Daisy Abey

EXPERIENCES IN MENTAL HEALTH CARING

HOME LITERATURE AND PSYCHOANALYSIS ABOUT BARRY TEBB LINKS

WHO IS A CARER? ARE YOU A CARER? CARING ABOUT CARERS

DAISY ABEY SHARP EDGE

KITH AND KIN (Sixties Press 2004) CONTENTS


DAISY ABEY SHARP EDGE Lynn looked at her watch, a ten year old Sekonda, its plastic face criss-crossed with scratches, its strap long gone. Sunday 2.00a.m. She wound her watch and held it to her ear for the security of its ticking. She stared at the window again. The same spot at the top right hand corner just below the frame and watched the lone star tremble. A moonless night. Hampstead Heath had lapsed into total darkness. But what did it matter? Had it been a full moon but starless she would have stared at it still, letting her imagination flow. She wanted to fall into a dark hole, a crater, a huge cavity on the pitted surface of the moon. The psychiatric ward was unusually quiet for the time of night, calm after storm. The atmosphere of a midnight curfew. ‘Why am I here, standing by a locked window, the third week running? There’s no room for me to write in, no space for my mind to think. There’s nowhere for my writing, nowhere for anything. I don’t even own six feet of ground to lie under. The world’s so vast but hollow.’ Lynn opened the door quietly, just in case anyone was listening but there was no-one. She thought somebody was in the toilet and she could hear the sound of running water. She stood by the door waiting for whoever it was to come out. She saw the light was on as she waited a further fifteen minutes. ‘Is there anybody in?’ ‘Is there anybody in the toilet?’ She repeated and she asked a third time still more cloudy. The door opened but no-one came out. She heard her own voice echoing. ‘There’s no-one in but I heard the flush. The tap was running. I even heard footsteps!’ Feeling disoriented Lynn walked back to her room. She had a fear of someone following her to steal the rucksack she always carried. Lynn closed her door. She wrapped her grey rucksack in a white hospital towel and put it under the quilt, by the pillow like a new born baby. ‘Royal Free Hospital, not my own freedom’s choice,’ she muttered. For weeks there had been no rain. A spider scuttled across the window. It hung in the air as if suspended on an invisible thread then parachuted down to the sill and crawled over her writing pad and sped away. Large drops of rain fell, randomly tapping the window and smudging the motes of dust. A wind began to sweep across the trees of the heath forcing one way to the west, then a heavy downpour began. To the rhythm of the wind and the waves the rain thrashed in spirals; the star disappeared and the clouds gathered ominously. She couldn’t get to sleep. Her vision was clouded with the flowing threads of the web falling over her long hair. She rubbed her eyes and gave herself up to scenes from her childhood, etched by the acid of memory. Lynn struggled to fall asleep but a growing headache made lights flash in front of her eyes. She thought of asking for sleeping tablets, but she wanted to avoid dependence on medication. Instead she lay still and listened to the rumble of thunder and the rasping rain. Half asleep she heard a slight sound, as if someone had come into her room. Perhaps it was George from Ward 1, who was prone to wander and pace the gallery, swathed in a green bathrobe. He was notorious for counting fingers of imaginary money, whispering to his own ears. He had been to Oxford, Balliol in fact and once he had worked for the Bank of England. There was no knock on the door. Lynn remembered leaving it ajar because she didn’t like the feeling of being in a cell. She pulled the rucksack to her and felt to make sure everything was still there especially the two folders. Reassured she was zipping it up when she saw a woman’s figure cross the room. It was Debbie, a schizophrenic who always carried a blue ribbon in her hand, stepping ritually like an Indian dancer. Debbie beamed and mumbled. ‘I’m leaving today. I’m going to live with my mother. It’s my birthday. A blue ribbon to decorate the cake, a blue bow of a bouquet. I’m expecting twenty-nine red roses to be delivered by my mother. This is a big day. When the heaven’s door opens she’ll fly to me like an angel.’ ‘Happy birthday, Debbie,’ Lynn looked at her, slightly puzzled, while Debbie danced and sang. Roses are in heaven, My mother’s blue shadow Whispers in my mind. A path strewn with petals Is open for me Night and day. Debbie waved the blue ribbon at the sky through the window, then left abruptly. Lynn was relieved the girl had not stayed long. Everyone in the ward seemed hungry for heaven. Secretly Lynn shared their wish but she didn’t want to be in an overcrowded heaven and this realisation brought her back to earth suddenly. Finally the storm ended, leaving a bright glow in the horizon but no star. Lynn tipped the contents of her rucksack onto the bed. She opened the two yellow folders, turning the pages from beginning to end. She put everything back with the folders at the bottom. Carefully she placed an object wrapped in a tea towel over the folders, then all the rest, a toilet bag, a bra, a black pullover with cat hair here and there, a pair of blue denim jeans, underwear, a mug with a picture of Van Gogh’s sun flowers, white socks, a bottle of Horlicks and a toilet roll. All these went into a Tesco carrier-bag. As she finished sorting the rucksack Ann, the ward manager, walked in. Lynn pushed her rucksack under the quilt. She wondered if Ann had been watching her and noticed the contents of the bag. ‘I’m looking for Crime and Punishment. It’s what I’m reading at the moment.’ ‘You’re still awake, Lynn. You must be feeling very tired.’ ‘I’m alright, Ann, but I can’t get to sleep and my eyes ache. I thought that thunder-storm was never going to end. The atmosphere’s heavy and I’ve got a blinding headache.’ Lynn looked at the sky. ‘Still no star’, she sighed. ‘Try to get some sleep Lynn. Would you like a Zopiclone? It’ll put you out for the night.’ ‘I don’t want to get addicted to sleeping pills. The thought of becoming addicted to anything makes me feel sick. My father was an alcoholic.’ ‘What about a glass of milk?’ ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ ‘Are you worrying about your dog and cat?’ ‘My friend is feeding the cat and the dog’s looked after by a neighbour. The depression from my childhood, my parents and my lost child is always in my mind.’ ‘I don’t know much about your case history, but once your depression has calmed down and you are no longer a danger to yourself, you’ll be able to go home. I gather you’re a writer.’ Lynn burst into tears. ‘Let your grief out, Lynn, you’ll feel much better.’ ‘There’s no end to my grief. I feel I’m constantly being crushed by tidal waves and being hurled me out to sea with no hope of survival. Depression comes straight from my heart’s core and my mind’s edge. It sweeps across my whole being like a hurricane. Bits of my unfathomable past come at me like a hail of bullets. It was thirty nine years ago, on a night like this, when my mother died- it was as if a star had gone forever. At seven I was too young to be with her at the end. I stayed at home with my brother who was four. Even that night my father was blind drunk and staggered back home at midnight when the pubs had closed. My brother and I felt very hungry. All we had at home was two tins of baked beans, half a loaf of white bread and some blackberry jam mother had made. I had no idea how to open a tin so we had bread and jam for supper. All the neighbours knew where our father spent his nights. Someone had gone to the ‘Kings Arms’ to tell him about my mother’s death. He said nothing about what had happened until the afternoon of the following day. It was a Saturday and I was playing with Jack, my younger brother. My father went out in the morning, which was unusual for him and a couple of hours later came back with a carrier-bag. He brought us some milk, a bottle of orange squash and a stand pie. ‘Dad, when is our mam coming home?’ I asked. ‘Mammy! Mammy!’ My brother jumped with excitement. ‘She in’t coming anymore. She’s gone somewhere far up above, to ‘eaven’. ‘Dad, can we all go to heaven to see our mam?’ My father told me to pack a suitcase with some clothing for both of us. I packed our things, feeling happy. I really believed we were going to see our mother that afternoon. Our father took us on the bus to his sister’s house in Keighley. While we waited for a bus in City Square it poured down. We were never to see our home or our mother again. ‘Lynn, we all have to face the loss our parents one day. Fortunately my father lived until he was eighty and my mother to ninety-one. I felt such an emptiness when they’d gone.’ ‘Mothers never die. It was so difficult for me to believe that my mother wasn’t there anymore. The space she left was impossible to fill. I still look for her everywhere, in crowds in the market, at railway stations, in the newspapers. I stare at mothers who come to pick up their children from school. I stand at the terminus hoping she’d get off the 109 bus. She might appear to me perhaps as an angel or rise from waves of the sea.’ ‘Did you see much of your father after your mother’s death?’ ‘No’. The window was meshed with a fine mist. Lynn continued to speak, staring at the far horizon which curved into the shapeless miasma of night. ‘I remember my father came to see me one Christmas Eve. In a corner of his tatty old leather holdall he had a packet of beef sausages and a bottle of cider. When he kissed me I could smell the drink on his breath. Then he kissed aunt Mary. ‘Mek’ this for me supper’. He slopped the polythene pack of sausages onto his sister’s palm. I was as terrified as a hare caught in a snare. I thought he had come to take me with him. My father’s sister, aunty Mary, was a spinster in her late forties. On one Sunday morning I was woken to the chiming of St. Andrews Church bells. Then I heard her calling us. ‘Lynn! Jack! Wash yourselves and get down for breakfast. Mr and Mrs Cameron will be here soon’. There was a brief silence. ‘Remember, you two, put on your best clothes!’ I wore my lace fringed green cotton dress. It was one size too big when my mother bought it for me at a stall in Leeds market. I had grown since but still I could wear it comfortably. It was my mother’s last present to me. My brother put on a pair of blue trousers with a yellow tee shirt. We sat at the table facing each other and ate Cornflakes. My brother spilt some milk on the table. I grabbed a tea towel to clean it off and somehow I managed to pull the tablecloth and the two china cereal bowls and two glasses of Tizer clinked, clanked then fell to the floor to smash into pieces. The milk bottle emptied itself over my brother’s tee shirt, then rolled over the lino and ended under a dining chair. ‘Stop messing about you two devils! I can’t wait until they take one of you away to Scotland,’ aunty Mary yelled. ‘I wish you both out of my sight. Lynn, you listen to me! Bring that mop and bucket and clean the floor. Take Jack upstairs and change his clothes.’ I pulled the broken china and glass into a dustpan and mopped the floor while aunty Mary was waiting for the childless couple who were adopting Jack. A few minutes later I heard a car pull up in front of the house then the doorbell rang. Mrs Cameron was a skinny woman with fish-like eyes while her husband plump and round faced, wore gold-rimmed glasses. Both were in their thirties. They were followed by a tall woman in a navy blue skirt and a jacket who announced herself as Miss Foster from the social services. She was carrying a buff file. Mary asked her in. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ my aunt volunteered. It was a blazing hot July day but everyone except Miss Foster demanded tea. They chatted politely while Miss Foster sat primly on the sofa, smiling at my brother and me rather grimly. She didn’t stay long. Half an hour, then another twenty minutes passed. I didn’t know what was happening. ‘We’d better make a move soon, we have to travel to Edinburgh.’ Mr Cameron muttered to his wife. Mary brought down a small suitcase with my brother’s belongings. ‘Give us a goodbye kiss, Jack,’ aunty Mary said pretending some show of enthusiasm. I ran upstairs, in terror that my brother was going to leave forever. ‘Lynn, come down and say goodbye to Jack’ Mary called. ‘We’ll look after your brother don’t you fret’ Mrs Cameron said, patting my head perfunctorily. Then she spoke quite proprietarily to my brother. ‘Jack we’re your new mum and dad. Today you’re going to live in a big house. There’s a garden with a pond full of fish and frogs and a dog to play with.’ Jack was puzzled and when Mrs Cameron held his hand he screamed desperately. ‘Mammy, Mammy’ crying fearfully all the time and clinging to my dress. Then I started to sob my eyes overflowing with a tide of tears. My brother was too scared even to hold the white fluffy cuddly teddy they had brought him so Mrs Cameron carried it herself. As they got into the shiny red car I so wished I was going. ‘So you kept on living with your aunt?’ Yes. Her house was in the middle of a huge council estate in Seacroft, Leeds. The rows of terraced houses went on forever like a maze. Unlike my mother she was always behind with housework. She’d leave a pile of washing up in the sink and lay on the sofa wearing her tight mini skirt, gold bangles and mushroom-shaped shell earrings. When I came home from school I had to do the washing up and mop the kitchen floor. ‘Lynn, there’s half a crown on the sideboard. Go to the corner shop and buy a packet of short bread biscuits and a pint of milk’. She’d squeak in her high pitched voice. I played out with my friend Rosie, but she wasn’t allowed in my aunt’s house. ‘Don’t you bring that lass in. Her shoes are dirty and she can gulp down a dozen biscuits in seconds’. Every Friday Rosie’s mum used to give us six pence for an ice cream. Some nights I was told to go to bed early because aunty Mary was going to Mecca Bingo.’ ‘How did you manage to do your school work?’ ‘Not very well. I didn’t have the proper school uniform because my aunt wouldn’t pay for it. Elaine, our next-door neighbour, managed to get me some school clothes from a jumble sale and they lasted a couple of years. I failed my eleven plus because I forgot to take my glasses and I couldn’t read the instructions on the board. Aunty Mary had noticed I’d left them in the kitchen but she didn’t bother to bring them to school for me. I managed to get five ‘O’ levels but when I was sixteen I had to work at a café and pay aunty for my board. When I got to seventeen I left to share a flat with a friend. In all that time my dad only visited four times and he wasn’t sober once. Years ago he worked as a grave digger, he never gave my mother any housekeeping money, he’d just spend his entire wage at the pub.’ ‘After such a terrible childhood I hope you found some happiness, you deserve it.’ Ann looked at her watch. It was 4.15 a.m. ‘No. I wasn’t born to it. All my life the clouds were dark.’ Lynn’s mind was concentrating on the same spot on the window. There were beams of dawn light in the sky, but still no star. ‘Sorry I kept you so long, Ann. I’m really grateful.’ ‘I’m only in charge of Ward 2 for the night. Everyone seems unusually quiet. I can give you another ten minutes. How did you get into the terrible depression that landed you here, Lynn?’ ‘I was once a mother and a wife. My marriage ended up in divorce. My brother and I lost our mother’s love with the end of her short life at thirty seven. I wanted to fill that emptiness with love for my son, David. I never left him. My door and my heart were always open for him but he left me. After his Cambridge degree, six years ago he went to live in Nepal and never came back. I had a post card from him once. I sent him dozens of letters but he never replied.’ ‘What is he doing there?’ ‘All I know is he was ordained as a Buddhist monk and he lives in a forest monastery. It’s a very strict order. He’s chosen to live his life in a Far Eastern country, saffron-robed, his head shaven, meditating and chanting in search of the middle path, for nirvana, the end of human suffering. I don’t mind what he does, but I feel I’ve lost my only child. I know he’s still alive. A friend of a friend happens to be a Buddhist and he’d met an English Buddhist monk called the Rev. Ananda at a temple called Shravasti in India. He had stopped there for a couple of days during his pilgrimage across the Indian sub-continent.’ ‘How did you manage to write?’ Lynn rubbed her insomniac eyes. ‘Poetry’s my survival. Like a mother in labour, her baby about to be born, my whole mind’s on fire, but poetry is born alone, in the breech position. I’ve been writing for twenty years, not for success but for my spirit’s silence. When I can’t write I’ve to bear the weight of my depression and carry it everywhere on my head and on my shoulders. I always end up crushed like a grain of sand in the waves of a storm. That’s why I’m here today. My son must have had a psychotic break, I think. Lynn unzipped her rucksack turning it over to let everything fall out onto the bed. ‘These folders hold all my manuscripts, my unborn children.’ She held up something wrapped in a white towel. ‘This is how my demon takes me over. That lone star’s my Guardian Angel.’ Then she rubbed her wrist and put the object in Ann’s palm. ‘What’s in here?’ Ann unrolled the towel where a sharp-edged knife lay.

One Carer’s Story - Barry Tebb Schizophrenia - A Carer’s Journal - Mike Schizophrenia – A Mother’s Story – Georgina Wakefield My Journey Of Sadness – Stan Hagon The Voice Of Carers – Amanda Cummin Yemeni Carers’ Stories – Debjani Chaterjee Beyond Our Reach, But Not Our Love – Brian D’arcy Carry On Caring – Emily Machin & Lucy Machin Enigma And Other Poems - Georgina Wakefield Killingbeck Drive – Brenda Williams Searching The Beyond And Other Poems – Daisy Abey Sharp Edge – Daisy Abey The Long Good Bye – Barry Tebb Looking Back – Barry Tebb Nameless In Camden – Brenda Williams Autobiography – Simon Jenner The Sick Image Of My Father Fades – John Horder Are You A Carer? Caring About Carers