After a long break: explaining the next sequence of posts

I write this blog in the full knowledge that it's rarely accessed right now other than by me.  One or two friends know about it but I've done nothing to draw the world's attention to it; that may change.  I may eventually draw the material into some sort of book or at least presentation when the saga is over, whenever however it may end.  For now, it's just here for me; but in case anyone does stumble across it, or to those I ask to visit the site, I need to say this.

I went on holiday in June, after which life became interestingly hectic on several fronts and I stopped blogging.  I just couldn't make the time.  Meanwhile a great deal of relevant stuff has happened, especially with regard to my dad's situation, and I'm already reading earlier posts with a kind of disbelief that he functioned as well as he did so recently.  It's different now, as you'll see, and I need - to repeat, mostly for myself at this stage - to bring the story up to date (and by the time I've done that it will have moved on some more, I've no doubt).

The posts that I'm - hopefully - going to start publishing may or may not be in chronological sequence for a while; they will draw on correspondence and conversations that may go back several months; I may need to interrupt the flow as the situation develops.  There is a story I need to tell; I can't promise that the chapters will follow in logical order, in fact I can virtually guarantee that they won't.   Sorry about that!

Of all the people to find God - and why now?

Like a lot of liberal Christians, I'm highly tickled by Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett and their ilk, writers who can never leave off having a go at religion.  Their neat cynicism is such a refreshing change from the pious and usually ignorant waffle that gets disgorged from your average pulpit on a Sunday - though not when I'm in it of course :)  Adams, to whom I came first, always struck me as more of an agnostic than he cared to admit or perhaps was even aware.  Self-professed atheist he might be, but if there was nothing in this God stuff why couldn't he leave it alone?  Religious speculation punctuates the Hitchhiker books; the first Dirk Gently story surely exposes Adams' own anxieties about the afterlife or absence thereof through the Gordon Way character who is  killed but doesn't know what to do next, while in the inferior sequel Norse gods are central to the plot.

I suspect that history will pronounce Pratchett's literary achievement to be greater than Adams' as it manifestly is in terms of bulk: the Discworld man has continued to publish his chronicles of Discworld at reliably regular intervals, never hindered by the writer's block that plagued Adams.  Nonetheless it was Adams who blazed the trail, creating a market for comic, philosophically adult, fantasy fiction; and Pratchett, like his forerunner, also delighted in mocking religion while at the same time drawing heavily on it for themes and character traits.

 

One assumed that Pratchett would take his scepticism with him to the grave.  Not so.

There is a rumour going around that I have found God. I think this is unlikely because I have enough difficulty finding my keys, and there is empirical evidence that they exist.

More, Terry, more: that's the authentic voice of contemporary scepticism, and your books are full of it.  However, the article (published by the Daily Mail in June 2008) continues more earnestly.

But it is true that in an interview I gave recently I did describe a sudden, distinct feeling I had one hectic day that everything I was doing was right and things were happening as they should.

It seemed like the memory of a voice and it came wrapped in its own brief little bubble of tranquillity. I'm not used to this.

He goes on to describe what is technically known as the oceanic experience (I've had one, they are sublime and unforgettable, no more mockable than Mozart or Leonardo: they feel like brief intimations of that utter, transcendent perfection otherwise known as heaven)

what shall I make of the voice that spoke to me recently as I was scuttling around getting ready for yet another spell on a chat-show sofa?

More accurately, it was a memory of a voice in my head, and it told me that everything was OK and things were happening as they should. For a moment, the world had felt at peace. Where did it come from?

Me, actually - the part of all of us that, in my case, caused me to stand in awe the first time I heard Thomas Tallis's Spem In Alium, and the elation I felt on a walk one day last February, when the light of the setting sun turned a ploughed field into shocking pink; I believe it's what Abraham felt on the mountain and Einstein did when it turned out that E=mc2.

It's that moment, that brief epiphany when the universe opens up and shows us something, and in that instant we get just a sense of an order greater than Heaven and, as yet at least, beyond the grasp of Stephen Hawking. It doesn't require worship, but, I think, rewards intelligence, observation and enquiring minds.

I don't think I've found God, but I may have seen where gods come from.

If you don't find that moving you are reading the wrong blog.  I'd want to discuss that penultimate sentence with Pratchett: the oceanic experience doesn't "require" formal worship - my own was certainly not Christocentric in content, more pagan in the strict sense (but then I love the natural world) - but it may draw worship from you, you want to mark your thankfulness for the occurrence.  And what it "rewards" is not so much intelligence as openness to possibility.  But my graver concern is that while he's been playing with religious questions all his life, he only gets a religious experience after he's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's: and of course any form of dementia, even in its mildest stages, can alter perception.  The possibility that it's some kind of psychic abberration has to be registered.

