Les Petits Soins

"Les petits soins" is French for all the little things women do to look and/or feel better. Going to a manicurist is definitely in that category, but I have given her up because of my objection to nail polish ingredients. 

These days, I do not lavish money on personal upkeep professionals. I go to a hairdresser once a year, max, and if I am not getting an updo for some formal event, I ask her just to chop off the dead ends. 

Some years I am tempted also to obtain eyebrows through artificial means. My youngest sister, who has dark hair, takes excellent care of her eyebrows. They are terribly elegant, whereas mine are all but  invisible and ...

"Even your eyebrows are curly," said the beautician yesterday.

"Yes," I said dolefully. 

My leg hair is curly, too. If I believed in former lives, I would hypothesize I was once a poodle. A ginger poodle. Back when I had short hair, it curled like a poodle's. A puffy poodle's.   

I had been at the hairdresser the day before, having hurried there a bit late, thinking about the A.S. Byatt story of the woman who looks at herself in the hairdresser's mirror and blurts out in disappointment, "I look like a middle-aged woman with a hairdo." Nobody around says anything, but it is obvious to both narrator and reader what they are thinking. The heroine of "Medusa's Ankles" had been (or will be--I forget) thinking of herself in her twenties, having an amorous adventure in Italy. Naturally, we are most of us still 25 inside. Some, I regret to say, are still 12. Watch out for those women. Eeek. 

These rare beauty treatments are in honour of my mother, who is coming to the U.K. for a walking tour in the South of England. My mother either usually or used to go to the beauty parlour before going on holiday. Also in honour of my mother, I have given up sugar, white bread, potatoes, prepared foods, and snacking in preparing for this walking tour, for I am going on her adventure. I have practised walking long distances, too--well, five miles at a stretch. I have lost half a stone (i.e. 7 lbs). 

"You may be wondering why I am getting my eyebrows done for a walking tour," I said to the beautician. "I am wondering myself." 

I have also been wondering if I am strong enough to carry my mother, should she turn her ankle or suffer some other calamity. At the gym yesterday, I pondered a dumbbell her weight and thought I wouldn't be able to get her very far. Still, I could drag her out of quicksand, etc. More importantly, and not relying on physical strength, I can protect her from women who are still 12 inside. 

Taking two weeks off work, housework and wheelchair pushing is not a petit but a grand soin. Since according to officialdom, I am officially an Unpaid Carer, I thought I would be able to get the district nurse (if there is such a person) to come around and check on B.A. every day I was away. (Needless to say, we had no idea B.A. would lose his ability to walk when I promised to go on the trip.) However, none of the various local agencies I have consulted have produced an Alternate Carer, so we have all had another lesson about the Welfare State and the continuing necessity, however high one's taxes, of relying on friends, priests, parishioners, neighbours and, above all, family. Thank the heavens, my mother-in-law is coming to stay. 

"And now you have eyebrows," said the beautician triumphantly. 

Edinburgh Marathon

This is what we need to do to get Benedict Ambrose to Mass or the cancer hospital.

First B.A. gets out of his wheelchair and, holding onto the railings on either side, wills his feet down the stairs outside our door. His feet don't necessarily do what he wants, so I watch from our small landing. When he gets to the bottom, he hangs onto the rail and waits for me. I fold the chair in half and take it down the stairs. Then I go back upstairs for the cushion, bring it down, and unfold the chair. I place the cushion on the seat and put on the brakes. B.A. gingerly positions himself over the seat and drops down. Then I go back upstairs for whatever bags we need, particularly the bag with the footrests. We put the footrests on now or, if we're frightened of missing the bus, we wait until we're at the bus stop. 

To get to the bus stop, I push or pull the wheelchair behind our terrace to the first step down. I put on the brakes, and B.A. pulls himself out of the wheelchair by hanging onto the rails of the neighbours' staircase. I lift the chair down, B.A. climbs down the stair, and then drops back into his seat. Then I push or pull the chair down the cracked concrete path to the step to the pavement (i.e. public sidewalk). This is the trickiest part. I put the brakes on, B.A. gets up, places his hands on the wall beside the gap and somehow hangs on until I get the wheelchair up the step to the pavement. He then pulls himself up that step and sits back down into the wheelchair. Then I push the wheelchair to the bus stop.

B.A. currently weighs 13 stone 2 (i.e. 184 lbs). 

When the bus arrives, the driver gets out of his box and unfurls the ramp. The ramp rests on the kerb. I mutter "Sideways and then straight" as I push B.A. onto the bus. It's hardest at the top. Able-bodied people scatter out of the disabled seats, and I push B.A. forwards and then backwards, so his back is against the backrest and the handles of the wheelchair are on either side. Then I lock the brakes and drop into the nearest seat. 

B.A. is now registered disabled, so we don't have to pay the fares. 

