- "Artie Q writes Sophisticated Electronic Pop for US/Euro types"

Chapter 7: Relationship … What Relationship???
 

At this point I was officially a single soul, now divorced from my wife in LA, and I recall a neighbour (I suppose in trying to show a lil support) asking:

“So, do you ever get out the house for a little fun, maybe, away from Mum n Dad, Rob? You know, get a little respite from the pressure? ’N is there a secret “special someone,” perhaps?”  *Wink*


“Well, there is one lady whom I really like and I gotta say, though we’re from two completely different worlds; she is most spiritual, and I (as I’ve often said) am The World’s Least Spiritual Soul … Aaah, but we have so much fun together. I guess I wouldn’t mind if, if …  …  … ’See we’ve never been physical/embraced amorously, tho we’ve hugged in that dispassionate way friends of the opposite sex do. But for the camera, of course, we do get a little intimate … I guess I am rather falling for her.”


“The camera…???” my neighbour enquired.


As I’ve already declared, a most supportive release for me at this time was the production of music and video, and this particular female friend who lived nearby, became a most engaged, willing & playful partner in the telling of my songs’ storylines on film. One particular tune “Not A Lot Of Love” (recorded in 2008) told the story of a most passionate one nighter fling I’d had in 1995 during my wild Theater Days in LA. I was completely smitten, but as far as a long term relationship, it was not to be.


So. Fast forward nearly 20+ years, and #ItWasNotToBeII !!! But it didn’t stop me from fantasizing out loud on video. And thank God for my bro Gabriel K’s words at the end there, bringing a lil practical calm to my fevered emotional brow
 

… And nowww: Fun Over, Rob; it’s back to the Senescent Shit Shovelling!!! <O,O>

• "Not A Lot Of Love" by Artie Q - Click the pic below for the Video
 

Chapter 8: Daddy II - The F-in Word!

“You got any children, Rob?”
“Yeah, two Nonagenarian Nippers!”
“Huh?”

Mother had been admitted to hospital with a UTI infection, but thankfully returned to Gryphon Life at the start of 2015 though her general constitution was weaker. Dad had been key in caring for her, with me getting slowly more & more involved, but now she‘d been diagnosed with one more significant health issue: Dysphagia. And because of the attention to detail this new condition required, I had to start taking more charge, and this added to the subtle growing stand off between my father & I. Regardless, Mother’s health was paramount now, and I had to step up should Mr Sloppy get “woolly” in certain critical wellness areas.

Upon her return, I received a follow up visit from a Speech and Language therapist. Mother’s swallowing/eating situation was serious, and I thought I'd been doing a pretty good job preparing most of her food and drink; however, the therapist gave invaluable, informed advice and hands on instruction on how to improve food preparation in order to make it easier and gentler on her system. Some of what she said at the time seemed a little overly specific, but in hindsight everything that was suggested, made perfect sense and was most effective.

With Dysphagia (a swallowing problem), I had to puree all food and thicken liquids. Thickeners are used to solidify fluids creating a safer “gloopy” consistency by increasing the viscosity and slowing the flow to prevent aspiration into the lungs. With a starchy like powder we’d been prescribed, it had to be whisked with liquid in order to coagulate into a globular non splashy flow. And Dad’s attention to detail in this regard was not always on point.

“Whisk it, Dad. Whisk it!”
“I been stirring for the last minute, Rob.”
“Not stirring, Dad. Whisk—Whisk it! Otherwise the powder won’t get absorbed; it’ll sit on the bottom in lumps, and Mother’s lemon barley water will still be all splashy, and she’ll start choking … Right?”

Well, this now became an ongoing song ’n dance routine between Dad n I that I had to take care of. Because her dietary state required a slower intake of all pureed food, lengthy mastication along with monitoring fluid intake, I took total control of her diet and its preparation. At meal times, I’d sit with her like you’d do a small child and oversee all proceedings. Eventually he came around, and realised this MO was best for Mother.

At this point, Dad even at 93 would still drive and do the weekly grocery shopping all on his own. I was at home with Mother who was in little shape to be touted around in public; the energy to be lifted/stood up/turned around/sat down again from car to wheelchair & back again …. too much. He was still quite independent, though as I said, I’d give the car a once-over upon his every return. And I must admit the routine was good for him: this regular outing helped keep his independence ongoing. Somewhat.

While Dad was “out on the town” (no doubt havin’ a bit of a laugh as well; he could be a fun approachable guy in public), I’d wheel Ma around the house or outside on the patio, or leave her to snooze in a favourite corner spot in the kitchen.

