problem as 'all in her head' and that she has brought it on herself by morbid thinking. Which, even if partially true, doesn't make it any the less real or distressing for her.

Once again I am brought back to face the problem of the contracting life and expectations of old-age.
By and large, my parents have been an extremely good example of keeping going, although they have recently started to manifest signs of slowing down and being less adventurous. The last thing they need at this stage is to perceive one or the other as 'ill' in any way, as I believe that this will bring all their plans grinding to a halt and, like Mum's abandonment of driving, that will be it. Timid old age, fearful of harm.
One the other hand, being 'ill' might actually be a way for my mother to abrogate her role of housekeeper and second fiddle. Perhaps she subconsciously realises this, but I don't think so - she prides herself on her ability to 'keep house'. However, she manages to simultaneously resent the burden of expectation that it puts upon her and dismiss as 'lazy' people who -actually - don't allow themselves to be used in such a manner.

Peoples' happiness seems to be very much like a precarious house of cards - as long as everything is in place all is well: but one puff of the wind of adversity and the whole edifice comes tumbling down around their ears. Its stability rests largely on good luck and an endless amount of minor recalibration.
Roll on the good weather!

Engagement as Strategy

Following on from yesterday's post on the projected increase in dementia sufferers over the next few decades came a very interesting Horizon programme called (ironically) 'Don't Grow Old'. The thrust of the programme seemed to be that, although certain strategies could assist longevity (calorie restriction is one I that I shuddered at, looking at the joyless existence of its practitioners), it ultimately came down to a combination of good genes and attitude. Good genes - that is a hereditary predisposition to live to a good old age - is something that will continue to be a matter of luck until the precise suspects are identified and utilised in gene therapy.
It's no surprise that people who are happier live longer, but that in itself is a bit of a circular argument in that it is easier to be cheerful and upbeat if you don't have to live in pain or with any other sort of physical, mental or psychological burden. Good health, as noted before is mostly a matter of genetic good fortune, ergo happiness is inextricably linked to a good genetic hand.
Interestingly enough, researchers noted that there was a section of the very elderly population (i.e. healthy centenarians) who defied the received wisdom on not smoking, drinking or eating 'naughty foods'. Despite being told of the horrors that lie in wait for those foolish to enjoy a pack of Capstan full-strength a day, brandy in your mug of tea or butter on everything, they looked a picture of sanguine lucidity, positively relishing their daily treats and with no intention of relinquishing them.

A third and very important factor seemed to be that of expectation: people who saw themselves as being old pretty much fulfilled their own expectations. In an bold experiment, a featured gerontologist removed the carers from some conspicuously doddery old men and made them live for a week in an environment where they were made to fend for themselves. They had strict instructions to live just as they had done a couple of decades previously, and to that end were provided with props that reminded them of that earlier time. Amazingly enough, at the end of the week, all the men who had taken part had improved in physical, mental and psychological strength. Their attitude had changed from expecting help and a disinclination to push themselves to a far more positive 'can-do' state. Their balance, co-ordination and alertness had improved dramatically, they had put on weight and even looked younger and were mostly unwilling to return to their former dependent state. It seemed to be not only a real case of 'if you don't want to lose it use it' but 'if you want, you can get it back again' which is most encouraging!

I look at my parents who, in their eighties, are very active and completely independent and see a positive model of old age. My father is still bright as a button and is fascinated by politics (I swear Prime Minister's question time can't start without him!) and my mother acts as a voluntary guide in a civic trust property and has a voracious interest in history (she is currently 'doing' the Crusades). They get plenty of exercise with their dogs, plan holidays and diversions and generally have a tremendous appetite for life.

However, my husband's parents (in their sixties) seem to be slipping almost gratefully into old age. Having got her bus-pass on the dot of sixty, my m-i-l declared that 'was now old'. Their curtains are drawn tight shut by dusk and the doors bolted. They never go away on holiday preferring day trips (always to the coast, 40 miles away, on the train as my f-i-l prefers not to drive) and their world is regulated by mealtimes (always 'home for tea') and grocery shopping. They have no hobbies, no pets and no outside interests and, as far as I can tell, read only the local newspaper, being politically and intellectually disengaged. They are lovely, kind people, but I fear that their old age (which they have already welcomed with opened arms) will be long and increasingly dull and, with their lack of mental stimuli, I am not a little concerned at the prospect of them being affected by dementia.

I myself am not particularly bothered by the thought of old age: I am not particularly vain, so I don't mourn excessively the fading of my looks as some women (and indeed men) do. I would certainly never any countenance cosmetic 'procedure' more extreme than buying a new mascara. Having abandoned the gym as boring, my interests are now such that they can be carried into extreme old age (as long as I can still see - I would consider surgery to ensure this): in fact many Bible scholars are very long-lived. I am a bit on the heavy side, but can still run when I need to, and it is a medically counter-intuitive fact that women live longer if they are mildly overweight (query: protects against osteoporosis which finishes off many a skinny old bird). I enjoy a glass of wine, bar of chocolate and the occasional Gitanes or cigar and I have no intention of giving any of these things up.

The Husband's main hobby (competitive indoor rowing) however, relies on him being in tip-top physical condition, which he has to work very hard at during his four sessions a week at the gym. He has always prided himself on his physique and to this end spends an additional few hours lifting weights. He used to play the piano (beautifully), but this became sidelined in his quest for peak fitness. This complete somatisation plus the unhelpful paradigm of his parents is, to say the least, a bit worrying. If you perceive yourself a mainly a body which, even with the best genetic hand will indubitably wither and age, your old age not only be devoid of the focus of your younger years, but will also be tainted with nostalgia and regret that the best has gone.

An ability to see old age as just another phase rather than a full-stop to the life that has gone before, and a handful of interests seem to be vital in ensuring a 'good' old age.

