End of week one…..

I’ve done a week and a half on my medicine of the elderly placement so far, and, after a bit of a wobbly start, am loving it. Now that the junior doctor on the ward has realised that I’m actually very willing to do jobs and help her out, she’s become a lot friendlier, and I’m learning a lot on the practical side of things. This is the first attachment in so long where I’ve felt like myself, and it’s good to feel useful too. I finally feel back on track – as though after months of just going through the motions, I’m finally flying again. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be old this week, and in particular, how it is that the majority of people say things like ‘when I go, I want to go quickly‘ and ‘I can’t imagine anything else than gradually declining for years‘ and ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than dementia‘ – and the list goes on – and yet, this is what awaits so many of us. Very few have the fortune of being fully functional to a great age, and then slipping away peacefully without a long slide downhill. These specialist elderly wards are somewhere a lot of us will end up, in the years to come, and where our parents will go before that. These patients are my, your, our, future. Something that’s struck me a lot is that although my generation is often criticised for jumping from one relationship to another, and as a population, it’s got to the stage where more marriages seem to end in divorce than those that make it through, in some ways, this will be a good thing when we’re old – so many of my patients never spent a night alone after they married, often at a young age, and then suddenly, had this huge gap in their lives when their spouse died, and are left, completely asunder, completely bereft, torn in two. They go from having a constant companion, to being terribly alone. It’s hard, being old. I want to help make it less hard. I want to make it easier, better, kinder for them.

I’ve also been thinking a lot on patience this week, after it was covered in the sermon on Sunday. I know that when it comes to myself, and my prayer life, I don’t have much patience – I spent a lot of time when my depression was at its worst stamping my feet (quite literally, and somewhat misguidedly as we live on the second floor – oops) and telling God how fed up of it I was, how I was ready to give in, how I had nothing more to give, or say, or bleed out, and that if things weren’t going to improve – which at the time seemed so unlikely – I just wanted it to stop, dead, myself, dead. Not a lot of patience. Similarly, now, the need to pace myself makes me want to rattle the bars – how long will I need to adhere to all these rules to keep depression at bay? How long will I need to censor everything I’m thinking of doing and ask myself if it’s really in my best interest, or if it will tip me backwards? How long do I have, until I slip back down, how long until the colour starts to fade again and I am lost to the cold of it, once again? I wrote a while back about that feeling of running to keep away from the shadows cast by a setting sun, and that feeling stays with me, as I try and keep in front of depression, on the right side of the horizon, afraid that one day it will overtake me once again. I am thankful every day, that God got me through the worst months, to where I am now, that He gave me back that elusive shard of hope, gone so long, and now, lays a promise of a future at my feet. I am thankful. Hope doesn’t do so well, without patience. I am grateful for days without crying and nights where I fall asleep with ease. I am learning, slowly, to be still. I am learning, slowly, to truly know God.

However, this week has also reminded me that patience towards others is something I am good at, and always has been. I’m good when it comes to working with patients with communication disorders, or cognitive impairment. One of my favourite memories of the SEN camp I worked two years ago (and which my younger brother is working this year – slightly strange) was when I spent an entire day with a participant none of the other staff could manage due to his demanding behaviour – we went on some dodgems a total of 25 times in a row and had a four hour conversation about lego. I still meet up with him regularly, and although I come back exhausted, I love it. I like being with people who just need a bit of extra time – it helps slow me down. I felt quite emotional earlier this week when one of our gentlemen told me that I was the first person to really listen to him (he’s got a lot of speech problems after nerve damage following major head/neck surgery, and is very deaf) as it reminded me that I can do this, and that I have my role and part to play. I’ve still got so much to learn – but it’s good to know that I’m not on the very bottom rung of the ladder.

I’m speaking again at the church group for adults with learning disabilities in two weeks time so am trying to prepare that over the weekend after finishing a case report due on Thursday. I’ve only done the main talk at a meeting once before, so am a bit nervous about it – I’m never quite convinced by the whole ‘anyone can preach the gospel’ thing! I’m trusting that I’ll have a Jeremiah moment and find the right words at the right time, though, and as I’m preaching on Zaccheus and have been offered an 8-foot wooden tree as a prop (apparently the Sunday school in the building we use have fairly regular use for such things….intriguing (or – inTREEging – sorry, couldn’t resist)), what could possibly go wrong?

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