The sceptic in me wonders if the oceanic experience is not some kind of release mechanism, universal in humans, the brain's way of coping with certain varieties of stress.  Being told that you have dementia might be overwhelming but Pratchett, with more books yet to write, needs the sense that "all will be well" in order not to give up - so his brain generates it for him. I'm seeing a parallel with the way in which, when you're faced with a situation that calls for extreme bravery, the body floods with adrenalin of which one consequence is that you don't back off just because something you are doing (e.g. rescuing someone from a fire) is causing you great pain and distress.  You don't feel it until the danger has passed, then it hurts.  Hey, I've got a degenerative condition, I'm losing my mind here, I'm going to die.  Cue reassuring experience from brain - don't worry, it will be fine in the end.  So I can still function, for a while.

It's odd that I, an ordained Christian minister, find myself challenging a sceptic's apparent "conversion" on the grounds it may have a purely psychological basis.  What I'm not challenging is Pratchett's reference to  "an order greater than Heaven and, as yet at least, beyond the grasp of Stephen Hawking."  That there is such an order gets close to one of the central convictions in my faith; which I would lose if Stephen Hawking, or whoever, convinced me that they had grasped it.

I'm not holding my breath.   Hawking is a genius, but then so was Newton, who could write with honest humility:

I was like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me

Pratchett would get that.  I'm not sure that Hawking does.

Chucking the carers out

Dad's getting paranoid.  The beefed up care plan was agreed, but of course he's forgotten that.   So now he has extra people coming to see him and he doesn't know who they are.  Nice people, trained in caring, able to win the trust of older people, that's hopefully why they're in this line of work... it couldn't be that it was this or bust, turn this one down and we stop your benefits, sunshine, could it?

Well, in the case of Edgar, you have to wonder.  I thought at first it was a shrewd move on the part of the agency to involve an older man in the care team, someone closer to Dad in both age and gender who would find it easy to establish rapport.  But what gave Edgar an advantage through being male and old, he forfeited by being, it would seem, unsuited for his job.  He sounds, piecing together the accounts of both the cleaner and neighbour, like a grumpy old beggar with no real empathy and lacking basic people skills... even known to eff and blind in Dad's hearing.  I can cope with fruity language, have been known to use it myself, anything but conform to the stereotype of the pious vicar whose eyebrows twitch at the slightest deviation from BBC newsreader English, but Dad wouldn't like it - he's more pious in that regard than me.  Or just more conventional.  Anyway, for whatever reason, Dad has now taken against Edgar and won't let him in the house.  From what I hear, I'm not sure I'd want Edgar in mine.

But think of the double precedent that sets.  First, Dad has formed a dislike of a male person with responsibility for his care.  So, males responsible for his care are people he can permit himself to dislike; but given his mental infirmity, that begins to colour his perception and memories of other male care figures who have been kind to him, with whom he has got on well.  He now recalls them through the lens of his encounters with Edgar: "oh I didn't like that doctor very much" he has said of one particular consultant.  Bollocks, Dad (he wouldn't use that word either): you got on with him fine, but you're hearing "male doctor" and remembering Edgar.

Second, if it's OK to chuck male carers out of the house, who's to say it's not OK to chuck out female ones?  and that's started to happen, as of today (October 25)  He's refused entry to lovely little Yvonne, had her in tears even.  Why?  Well, because Yvonne had said that she was coming instead of Zoe, had taken over from her and he wasn't having that.  It wasn't true, of course but Dad is - as I'm sure I shall keep saying - making up reality as he goes along.  What's become different quite recently is that it's a reality that makes him wary and suspicious, drawing on a side of his character that's always been on the lookout for con artists and cowboys.  He's not in a good place right now.

Dad has needs he's not aware of.  He doesn't wash properly, gets his clean and mucky clothes mixed up, isn't eating anything like a balanced diet ... he has his pride and won't be told, which is understandable, but even if he admits his carers it's not going to do much good if he won't let them do any caring.  I'm glad that daily contact is being made, but the plan needs to have a bit more oomph if it's going to work.

Absolutes at the end of life [1]

"Thou shalt not kill, but.needst not strive/Officiously to keep alive."  Arthur Hugh Clough, one of the great Victorian agnostics.

I am wary of absolutism in morals.  I prefer to say that there is a presumption in favour of something (telling the truth, being kind) or against it (theft, jealousy) rather than: you must always or you must never.  In general one doesn't hold with killing; anyone who takes a life has a case to answer, in the way that the preserver of life does not.  Absolute pacifists excepted, we allow for the exception of killing in war, which is fine.  Brave.  Heroic. Yeah, right.  Don't get me started: I'm not a pacifist, I just think war is a totally disgusting activity.