Engagement - yes, that's what it is - a willingness to engage, and be engaged by life.

New Year's Fun

As it is the last day before the general return to work/school/study - no waiting until 12th night which falls on a Wednesday this year - we spent the first part of the morning taking down the Christmas tree and cards and stowing all the baubles in the loft until next year. We were quite shocked at how quickly Christmas had come round again this year, and no doubt we will be expressing the same sort of thoughts twelve months hence. Once everything was all clean and tidied away it was actually quite pleasant to have that bit of extra space and the feeling that the coming week represents a 'fresh start' in many ways. Once that was out of the way, all four of us went up and over Siward's How, the southerly ridge that obscures the low winter sunlight from our house, to the steepish hill that drops away onto Fulford Moor. This is excellent sledging terrain: the Husband and the Bright-Eyed Boy did some reconnaissance yesterday and ended up having two hours of snow-based fun. They couldn't wait to go back again today, and daughter #3 and I needed little persuading. The piste itself is reasonably uniform in profile (with some more challenging sections) that has been polished over the past couple of days to a glassy sheen, ensuring a fast and rather exciting trip. The run-out area at the bottom of the hill starts where the longer weeds and grass poke through the snow as a natural break. I suppose the entire run from top to bottom is about a couple of hundred feet or so, and you can reach a fair old speed. The trickiest bit is avoiding other sledgers, especially as the steering is a bit erratic, and a good loud shouting voice is essential! There were a lot of families there, lots of Dads imparting advice to their children and a lot of parents doing stuff that is going to mean aching joints and stiff muscles tomorrow (myself included - one particularly spectacular wipeout left me with some colourful abrasions on my leg).

But was most noticeable was the sound, a sound of pure joy, people of all ages laughing and having wonderful fun together that didn't rely on expensive gadgets or complicated preparations, and it struck me how unusual that was -an atmosphere of warmth and camaraderie, strangers chatting to one another, all their defences down.

Gradually the sun became veiled by cloud and large flakes of snow started to fall silently. Having had the best fun we'd had for ages, we headed home for soup and hot buttered toast, making a wholehearted resolution that this year we would - as a family -try to have much more fun!

Are We Nearly There Yet?

Before ten a.m., and I am already on the computer, second cup of coffee and a cigarette. Not terrible, but I am finding the last few days of the school holidays are starting to shred the nerves. We are all quite bored: we've been to all the places we want to go, done most of the things we can afford to do and are mostly just kicking our heels waiting for the new term to start. The children have taken to staying awake late, their sleep-banks having been stocked up over the past six weeks. Consequently, they wake late too, hence my early occupation here. The juggernaut of family life creaks slowly into life no earlier than mid-morning, by which time my enthusiasm for it all is already starting to wane. I am reading 'The Golden Notebook' by Doris Lessing and wryly recognised the protagonist Anna's (or is it her alter ego Ella's?) statement that she disliked the enforced discipline of being a mother, disliked what it had turned her into; disliked the list of things to do that made 'normal' life possible, but understood that this petty routine was necessary to prevent her falling into formless chaos (tautology? can chaos be full of form?) and indeed, underpinned her personality in other spheres - up to a point.
So that's me then: both resentful and dependent on my dutifulness to give me discipline. Because I know that the liberty that I will gain when the school term starts is largely illusory and that I will still sit, open-mouthed and vacant and wondering what to do next. Because there is no freedom in freedom. Freedom is to be found in the interstices of routine.

The Prodigal Son

Many modern scripture critics protest that the parable of the Prodigal Son is meaningless because the father in the story risked nothing by his actions. In his book 'The Cross and the Prodigal' Dr Kenneth Bailey counters this charge, stating that the humiliation of having a runaway and dissolute son would have been obvious to the parable's original audience, and that the father's spontaneous and undignified scramble to greet his arrival home would have been deemed most unbecoming to a man of his mature years and apparent social standing.
So what do we learn from this insight? That parental love overcomes all? Partly yes.....but more to the point that the father felt his family to be incomplete without the younger son. The older son, who had faithfully worked for his father for years without reward, did not compensate the old man for the absence of his other son. The relationship between the three, which should have been mutually supportive and beneficial was thrown out of kilter by the runaway, whose selfishness eventually led to his own abasement and despair. It was only when the prodigal realised his dependence on his father - love, interestingly enough is not mentioned - that he decided to return home and thus restore the status quo.
Families are fragile and inherently unstable things. When things go well, everything seems easy. When something unforeseen occurs, the whole structure is prone to collapse unless the parties involved make a concerted effort to pull together.
Many people today live in a family situation where some lack is felt - dissatisfaction with other members, work, education, leisure time, diet, emotional or psychological needs - and feel helpless to do anything to ameliorate the situation. This is because a lot of people refuse to do anything that does not let them experience immediate feelings of gratification and pleasure. They seem oblivious to the notion (recognised by earlier generations) that many things to not have an instant pay-off, that we may have to do something that isn't pleasant, or is indeed unpleasant, in order to achieve a distant goal. But the important thing is to keep this goal in sight, however far off it seems to be (see my earlier post 'The Season of Self-Loathing').
The father in the parable surely must have kept the hope that his younger son would eventually return to him, and meanwhile endured the uncomfortable feelings of society's pity and disapproval and his longing for the youth.
The older son selfishly did not seem to recognise his father's distress and yearning for the younger man, nor the instability of a home that was incomplete.
The younger son had to plumb the depths of depravity before he realised that he lacked what he once posessed.
Once reunited, the family unit was once again stable and, whether the less experienced of its members recognised it or not, were able to function again to survive life's storms.
We could, if we so desired, extrapolate this into a Trinitarian reflection....but that would be (and indeed might become) a different post.