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| Oupa Frans, December 2013 - Photograph by Matilda |
Within the context
that Matilda sketched in her post Waiting for heaven is hell, last Wednesday
was exceptionally challenging. It was a day filled to the brim with doctors’
appointments and visits to potential care facilities for Oupa Frans.
Being out of his
usual routine makes him even more agitated than usual. He tends to slump when
sitting on a chair, to such an extent that his head is sometimes almost between
his ankles. At the GP and during the interview at the retirement village, we
had to help him sit up straight and then had to physically keep him in that upright
position.
The pit stop
over lunch at friends’ house was arranged so that he could rest for a while.
Nothing came of it because left alone in the bedroom he started undressing
himself in an effort to get rid of the catheter.
He constantly carries
a harmonica, an early birthday present from Juanita, Matilda’s sister, in the
upper pocket of his shirt. He calls it a cell phone. Travelling to the late
afternoon appointment at the psychiatrist in Newcastle, while sitting in the passenger
seat next to me, he went into a repetitive cycle for kilometres on end: taking
the harmonica out of his pocket, putting it in the glove compartment, taking it
out of the glove compartment, putting it in his pocket, taking it out of his
pocket... The ritual was only interrupted by blowing a few short notes now and
then as if to make sure his cell phone was still working. All of a sudden his
focus shifted to the tissue in the pocket of his trousers: taking it out, wipe
his nose and chin, putting it back, taking it out... Over and over until the tissue
disintegrated into pieces of white fluff.
Coming in from
the pouring rain we finally stumbled into the reception area at the psychiatrist.
As soon as we sat down he went into his slumping position. There he remained
for the best part of ten minutes. Then, quite unexpectedly, he pressed on his knees,
lifted himself by straightening his arms and locking his elbows. “Where are we,
George?” “At the psychiatrist.” After a short silence: “This better be good!”
By the puzzled
expression on his face it was clear that he did not understand why we were
laughing so much.
George
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