Vacant Possession

 July 1955, age 19.

Although written in Brugge, not a blog about Brugge this week. Instead I have been concerned about one of my two sisters who moved this week to a home where her family hopes that the presence of some of her furniture; some of her bed linen; some of her possessions will help to persuade her that she is really home, on the farm. She has been demanding to go home for five weeks now but the hospital said that she could not possibly do that; her back is broken; her mind is gone but the sweetness remains if one looks beyond the drugged weariness. On my wall, near the front door, are three portraits of the three of us sisters, taken when we were 21, 19 and 15. I am amazed now, but certain, that not one of us had any notion of what a stunning trio we made; no idea at all. Two of us were pretty; one of us was beautiful and we either never noticed or took it all entirely for granted. Just as we took our communal July birthday as normal. That's how things were.



 Here we are, sharing the same birthday.
July 28th, 1941
The pretty little girl in the frilled dress with The
Important Bow in her hair, is This Sister

  She was very pretty only ever interested in marrying a farmer, which she did. A love match, I think, and until recently, the capacious farmhouse set in the large farm, which she entered as a bride of 24, has been her world. That, and her much-loved family of four children and eventually, five grand-children. When her husband died too young leaving her with a family of four teenagers, she turned round the farm’s fortunes while continuing to manage the mundane housekeeping like baking bread every two or three days, among the myriad other jobs, and founded and ran a successful B & B. I always loved her bread, given freely to visitors from a kitchen often full of the heady smell of newly-baked loaves. She gave up her singing when she married; without apparent regret, it must be said, though she had a lovely voice, loved singing in a choir and had won solo competitions. She always told me not to stand near her in church at family events like weddings, because I would spoil her singing, making her out of tune. Unkind, but true as it happens. But then, there is nothing quite like the brutal honesty of sisters! 

There is, of course, none of that sisterly honesty now; she cannot remember anything much. Some language remains, and her descent into dementia has been long and slow; she lost, long ago, the sudden rages against the insidious dying of the light. Concentration, memory and focus have gone; her instant reply to any question is, ‘I don’t know’, an effortlessly easy answer which doesn’t demand any shadow of exertion. There is no obvious desire to please, nor indeed, to displease, yet the old gentleness endures. She can still hold short, simple conversations but soon after eating, can ask again for food, not remembering the recent meal. She does nothing all day; the TV may be on but she doesn’t watch it. Her endless, pointless, docile waiting, punctuated by the occasional visit, seems untroubling to her; she is oblivious to her condition and does not even notice that she can no longer perform simple tasks like making a cup of tea. She is just content to sit and await the next minute; the next hour; the arrival of food and drinks and perhaps, the next stranger. In fact, waiting is the wrong verb; waiting implies an object, event, an arrival, a person for whom one waits; my sister waits for no one; she just sits. Without memory, life is almost meaningless but without consciousness, the pointlessness of existence goes unnoticed.

Earlier this year, I went to stay for a few days at her farm, and one of her sons had the brilliant idea of taking us back to see the little semi-detached a few miles away, where we had grown up. The house looked pretty much the same though the garden was quite different but I didn’t mind; I was delighted to see it still standing among the numerous other houses in a tarmacked suburbia unrecognisable from the rutted country lane of eighty years before. A rare survivor. Even better, nearby was a little country park containing the original wood where we had played so often in our childhood. All our games, our competitions, our gang meetings, our quiet walks and noisy play; our tree-climbing, our finding birds’ nests, and sometimes, eggs, our conker-gathering and black-berrying, had been centred there in what had then seemed an expansive, almost magical, wonderland but which now was clearly seen to be  modest in size. Her son dragged the wheelchair over the humps to the part nearest to our old house and we sat her on a convenient log and I supported her back because she was afraid of falling. The space seemed familiar to her and the delight for both of us was infectious. For me, so many distant memories and a few names; for her, an intangible happiness and a total and rare relaxation that stayed for a long time. All the usual anxiety vanished from her face and she, suddenly care-free, looked ten years younger. I recounted a few memories but we couldn’t share them. But we did share the bonhomie, the sudden joy, the positivity of a happy surprise. The feelings bound us together and we smiled in idiotic delight at each other.

I hear now, from her family, that she is delighted with the new home because it is so much better than the hospital which she hated. She knows she isn't back at the farm but, at least, for now, is contented with her room, some familiar furniture and linen, the rural view from the window, and the frequent family visits. The drug regime is to be reduced and, we hope, a safe sort of peace descend. Her family grieves for the self she has lost and her many years of hardly living, but she doesn't know what life used to be. To be warm, safe, fed is enough. That, and to feel loved.