The bus moves on, and we are very grateful that we have once again defeated immobility. It cheers us up and gives us inner strength for the transfer. When we approach our transfer stop, B.A. presses the wheelchair button. It gives a heart-piercing wail that tells the driver he has to get out of his box again. As the driver pulls out the wheelchair ramp, B.A. unlocks his brakes, drags himself and the chair forward, spins around, and pulls himself along the bus to the ramp by holding onto poles. 

"Like a little monkey," I sometimes say. 

Then I push B.A. down the ramp, very carefully as he is heavy and the ramp is steep, we thank the driver, and we repeat the process with the next bus, thanking the next driver. Then I push B.A. along the pavement or road: whichever is smoother. 

We watch for the lowest places on the kerbs. Sometimes I have to step on a lever to wrestle the wheelchair up: I am learning all about kerbs. I am also learning about my physical limits. 

"I am no longer 25," I think--illogically, for I was a coach potato at 25. (I shall strive to think "I am no longer 34.")

Naturally we could shell out for cabs instead of taking the bus for free. However, the bus is the easiest part. Or it usually is. 

The Edinburgh Marathon

The Edinburgh Marathon took place yesterday. I have always disliked the Edinburgh Marathon because it interrupts the bus schedule, creates traffic jams, and makes us late for Mass. However, we now budget an extra hour for getting to church, so I thought we would be fine. 

But the Marathon route was different this year, and I uneasily watched unprecedented crowds dripping down our street, filling the pavement in groups or gangs. When I heard them chattering, it was clear that they were definitely "Not From Around Here" and that their purpose was to cheer on marathon runners. One stranger held a homemade sign reading "You make it look so easy." 

As we struggled to the first bus stop, B.A. apologized to the crowds of Out-of-Towners for being in their way.

The street was overly lined with cars, and when our first bus appeared, it could not get beside the kerb. B.A. had to haul himself out of his wheelchair by hanging on to the bus stop sign and then step, his arm around my shoulder, into the street. The driver pulled the gangway down, B.A. dropped into his wheelchair, and I discovered that the bus ramp is too steep for me if it ends in the road. ("I am no longer 25.") Fortunately, the driver took over. 

It was pouring rain. Large crowds of Out-of-Towners often bring rain with them and then go back to England or wherever and write erroneously about foggy, wet Edinburgh in their articles about the Festival. 

We will not go anywhere near the Old Town during the Festival. 

At the next bus stop, I wheeled B.A. down the ramp and straight into the bus shelter, forcing a young man in shorts out into the rain. B.A. apologized, and I snarled at him to stop apologizing to Out-of-Towners for being in his own neighbourhood. B.A. argued that it was a mark of British civilization (or whatever) to apologize, and I continued to go insane, only silently for the time being. Unprecedentedly for our neighbourhood, busses that ought to have stopped drove by instead, packed to the windows. One stopped, but it had no space for a wheelchair. Then another stopped, but it also had no space for a wheelchair. 

It became clear that for hours it would be impossible to get B.A. on a bus that would get us anywhere near church, and so I pushed him home. It was still raining.

We negotiated the various kerbs, and then the step from pavement to the path, and then the step up from that path to the next path, and then our staircase. I folded and carried up the chair, and then I went down for the cushion and all the bags. Finally B.A., who was hanging onto the wainscotting, sat down on the cushion, and I pushed him into the sitting room. I made him a cup of tea while he found the TLM being streamed online from Warrington. 

I sat at my desk and figured out from the internet which Mass I could get to before or after my swing-dance workshop that afternoon. The Cathedral's 6 PM Polish Mass fit the bill. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any of my Polish Mass and prayer books, which led me to burst into tears. 

The Council is supposed to build us little ramps one day. The NHS is supposed to assign B.A. an electric wheelchair. The doctor in charge of signing off on that initially suggested that B.A. doesn't need one, as our neighbourhood is "rather flat." 

He is welcome to push B.A. around town to test that theory.

You Make It Look So Easy

I am on a six week break from all hobbies. Normally I beat myself up mentally if I do not work daily on my languages or tin whistle, but I have stopped that so I can concentrate on housework, taking care of B.A., and not going insane. 

However, I had already paid for Sunday's swing-dance workshop, so I went.

First, I returned to the bus stop and discovered that the busses were still packed and still not stopping. ("People live here," I shouted in earshot of the Out-of-Towners.) Then I walked 20 minutes to a train station, took a train, negotiated crowds, took another train, took a taxi cab, almost fell out of the cab, and got to the swing-dance workshop on time. 

After the workshop, I got myself a large coffee (thanks be to God) and, feeling mighty sorry for myself, walked a mile in the driving rain to the Cathedral. 