———————————

It’s interesting how the passing of time can change one’s perspective/behaviour even. When my parents got married in 1950, Dad was a door to door salesman, selling vacuum cleaners. He and a friend formed a partnership, and then a business selling washing machines, cleaners and spare parts. In time, a shop was rented. They also worked weekends at local markets selling the spare parts and offering repair services. Realising that more money was to be made in the market trade, they went full time and let the shop go. In time they ended their business together and went separate ways. Dad stayed in the markets, the better money making option; a good move for the family.

Mum n Dad were both from working class backgrounds and they saved their money and got a mortgage on a plot of land in a lovely middle class area in South East London. Over time they built their dream home. Though the means to afford this realisation came from working class roots, Mother was a snob; she loved the aspiring elegance of their now refined British middle class setting. Dad, however still remained a cockney geezer, and upon certain verbal exchanges at home between the two, when Dad let fall a working class expletive, Mother would have a meltdown:

“None of that street-market language in the home, Terry. Please!”

She hated the F word & All it’s expletive family. Well, for 50 + years she got her way, until things got real … and that was now.

———————————

Though Dad was still somewhat active, his own health conditions were ramping up. He’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer and lymphoma (though still manageable), and at some point/I’m not sure exactly when, there were issues with his kidneys, and ureteric stents were placed in order to allow the flow of urine from kidney to bladder. So, he had his own demons, and frequently his patience regarding me observing Ma’s specific health routines wore a little thin, and we’d get into it. 

His main role now in dealing with her was still at bath times & toilet-life; though this role was more “Sitting with her/telling her what to do,” and mine was physical/lifting/carrying/guiding her in and out of the walk in bath, rising bath chair, etc.”

I gotta say here, it’s a most curious phenomena: bathing your Nonagenarian mother; You should try it sometime! <O,O> It somehow felt … WRONG? A man of mid-life age washing his mother’s vital areas: “Jesus, I’m soaping under my 98 year old mother’s breasts!” Thankfully though, she just about had enough strength to lather her vagina … we still had to rinse it though. Uhhh!

And just as curious was the toilet routine. Overseeing the procedure, Dad would sit directly opposite-facing her whilst she did her thing on the bowl. In order to give them an element of privacy (and I thought dignity), I’d retire to my go-to spot of attendance @ the top of the stairs, waiting … and invariably the chant would start.  

“Pull it out; I wanna see it! - Pull it out!”

My father was handing individual toilet paper sheets for her to wipe, and in order to decide whether or not she was finished, he’d go through his routine. Man! Years later, and I still can hear that Nonagenarian Toilet Battle Cry: Pull it out; I wanna see it! Pull it out!

So when they were done, I’d return, and on one occasion I looked down into the bowl. See, the thing here is Mother had no muscle tone down below, and because of this prolapsed “under carriage” when she evacuated, her defecation simply … dropped … and I had a bird’s eye view of the result. As I looked down, her foot was right next to toilet; it was then I had an Epiphanic Moment.

Oh my God, that turd’s as big as her foot!!! <O,O> The images that stay with us, eh, people???

And on the nonsense would go. After finishing up, Mother would wash her hands and Dad would flush the toilet. Now my issue here (one which I believed made complete sanitary sense) was that I preferred the lid of the seat to be down whilst rinsing the bowl to prevent the spray of Mother’s defecatory H2O infusion to pervade the immediate locale; a relatively enclosed bathroom space. (And I have to say, the force of that flush was quite powerful.) Father couldn’t see the logic of what he considered an irrational request, but nonetheless … after several “dumps,” if he forgot, as his hand moved towards the handle to flush, I’d block the move. And after one too many occasions, I’d had enough.

“Down, Dad, down. Put the Fukin’ lid down, before the flush. I don’t wanna imbibe Mother’s defecation—Fer Fuck Sake!”

Immediately, at that very moment, right there, I realised Mother’s 50 year old “No street-market language in the home, Terry!” rule had come to an F-in end. Fer Fuck Sake—Sorry, Ma!!! In time, the verbal F-in flood gates opened between my father & I … and the F-in War started.

My sanitary mantra became a verbal figure of fun, used by my father before every flush … Down, Dad, down! Put the Fukin’ lid down! he mocked. (His market trader alter ego—“Ole Tel Boy,” happy to be back in the F-in saddle, again!) In fact, when he once forgot the Toilet Lid move and flushed before I could intervene, it pissed me right off.

“Dad! The Lid; the Fuckin Lid! What’s the matter with you; you know I want it down before you flush. How many times have I gotta tell ya???”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot, forgot; I wasn’t thinking … Fuck!”
“Well, THINK next time, will ya???”
“Look … you don’t understand, Rob. I’m dying. I’m Fuckin dying!”
“Yeah? Well, guess what…??? Join the Fuckin queue. We’re all on our way to Fuckin dying!”

