This letter was first published in the North Devon Journal on 23rd December 2008
IN the small but rapidly expanding market town of Barnstaple, where I grew up, there is a hidden, well kept secret.
This secret is not of the type where babies are often abused and sometimes murdered by their carers nor that of further afield, of tribal brutality arbitrated through casual torture, rape, bullets and bombs.
This secret is full of goodness, the kindness of strangers, compassion, and above all, love. Not love of self through the fripperies of fashion, alternative 'therapies' and the 'because you're worth it' mentality which encapsulates and elucidates how we have reached the situation that we now find ourselves in, as a nation and around the globe.
This secret does not shout its name and the people who carry it with them day after day ask for no awards nor accolades yet are all heroes in their own quiet self effacing way. I have been privileged over the last 15 months to have gained access to the secret as too was my mother, who sadly died just recently at the age of 85.
Her death was not quick and merciful, but bit by painful bit across many diseases and several years. Those in the public sector charged with helping us to help her were less than responsive, mired in political correctness, bureaucracy and incompetence. Our story is ordinary, nothing special, with our mum like most mums, loved, cherished and at the centre of the family, even with seriously declining health and the need for care far greater than we could provide.
Walking through the door of CLAYFIELD care home rather than the back of a wardrobe, was our family's 'Narnia' moment. Not the grubby and depressing world of elderly care, as often depicted by the media, but a place of laughter, happiness and hope. All of the residents treated with dignity and respect, all remaining individuals even, but especially, to the end. CLAYFIELD's bricks and mortar are handsome enough, with lovely sitting/dining areas and cosy individual rooms for the residents. But it is the smell of the place which is overpowering; not that of unappetising cooking, all melded with chemical cleaners mixed with an overwhelming and unmistakable odour of despair. The home, for that is what it is and all the word 'home' implies, smells of cleanliness, not of the antiseptic kind, but of fresh beds, clean clothes, bathed bodies, warmth, fresh flowers, mouth watering meals, fresh air, sunshine, family, and goodness.
To have been part of the 'secret' which I have now revealed, will remain with me always as will my mum's passing.
To know that Mum could and did tell the carers at CLAYFIELD, as she did her own children, that she loved them and for the wider family to feel the embrace of these strong and remarkable women after Mum's death has brought grace, quietude and solace. The wishes of the family were sought and accommodated, while Mum's well being remained paramount and hospital was never contemplated for those final days and hours. Neither was it over until it was over, with staff trying to help her by consulting with medical professionals to the last whilst also administering medication, food, drink, bathing and changing her with love and yet more love. They wouldn't give up, always believing there was more that they could do.
We all appear to believe these days that we are genetically linked to Peter Pan and that we will not age or die. This, I can confirm, is not the case after watching the body from which I took my first breath take its last. We will not discover Neverland via expensive potions and lotions.
Time and tide waits for no (wo)man as the residents of CLAYFIELD and all other care and nursing homes can surely attest to. They too dream of restoration of vitality, youth and beauty and their 'value' reinstated rather than how in today's world they are perceived as 'old' and a 'drain' on society's resources. CLAYFIELD 'secret' is that those in its care are first and foremost people, and will remain people with dreams, memories, hopes and fears.
At this, the darkest time of the year, there is always the promise of light. When I confront the darkness and what will become of me, CLAYFIELD is my beacon. My thanks and gratitude will be with the staff always.
ROZ MORGAN,
daughter of Gwen (1923 - 2008).