Where were we?  Oh yes, absolute moral imperatives.  Clough is right: there is none which requires us to preserve life at all costs.  Compassion may require us to end the life of another, as humanely as we can.  Religious conservatives dissent, of course.

At the Hillsborough disaster on 15 April 1989, 95 football fans were killed, either on the day or not long afterward.  A 96th fan, Tony Bland, survived.... except he didn't.  He entered a "persistent vegatative state" from within which no-one could communicate with him or he with anyone else.  All his biological functions had to be attended to by medical staff, apart from breathing, which he could still do without machine support.  Which meant he had to be kept alive.

If you can call it living.  But there was nothing to distinguish between this "living" and the mere existence of the bed in the ward he on lay for four years.  He wouldn't be waking up.  He might as well have died at Hillsborough, as his parents would have preferred.  Common sense suggested that Tony should be put to sleep for good, but under English law the administering of a lethal injection would have counted as murder.  Eventually the law was made to see sense, and gave permission for Tony's nutrition to be withdrawn, so that he would in effect starve to death. 

The case made legal history and is worth looking up.  What you may not discover is the reaction of the "Sanctity of Life" brigade, who had kept pretty quiet while the legal battle was raging.  That's quiet as in offering no pastoral support to Tony's parents and his consultant, all of whom as it happened were Christians and could share their agonising as brothers and sister in the Lord, so to speak, as well as within the formal relationship of doctor and carers.  Mr & Mrs Bland, we learned, felt that God's will was for Tony's vegetative state to be ended.  They'd prayed this through, they felt at peace with that conclusion.  But as soon as the decision to withdraw treatment from Tony was announced, then the right-to-lifers crawled out of the woodwork, standing in sanctimonious protest with their placards on the entrance drive to Airedale Hospital near Keighley, where Tony was (it was also my local hospital at the time, which is how I know this detail.)

The moralisers' action served only to distress the Blands, challenge the integrity of a highly regarded consultant while failing to serve Tony's interests.  It trumpeted their own self-righteousness, insensitivity and ignorance.

The rest of us were provoked by the Tony Bland case into reflecting both on what this thing called "life" is that is supposed to have sanctity, and on the difficulty of framing laws that may allow us to hasten death when to preserve life benefits no-one.  Only the most blinkered of ideologues would argue that withdrawing Tony Bland's treatment undermined some vital principle.  Saying that, however, raises more questions than can easily be answered: such as, how persistent does a vegetative state have to be before it justifies the termination of life?  And, by extension, where there is life, even conscious life but precious little by way of quality and no real prospect of improvement, would that make it OK to reach for the lethal hypodermic?

For Andrew Devine's parents the questions present themselves in the most acute and tragic form; for Andrew was also critically injured at Hillsborough.  Like Tony Bland, he existed for years in a deep coma and might have been allowed to die on the same grounds.   Unlike the Blands, however, Hilary and Stanley Devine held out, hoping for a miracle.  The twist is that Andrew's vegetative state did not persist: he came round.  Sort of.  In 1997 he opened his eyes and recovery seemed to be on the cards.  In 2009, twenty years after the disaster, the Daily Mirror carried this piece, in which the Devines come across not only as immensely stoical, appreciative of people's kindness, still full of "why's" about the dreadful events of 1989, but also stubborn going on denialist.  The photograph shows them tough, defiant.  They speak of Andrew's ability to understand what's going on, for which there is no evidence: only that he has some minimal consciousness, which has not significantly improved in 12 years.  The Devines seem to be great copers, but at some cost to their sense of proportion.

As I check this post for mistakes, "File on 4" is devoting a programme to the plight of persistent vegetative state victims, of whom there are 5000 in this country alone, and their distraught carers.  Gulp.  There but for the grace of God... Do the Blands ever look at the Devines and think: we were fortunate in that Tony never came round before the decision to end his "life" was taken.  That wasn't murder: Andrew Devine is comatose rather than in a coma, so if you ended his life, murder is exactly what it would be.  Which seems a harsh, legalistic judgement, but what else can you say?  He's not a candidate for assisted dying, because he's not alive enough to express a preference for life over death.  That you have no quality of life does not entitle anyone else to put you out of your misery; if it were otherwise, the dementia homes would go out of business.

Further reflection needed, possibly in the light of Terry Pratchett's programme on the subject.

Snippets

Odd reflections on Dad's situation...

