M-m-m My Corona part 8.

 This is how it works: The pandemic doctor calls first. As if the diagnosis has already been diagnosed. That’s why the BBC is careful to say died “with” Corona virus rather than “of”. Keeping it legal. And don’t forget the all important “underlying causes”. Or is that simply under lying.

Either way I’ve stopped applauding the NHS on Thursday nights. It’s not just the dance routines in empty wards, wearing expensive protective clothing we are told is in short supply. It’s the knowledge of how many hours those routines take to rehearse when they could have been doing something more useful.

The pandemic doctor had no bad news. She just wanted to clarify details: Yes, mum's DNR notice is correct. (Do Not Resuscitate). Yes, if the tests are positive, we think care in the care home would be better than care in the hospital, whether full of strangers or empty.


 All text, pros, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

M-m-m My Corona part 7.

 Mum’s care home suggested a Skype chat might cheer her up during this lockdown when visitors are not allowed. Okay, I’m game. Bearing in mind mum has never understood, and obviously never will, this whole 21st century thing of internet communication.

I’m betting that twenty years ago she could still remember how to sew together a parachute in a war factory, not to mention a few pairs of knickers for herself, put together from the left-over scraps and slipped into her handbag before the supervisor saw. All the girls did that. But the concept of a two-way conversation with a family member via a screen which to her looks like a TV? No way. As the saying goes: “Does not compute”. Literally.

So, a short Skype was spent with her telling the carers sat beside her about the “nice smile” the person on the screen has (me), rather than talking directly to it. Blowing kisses was an achievement.

A few words of acquired wisdom for anyone whose parents are reaching a very advanced age; this being the time just after “there are witches in the house” and the care home opening its doors to whatever the future holds:

Firstly, greetings style cards are no good. Old fingers cannot always negotiate the envelope, nor handle the folding mechanism of the card itself, and your handwriting probably now resembles scribble to them. Secondly, to an old person, a phone ringing means a complete and absolute disaster has befallen their entire family and, walking frame or no walking frame, they must reach the phone at a pace which challenges all previous Olympic records, pacemaker be damned. Also, a phone conversation in the morning will be forgotten by the afternoon. It’s an intangible thing and cannot fill the empty space of the day.

My solution has been very simple: Using a very plain font style, and as large as fits onto one single A4 sheet, print out a letter. It need only convey three basic things in big text:

1. Your children and grandchildren are all fine and doing well…
2. Do you remember… (Mention something happy from the past).
3. We are all looking forward to seeing you soon…

On a second A4 sheet print out an old photograph from the family album. Group scenes and locations can be confusing. Close-ups are good.

And that’s it. They have something they can return to through the day, read even with well advanced cataracts, and show other people. Be humble, keep it simple.

 All text, pros, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.