The Writing on My Wall

Glastonbury Tor (Photo credit: Nick Kenrick .)

 

Over the next few posts, I’ve decided to share some of the words that are pinned up on my study wall.

 

This is the room where I do my writing, plan my lessons and tutor some of my students, so it’s a special place where much of my waking life is spent.  The window looks out onto a northern roof-scape of Glastonbury, with St Edmunds Hill towards the west and – if you know where to look – St Michael’s Tower (the one on top of Glastonbury Tor) just visible above treetops over to the east.

 

Above the door there’s a small metal sign, bearing the word:

 

INSPIRE

 

That’s to remind me what I’m here to do.  It’s what living, educating and writing are all about.

 

Ranged around the walls are other texts from various sources, which have shaped my thinking – and consequently my life.

Today I’m going to share a passage written by a fellow Glastonbury resident – a mystic and visionary who, among other things, created the trust which still runs the beautiful Chalice Well Gardens – my number one favourite place in the world.

His words, having been written in the early twentieth century, pre-date our rather wafty New Age terminology, but the sentiment is clear, and his uncompromising words have helped me to take stock and refocus when doubts and worries have threatened to take over.

 

The importance of positive, constructive, optimistic thinking all day long cannot be over-estimated.  The fight on which you and I are constantly engaged is against the so-called forces of fear, depression, self-centredness and frustration.  Bar your gates against these negative forces as the first step towards making yourself and your life of greater service to others.

Wellesley Tudor Pole

 

 

 

On Sunday I condemned my mother to death

Chalice Well (Photo credit: greenchartreuse)

Yesterday was challenging – no doubt about it.

Woke up on a (finally) sunny and not too cold spring Sunday and was planning a leisurely stroll to the beautiful Chalice Well Gardens here in Glastonbury.

At 9am my mother’s nursing home phoned: would I get down there immediately, please?  Things were bad.

My mum is 91 and has advanced dementia.  She barely eats, she barely wakes up for more than a few minutes at a time and if she gives a smile of recognition once a month I count myself lucky.  She is lifted around in a hoist from bed to shower to chair and is reliant on the wonderful staff at her home for every bodily need.  She has had numerous ‘near misses’.  I’ve lost count of the number of times doctors have told me to brace myself and prepare for the end, but here we were again.

I arrived in her room to find it bursting with paramedics and equipment.  Mum was fully conscious, with wild, staring eyes.  An oxygen mask was clamped to her face.  She was waving her hand about – apparently trying to shake off the probe or whatever it was attached to a finger.

“She has a chest infection,” one of the ambulance staff explained.  “Her oxygen intake is very low and falling.  She needs to be in hospital and on oxygen if we are to save her, but it’s up to you.  If you’d rather we left her here and let nature take its course we’ll respect your decision.”

Great.  9.15 on a Sunday morning and I was being asked to play God with my mother’s life.  The medics were, understandably, in a hurry.  They needed an instant response.

I fought my way through the forest of pipes and tanks and plastic stuff littering the way and stood with my mum.  Her eyes were still darting about.  She looked petrified.  I remembered the other times I’d been to see her in hospital over the past few years – turned into a human pincushion with drips and masks and whatever, surrounded by strangers.  I imagined the 45 minute journey by ambulance with sirens wailing to the nearest hospital.

Words from Conversations With God rang in my ears: “What would Love do now?”

“No,” I said.  “I’d like her to stay here.”

They nodded.  The mask, the oxygen tank and other equipment were whisked away.  The medics’ final comment was that she probably had less than two hours to live, so I decided to spend those two hours well.

I held her hand, stood where she could see my face and I talked.  I started with our life together – all 62 years of it.  I described the holidays we’d had, the houses we’d lived in, the gardens she’d created.  She was still conscious, still listening after all that, so I went on to talk about her own childhood, her friends, her marriage and anything else that came to mind.

Finally a locum GP arrived.  He said she’d stabilised but quite possibly wouldn’t recover.  He didn’t give a timescale.  He put into place a raft of palliative care that covered every eventuality and would ensure that she suffered minimum distress.

I left her sleeping peacefully several hours later.

Well what would you have done?

At times like this – times when we’re dealing with the very toughest choices and challenges – it can be easy to forget that life is a game designed to expand the universe.  I’m very lucky to have wonderful reminders all around me.

This is one: a post from the excellent Ask The Council blog that magically appeared in my inbox this morning.
Here is another: a post I wrote at the end of last year, dealing with the same question.  It contains the guidance I was ‘given’ when someone else asked me why life is so horribly tough.