I don't think I have recorded the social worker's visit, at the point where it was becoming obvious that he had dementia but before the formal diagnosis.  In one revealing episode he suddenly decided he was going to tell the kind lady about some short stories he had written, with a view to publication in at least the church magazine, if not for the general public.  Dad can construct a grammatically correct English sentence and compose plausible dialogue, and that's as far as his literary talent stretches: he's not going to be making the Booker shortlist any time soon.   More embarrassing than the triteness of his writing was his complete inability to reaalise that social workers don't visit in order to have little stories read to them.  But Dad had an audience, so there was no stopping him.  He had no idea how blatantly his behaviour betrayed his condition.

-o0o-

 An illustration of how timescales collapse in the mind of the pwd.  Dad was recalling the various chapels that had closed over the years - "in quick succession" was his phrase.  Well, one of them to my certain knowledge had closed before I was born, another just a couple of years back.  Succession, OK.  Quick - hardly.

-o0o-

In his prime, Dad was systematic, more so than I'll ever be.  His paperwork was always up to date, he kept lists relevant to his various interests.  One that he'd dug out on a recent visit, for old times' sake I guess, was a catalogue of hymns, showing the combination of organ stops that he would use for each tune.

Then there were files full of transcripts, painstakingly hand-copied from borrowed scores (this was long, long before the days of photocopiers).  He'd taken one from his music cupboard and it was sitting there on his piano open at a certain piece.  I sat down on the stool and sight read it.  "Bit of a stinker, that one," said Dad.  I gulped.  That's what he always used to say if I was tackling a hard passage and he heard me making mistakes, but jeepers, this was a doddle, completely straightforward; and a year ago he would have said the same.  His yardstick for what constitutes a "stinker" is a good deal shorter than it used to be.  Makes me wonder if he can still play as well as he could relatively recently.  I have heard that musical skills persist in pwd's even when other abilities (such as dressing yourself) are long gone, but I have yet to see the evidence in Dad's case. 

-o0o-

 In Grottsville as elsewhere, the wheelie bins are colour coded.  I think it's brown for organic waste, blue for anything recyclable, black for everything else.  Brown bins go out one week, blue and black the next, alternately.   Though not everyone seems to have a black bin, Dad certainly didn't.  Don't ask me.  Grottsville Council does not have a good reputation for organising such things.  Or indeed for organising anything.

As his confusion became more apparent, Dad predictably ceased to distinguish between the two bins.  If - and it was if - he remembered to throw stuff away at all, it would land in whichever one took his fancy.  I rang the Council, explaind the situation, and you'll guess what happened next.  They arranged for him to have a black bin, so that all his rubbish would go into the one place, and a black bin was duly sent to the house.  To keep life simpler for him.  What the Council didn't do was take the other two bins away, so Dad now has three bins into which he can chuck his random selection of rubbish as the whim takes him.

-o0o-

Fruit pastilles.  What's that about?  He's got stacks of them - a dozen packets or so, sitting on a kitchen shelf; and an old tin into which he's emptied the contents of another half dozen.  I don't think I've ever seen him suck one.  There must be a memory that tells him "I like fruit pastilles",  so he buys them, and it used to be linked with another one: "to enjoy fruit pastilles, take them one from the packet and pop it in your mouth" but that connection has now gone.  So the pastilles just sit there. 

-o0o-

This links with the sense in which he forgot my birthday.  That's to say he knows when my birthday is, though he's vague as to my actual age.  But he doesn't make the connection: if someone's birthday is due, you send them a card.  That's not just remembering, it's acting appropriately on the basis of the memory, and that's the competence he's losing.

Open window, mouldy quiche

This time, when I visited Dad, the house was reasonably tidy by his current standards.  Mind, it was the day after Zoe's second session of the week so he'd hardly had time to get things messed up.  There were still the remains of a meal-for-one sitting on top of the microwave from the previous day, plus a box containing a Sainsbury's quiche which I took out and examined: it was thick with green mould.  Presumably he'd removed box from freezer quite a while back, forgotten about it and buried it.  I pointed it out to him, and as you can guess his reaction was oh yes, there's a mouldy quiche in that box, just fancy.  Would he have thrown it away had I not pointed it out?  Doubt it.  Would he have eaten it?  Of course not.  He would just have left it until someone else (usually Zoe) disposed of it for him.  In a rational person you'd decry this as the behaviour of a complete slob.  In Dad, the so-what attitude is part of his illness.