In the Cathedral, a group of women in the pews began to sing old-fashioned Polish hymns, which were soothing. I looked up the Novus Ordo in Polish, as well as the Novus Ordo readings for the day in both English and Polish, on my phone, so I needn't have had hysterics over my missing books. A guitar struck up to my far left, for this was the Polish guitar Mass strictly avoided by all my own Polish Edinburgh friends. Nevertheless, it still held the gentle melancholy that characterizes most Polish liturgies, and I enjoyed a good cry from the end of the day's Gospel, where Our Lord promised, "Ja jestem z wami przez wszystkie dni, aż do skończenia świata."

I went home (walk, bus) to discover B.A. had made dinner from his wheelchair, and I baked a pan of healthy (i.e. only dates and pears for sugar) brownies. The Edinburgh Marathon was over. 

By the way, I was so rude about Out-of-Towners, I must remember to go to Confession this week. I amused myself during my rainy walk to the Cathedral by imagining myself telling people, in my all too Canadian accent, to **** *** back to England, as my most choleric neighbours are said to do. Naturally this would be outrageous, so I will never do this. I will merely think it--and have to go to Confession again.

Tiling

Benedict Ambrose and I are now the proud owners of a functional bath shower room. All that remains is for the project manager to receive a last bit of wallboard, for the joiner to put it in, and for the decorator to paint the plaster. The tile floor glows like an angel. 

I am rather in love with the tile floor. It is almost funny now that I treated the designer's catalogues like horrendous math textbooks--or worse, a tax guide--and left it up to B.A. to choose the myriad of expensive stuff that goes in a bathroom. Now I pore over the pages of tiles, dreaming about tiling the tiny foyer--and eventually the kitchen floor--and maybe even the porch. 

Having unlocked the savings account to pay for the works, I am in a spendy mood and tempted to tile my own self. During our luxurious Stockbridge weekend, eating top quality bread and cheese, I bought and read two books on Parisian style I found in charity shops: Alois Guinut's Dress Like a Parisian and Ines de la Fressange's Parisian Chic. Guinut subsequently wrote a book called Why Frenchwomen Wear Vintage, so she would probably approve of me buying her work in Cancer Research UK. Also, her ideas are not necessarily ruinous to the pocketbook. I particularly liked her nonchalant attitude to make-up and hair. 

Horizontally stripped shirts about in both these volumes, and I was pleased to find a nice pale-blue and white one by Boden for £4 or so in Mary's Living and Giving Shop. I have been less pleased to notice navy-and-white striped shirts on several members of the 70-something set wherever I go. Obviously the 70-something set may wear whatever they like, but I have joined the ranks of those who have reason to fear looking even older than we are. (Although why do we? Would grandmotherly softness not attract more social cache than the harsh battleaxe lines of middle life?)

Normally I dress out of the House of Bruar catalogue when I am not simply slobbing around in my gym clothes, so the idea of Parisian dressing (especially on the cheap) is rather beguiling.

More importantly, B.A. managed to get himself into the massive walk-in shower, pulling himself along by hanging onto the grab rails. He then sat firmly on the fold-down seat under the rain nozzle. We think we might need one more grab rail, and I think we need to affix a hook for his bathrobe on the far end. Putting on his bathrobe by himself was his scariest task. The short-term goal is for B.A. to be fully independent while washing. 

The long-term goal, of course, is for him to leap about like a mountain goat. When that day comes, he will have to dance with me: he promised! 

In fact, I might sign him up for swing-dancing class. One day, years ago, he appeared in the hall when I was taking a Saturday swing-dance workshop. I dropped my partner like a hot potato and hurried over to my cherished spouse. Alas, B.A. had only taken it into his head to say hello, and he went off to read the Spectator or the Times Review of Books in silly old Starbucks.

Guest Post: In Praise of Pottering

As you may imagine, having recently had the sensation and mobility in my feet and legs melt away precipitately over the course of a few months – I hazard by about 70% since Michaelmas, when I could still haltingly walk my way through a Dashing White Sergeant – has been a bit of a bore. Standing without support, let alone walking, is practically impossible. I lost my balance at a local bus stop a couple of weeks ago after absent-mindedly letting go of my walking frame and landing heavily on my left hip – cracking a small bone in my pelvis – which has hardly helped things along much. There are many things which I took entirely for granted before but which I can no longer do, at least at the moment: chemotherapy and prayer (Sister Wilhelmina Lancaster and Cardinal Mindszenty, since you kindly ask) may, DV, restore some of them in due course. But there is one mundane activity in particular in which I can no longer indulge, the deprivation of which has been surprisingly difficult: pottering. 