Now. If I have one regret during all my time with Ma n Pa, this was it. (He, of course was referring to his health decline.) And if I could take back one moment/this one exchange out of all Gryphon Life, this would be it. I would. I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t know what I was thinking … well the reality was in that moment, I wasn’t thinking; then again, I was under a little pressure, too.

At this point, Dad’s incremental health condition was ramping up, his energy was slowing and now he was sporting a catheter.

———————————

As 2016 came around, the routine of getting Mother in & out of the bath was not only quite demanding on her physically, but both Dad & I began to realise the actual washing of her private parts by a husband & son was maybe a little inappropriate, too. Plus, I wasn’t quite sure if he was up to the task anymore. So we decided to engage a professional Care Giving service to come in for half an hour in the morning everyday to attend to Mother’s feminine areas.  (And done by women—Yuss!) Indeed their routine of washing Ma’s vitals was performed by standing her upright using a Rota Stand. This is a device that supports the feet, knees and via arm rests braces the weight of the body in an upright position with hardly any strength needed from the recipient. The base is in on a swivel and allows the “now washed human” to be turned 180° and deposited into an oncoming wheelchair or … stairlift seat. Job done! And Dad loved having that bath (almost) all to himself!

However, this procedure worked only for a short while. As Mother’s strength further declined and she could no longer support her own weight standing up, the Care service would only wash her if she was lying horizontal in a bed. We, of course, had no option and ordered a hospital bed (a medical or nursing bed) with a mattress that was water resistant, which replaced her current set up … Ma n Pa, still side by side at night. Very lovely.

So, after the carers had done their stuff in the morning, we’d wheel Mother to the bathroom, clean teeth, put in her dentures (having soaked overnight) and bring her down for the day … Dad, with now a mild case of anaemia diagnosed, had to up his intake of food high in iron. So at this point I was cooking for him as well.

Chapter 11 - The Day The Tears Came II

Somewhere in Kent, UK. March, 2018

I’m hangin’ out most of the day with an old friend in long forgotten climes of my grammar school Kent-ish youth; very lovely.

“Fancy a coffee?”
“No … but I’d love a cappuccino.” I smile sideways, referencing our many debates about the fact I consider espresso to be so finer an option than ‘simply coffee.’

So, on this sunny afternoon we end up sitting outside a cafe, sipping very passable cappuccinos recalling shit from long dead & buried 1950’s/’60’s England, when life was “kinder, sweeter, gentler”—Yeah, yeah, yeah!!! ;)
 
There seems to be a meeting of very old people inside; we’re near the entrance, and at some point a woman positions a wheelchair nearby and folds the stirrups back so that a person approaching could gain better access. Well, a really old lady (mid nineties, maybe) exits, accompanied by another lady who is clearly unprepared to deal with a wobbly nonagenarian, two high steps and no handrail. Sizing up the situation, I rise; a familiar scenario for me.

“At the risk of being forward, may I help?” I say to the younger seventy year old. She nods, gratefully.

I take one side, my hand under the older lady’s arm gently supporting her down the two steps, her friend has the other side. When we get to the bottom, there is now a new situation; she’s facing the wheelchair. (I decide to be bold.)

“Do you mind if I take over?” I say to the younger woman. Ok is the reply. 

I move in front of a sweetly beaming, fragile bird.

“Madam, I want you to dance with me. Can you do that? I’m going to put my hands under your arms, and you are going to put your hands on my shoulders. Yeah?” 

She nods. I bend slightly. We dance (as I used to with Mother), swaying gently in a half circle so that I can then lower her onto the chair. I sit her down and re-position her left foot in the left stirrup, the right in the right side. (As with my mother, she wants to put both feet in one stirrup—Must be an Age thing!)

At this point I’m kneeling, and we freeze for some moments smiling at each other … she thanks me profusely. As I rise, she’s still thanking me; I look down into her face and feel that familiar slight stinging/welling of the eyes, but manage to contain the deluge.

“Ok, there’s one more thing left to do here …” She looks expectantly … “You remind me of someone … give us a kiss.”

I bend and proffer an appropriate cheek. She kisses me and offers a cheeky grin—Wait, did I just see her wink??? 

And off we go, on our separate ways ...

—————————————————————————————

“Reminded you of someone, did she?” My friend winked at me as we drove away.
”From another parallel universe, yeah …”
“What—Look at you! Gettin all spiritual on me, are ya: The World's Least Spiritual Soul, indeed; by your own admission, I’ll have you know.”
“Yeah, well that was before—“
“Before ... before what?”
“Before my Awakening @ Gryphon, at the end there.“ I winked back.
“Get out, Mr Spiritual!" 
“Well, I found it, didn’t I?”
“What! What did you find?”
“Nirvana; was on top of the garage @ Gryphon, all the time …” 
<O,O>

• "The World's Least Spiritual Soul" by Artie Q - Click the pic below for the Video