He gets around on a mobility scooter, which when not in use sits in the garage, where there's no electric socket.  If he needs to charge it, there is an extension lead which runs from a socket in the kitchen, along a worktop, through the window, across the back yard and into the garage.  When the scooter is fully charged, Dad just turns the juice off at the socket, leaving the cable in place

The garage is padlocked.  The window is open.  All the time.  Just enough to let the cable through, but it can be pulled as wide as you like, allowing access to even the plumpest of burglars.  And this is the house of my father, so careful of security he never leaves the front door unlocked nor even the key beside it.  I was aghast, told him so but I don't think my concern registered.  "Zoe's told me off about that as well", he said, matter of fact.  Women tell you off, it's what they do.  Men ignore then, it's what we do.  I tried to explain that if he was burgled, the insurance company might well refuse to cough up once they found that access had been gained by an open, unlocked, ground floor window.  I think he might have got the message but there's no guarantee it's sunk in.

The obvious solution to his problem is to get a weatherproof external socket put in an outside wall near the garage, a simple enough job for a competent electrician, but I'm not sure if Dad understands that.  I shall have to organise it myself.

Vulnerable adults, eh.  Actually, one of the crime prevention measures Dad took years ago might still stand hin in good stead. At the front of his house there's a highly visible burglar alarm box, just under the front bedroom window. It's a dummy, but apparently these work just as well in deterring villains as the real thing.  

Reality boobs again

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, claimed Douglas Adams, its creator, is definitive.   If it contradicts reality, so much the worse for reality.

Dad was complaining, as he trundled his trolley round Sainsbury's, that they'd shifted products round in the aisles.  Frankly I doubt this; more likely is that his mental "Hitch-hiker's Guide" was giving him its own take on reality, which failed to correspond to what was actually out there; he was remembering wrong.

I have acquired a certain reputation in the family, over the years, for planning walks that go pear-shaped.  Whenever this happens I am accused of mis-reading the map.  Not true; my map-reading skills are second to none.  But the facts on the ground often fail to correspond to the map, or - in our family version of the Adams gag - reality boobs again.  The classic example of this was the day my wife  booted me out of the house with our children for the morning and I took them on a walk in mid-Wharfedale.  I planned a little circular trot using the 1:25,000 map, detailed enough to show the stone walls, never mind major features like bridges.

I mention bridges because as we came to the end of our walk, all we had to do to get back to the lane where I'd parked the car was cross the Wharfe by the bridge clearly marked on the map, the green pecked line of the public footpath superimposed over the blue of the river.  And there, in reality, rose over the Wharfe the complete absence of any bridge whatever.  It must have collapsed many years ago, only traces of its pillars remained but no-one had thought to inform the Ordance Survey of this.

There were only two alternatives: to retrace our steps, which would have meant getting home at least an hour late with two knackered, hungry and very fractious children; or wade across the river.  This being in the days before mobile phones, I had no way of letting my wife know where we were and she'd be frantic. There had been little rain of late and the Wharfe looked as docile as it ever does, so it seemed like a no-brainer.  It was still the Wharfe, though, a notorious stretch of water at any time.  And it did occur to me as I carried the second, heavier child across the main current, my feet negotiating slimy rocks on the river bed, that with the water halfway up my thighs I was only one false step away from disaster.  I made it all right as it happened, but still got a telling off from the missus when she realised how big a risk I'd taken.

Reality boobed big time that day.  But yesterday, back in Grottsville, it boobed in a different sense that provided a kind of metaphor for early dementia.

I know the town, I was brought up there.  But that was forty years ago, since when the developers have done their worst.  There is now an Inner Ring Road, the centre is pedestrianised, once major roads have been downgraded or blocked off, new landmarks have risen like concrete fungi, and whole chunks of the place just aren't there.  The one-way system would fox the Enigma code-breakers.   All I had to do was drive to a familiar road just north of the market place.  I'd allowed myself 20 minutes; it took me an hour and what was worse, I asked for directions twice.  The first person sent me to a completely the wrong place; the second one knew how to get there on foot but if you tried in a car you quickly found yourself confronted by a row of bollards.

Think dementia.  You know your way around but reality has gone and re-arranged itself without consulting you.  You can get from A to B, but you always used to go via C - G, and C isn't there any more, D isn't the pork butchers, it's a Tesco Express, E isn't on the bus route, F is a dual carriageway where there used to be a church, and G is a dead end.  You ask someone how to get to B but they don't know where you mean or they're not native to the region or you can't fathom their accent.  You get to B in the end but it's more luck than judgement and you've no confidence you'd be able to do it again.  Having dementia is like finding your way round the town in which you grew up where only certain landmarks are where they always were, others are missing, new buildings have sprung up to accommodate new-fangled industries, and none of the roads go where you'd expect.