It is now poignantly and somewhat absurdly evident to me that a large proportion of my time at home was taken up with casually random but not entirely inconsequential activities: getting up from my chair to adjust an object’s place on a table or straighten a squint picture; popping into the kitchen to wash a glass or fetch a biscuit or lackadaisically cook a meal whilst listening to the radio and glugging a glass of wine; picking up a fallen flower head on the other side of the room; or wandering out into the hallway to open the front door and look out over the garden (whilst glugging a glass of wine). I did them almost mindlessly, unconsciously, and constantly. And, I now realise, I quietly enjoyed doing them (especially whilst glugging). They made up the background fabric of my domestic existence and as such were a constant thread in the unremarkable tapestry of my life. I can still do some of them, with the aid of a little wheelchair lent to us by a kind young friend, but they take much longer and a great deal more effort – and risk. Consequently, they involve a substantial amount of mental energy even to scope out, and I’m pricked with anxiety that I’m going to come a cropper – drop a plate or scald myself or fall over. As a result, they largely remain undone, even if technically doable. And, it turns out, I miss doing them terribly. 

 

The burden of this loss has of course not been mine alone. Mrs McLean’s devotion, considerable extra physical efforts and patience have been quietly heroic, but I can tell that it all takes a heavy toll upon her [Ed. --I quite enjoy the meal-planning and cooking, though.] If in my perished potential to potter I have lost the quiet pleasure of being cheerfully and moderately active and the feeling that I’m being useful, she has lost a cheerful and moderately useful husband. She is left instead with a husband whose requests for her assistance with a million tiny things he used to do for himself without even thinking – however politely and appreciatively they are meant to come across – are inevitably grating and wearisome. This is on top of her having to assume almost all the other domestic chores we used to share between us. We are both penalised by the passing of my pottering.

 

I pray (do thou likewise) much of this will improve when my fracture heals, the twinges stop buckling my leg, I can build back more strength and lose some of the dull terror that I’m going to injure myself again. It’ll get better to some degree even if things don’t change or improve immediately or drastically with my general mobility – at worst, I’ll just get better at coping with it, so long as I’m spared any further deterioration. But if I were asked what activity I would most like to be restored to me it wouldn’t be popping down on a whim to the pub with pals, or taking long country walks in the spring, or picking my way through crumbling castle ruins: it’d be the simple freedom of peacefully pottering.

Benedict Ambrose

Fifteen

Benedict Ambrose and I have now been married for 15 years. To celebrate, we will call a cab and go to Edinburgh's Prestonfield House for lunch today. We will be travelling further than we imagined, for we are not at home but in an AirBnB in the Stockbridge Colonies. 

Life is full of surprises, and we had a big one on Monday morning when a three-man building crew arrived at 8 AM to gut the bathroom. We had had a vague understanding that the contractors were coming this week, but we were not prepared when they actually did. So there was me in a DFB (Deutscher Fussball-Bund) shirt (only three stars, a collector's item) and pyjama bottoms hurriedly scooping the contents of the bathroom cupboards into blue plastic IKEA bags, and there was B.A. pulling on clothes and dragging himself into a wheelchair. 

B.A.'s need for a wheelchair was also one of life's surprises, of course. However, like the building crew, it was not totally unheralded. First there was the dreadful diagnosis last May. Then there was B.A.'s coming home with a walking stick. Then there was his all-too-brief love affair with a rollator. And now there is his borrowed wheelchair, which came not a minute too soon: the day after he broke a bone in his pelvis. 

As I inwardly chant to myself whenever someone now asks me for a favour or is even the tiniest bit critical, I have a husband with cancer and a full-time job. Like St. Martha I am beset with many cares. This means that my poor brain cannot currently hold all the information it needs or make all the necessary plans. For obvious example, I didn't work out what we were going to do for a bathroom when our own was a construction site. 

I had a vague hope that this was one of companies that promised us a portable toilet, but I didn't ask outright. And B.A. had a vague hope the National Health Service would lend him a commode, but the NHS said no. And although I can just run to Tesco for the loo and to my gym for a shower, B.A. cannot. And so, after a miserable afternoon, B.A. secured an AirBnB and a taxicab, and here we are. 

We love Stockbridge, so this is a good thing. The taxicabs, with their kindly drivers who push B.A. up and down the foldaway ramps, are also a good thing.  The new bathroom will also be a good thing--as will be our anniversary lunch this afternoon. 

This morning I woke up at 5, and I thought about my dream 25th wedding anniversary party, which looks rather like a dream wedding, only festooned with silver. B.A. has promised to dance with me when he can walk again, so obviously I we must have a proper ball with a ceilidh band and a jazz quintet that plays late into the night. 

While writing this blog I began to think about Anniversaries Past. The obvious one to look up was Eight, which fell after B.A.'s first big operation, and Nine, since for a very scary period it seemed that there might not be a Nine. Interestingly enough, when my erstwhile Polish teacher asked us for the secrets of a long marriage, we did not say, "Don't die." 

However, this is now first on our Tips for a Long Marriage list.