Ode to Joyce

I’ve written about my friend Joyce before. She’s a lady I’ve been visiting regularly for more than three years, almost by mistake.

We got to know each other a little through living in neighbouring mansion blocks and we chatted on the rare occasions we saw each other. Still, it was more of an acquaintance than a friendship.

I’ve always muddled through life whereas she knew from very early days where she was going and she was determined to get there. She did. She reached the top of her tree as a highly acclaimed and sought after artist, designer, embroiderer and theatrical costume designer. She was lots more beside and had a particular love of tapestries. She was even known to the late Queen.

In other words, she and I were in a different league.

Our accidental involvement occurred when I heard she’d had a fall and was in a nursing home at the end of my road. I’d moved from my flat some years earlier but stayed in the same “enclave” so kept up with the gossip.

The visits started off hesitantly. Joyce gave the appearance of a very sweet and slightly eccentric elderly lady who wouldn’t say “boo” to a goose. However, those of us who knew her even slightly realised that that was so not the case. Step out of line for just a second and you’d feel the fear and wish you hadn’t done it anyway. She had a way of looking without saying a word. It was fierce.

So I was on my best behaviour, talking gossip and trivia for as long as she wanted me.

It was a learning experience. I didn’t want to rush in and rush out but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Just because one has a captive audience, one must learn not to exploit it. I used to wait until she asked me: “What are your plans for the rest of the day” and then knew it was time to leave. Honour saved for both of us.

When duty turns into fun

I’d expected to be popping in once, or sometimes twice, a week for a month or so until she went home but I came to realise that was not going to happen. She lived some way up and the stairs had kept her fit. But she was well into her 90s. Home at the top of three flights was too much of a climb.

All the while I visited, I learned so much about Joyce’s long life. She was living history. She told me about the Festival of Britain in 1951, describing the lights in the trees of Battersea Park (renamed the Pleasure Gardens for the celebrations) and some sort of walkway that went through the trees. Imagine someone who was there, talking of the air of expectation and hope and how it felt after the gloom of the Second World War. It was a joyous time.

There was the odd personal tale from a bygone era. She told me of a grandfather or great-grandfather who used to buy each of his children a home nearby when they got married,  so that they could all stay close together. Probably unimaginable then, definitely now. And then there was the time when the Christian Brethren bought the land next door to her family’s and the terrible singing that followed. More than 90 years on, it still riled her.

About 18 months later, the nursing home announced it was closing for refurbishment. “Well,” I thought, “That’s that”. I knew Joyce had many other friends and I thought a) I’d probably done my duty and b) she’d probably had enough of my visits.

Except of course life is never quite as you expect. She did move but only a short bus ride away. Well, I couldn’t desert her, could I? What if no-one else came to visit and how would I feel if it were me?

A battle for control

So there we went, the same armchair chats just in a different location.

We were familiar with each other by now so it wasn’t all plain sailing. She “a little deaf” had the TV volume at 42. I, who can’t stand noise and certainly not at that level, needed to turn it down. Joyce was an independent soul and she continued to display that characteristic in the nursing home, politely turning down suggested group activities in favour of keeping her own company.

 She fought for her independence and her right to control the TV volume. I, respecting that, couldn’t hear myself thinking, let alone Joyce speaking. We reached a compromise by her allowing me to turn it down while promising to turn it up when I left. The problem with that was the “row” resumed every week as she forgot the deal. I ended up, by sleight of hand, slyly taking control of the remote while I was there. Sneaky but effective.

A few months ago, Joyce had a fall. However, despite her giant black eye and bruises she was as cheerful and full of life as when I’d first seen her. I know it was an effort but, where I’d expected decline, she rallied.

She seemed to recover but I noticed a small but gradual change. She was less “there” than usual and, while her light was still burning, it was less bright than before. I chatted away – mostly coaxing stories about her life and family – but I wasn’t sure if she still knew who I was. It didn’t matter. I never asked her or reminded her. I just reappeared. She was child-like in her expression of delight in seeing me, always saying how much she enjoyed my visits. I can only hope.

End of an era

She took a turn for the worse when I was on holiday and her dear and devoted friend emailed me to say she’d had a stroke. She was not expected to recover. He was kindly giving me the option to withdraw but I didn’t want to, as long as he didn’t mind.

I went in, she was lying down but still smiling and, surprisingly, able to speak. Her voice trailed a bit at the end but it didn’t matter. She laughed when I knelt down to sit beside her and had to heave – whale-like – to get myself up. Still capable of amusement.

A week later, she was speaking more clearly although still lying in bed. She studied me thoughtfully before asking me if I was a carer who worked in the home or did I just visit lots of patients, as if it might be a bit of a hobby. I roared with laughter. “No, Joyce”, I said, “I just come to see you.” She laughed back. No awkwardness there.

On that day, I helped her consider what she wanted to eat. Three choices and, at each, she crossed her eyes and turned down her mouth. I could see the naughty and adored child she once was. We compromised on vegetables.

On my last visit, I sensed something was wrong. The room felt different and the presence of Joyce was very much less. I have to admit I felt a bit scared. I was tempted to back away.

I didn’t of course. I crept into the bedroom where Joyce was in bed. She looked comfortable but no longer conscious. While I was sitting with her, a text came in from her friend telling me the latest and what was expected. I knew. I stayed for hours and chatted – no way of getting rid of me now! – only moving into her sitting room when another friend popped by to see her. It was all so normal.

Some hours later – and, promise,  I didn’t talk all the way through – I left Joyce, saying I’d see her early the following morning. I was on my way back there bright and early when I received the final text. Dear Joyce had departed.

A departing gift

I will miss her but I’m hoping she’s been welcomed by the family she adored and who adored her. I’m very much still at the mourning and remembering stage but I am so grateful that I had the chance to be part of this late-term relationship (still not pushing it by suggesting friendship). I’ve gained so much.

Like many of us, I’ve had an almost lifelong fear of death and dying. It’s the unknown, I suppose. I’ve told myself I of all people should know better. I’ve had dear friends that I’ve lost, as well as family members. I’m a counsellor and I work with bereavement and loss so I like to feel I’m reasonably aware.

But this journey has been different. It’s been quite beautiful in its own way. I am comforted.