WALLOWING (Nursing Home Life part 6)

We had a pig named Nellie on the farm where, in my childhood, I spent many happy outdoor days. Nellie’s sole purpose in life, from the human perspective, was to produce litters of piglets who could later be repurposed as bacon and pork chops. Nellie’s purpose as a living thing, however, appeared to lie in the art of wallowing. Nellie took the art of wallowing very seriously. If you spilled a trickle of water while filling her trough, if it rained, Nellie would indulge herself in a magnificent wallow. She would dig in her snout, twist her body and roll in the mud, cavorting side to side, grunting a dirty song of ecstasy. My father said she was cooling her skin. Even on cool days, Nellie apparently had hot skin. Wallowing, when pigs do it, is likely a much-admired activity, admired by other pigs. In humans, wallowing is also an art form, though not so much admired by fellow humans. Rarely do we speak of wallowing in joy, or achievement. Humans are said to wallow in self-pity or sadness. The implication is that the wallowing is self-indulgent and should cease as soon as possible, possibly before ever beginning. I have, for most of my life ascribed to this view. I’ve never been one to support wallowing in the sad, self-indulgent sense, so it surprises me to see how much of it I do here at Laurier House. Perhaps I have too much time on my hands, or maybe there isn’t any way to be mostly happy when your primary occupation is the care of a beloved person who is steadily losing every ability except the ability to be aware. I used to think that sadness could be fenced in, contained to a finite period of time and eventually wiped out by generous doses of happiness. I had, in fact, been quite successful in subduing it. My first experience with taking charge of sadness came just before the dawn of my teenhood when I left the farm to attend the Jericho Hill School for the Blind in Vancouver. Shortly after my arrival there, homesickness seized me and shook me by the neck for weeks. Every now and then I would raise my head and notice that other kids seemed to like it fine there. They were laughing at jokes, playing records and gossiping about each other. Having noticed their happiness, I would retreat to my pillow and cry for an hour or so. This went on through September until finally, chapped and exhausted, I set myself a crying schedule in which I planned to cry for a shorter period each day until I would eventually reach a dry-eyed day. With less time allotted for crying, my naturally gregarious and fun-loving self was able to take over. Similar applications of self-discipline prevented prolonged periods of wallowing during stormy days of teenhood, young adulthood, and the onset of middle age. Thus, when I moved with David into Laurier House at the age of 63, I presumed that feelings of sadness and self-pity would be dispatched once I had my bearings. Getting my bearings as a healthy nursing home dweller has been disappointingly complicated. The most positive thing I can say about dealing with sad feelings after nineteen months of living here is that I am learning to live with them, to accommodate their erratic behavior the way I learned to accept the quirks of the various roommates who shared my spaces back in boarding school days. This is a compromise made necessary by the fact that these rogue emotions have resisted my determined efforts to relegate them to obscurity. I have consulted a counsellor and a doctor; affirmed my main purpose at this stage of life; attended exercise classes and taken regular long walks alone and with friends; confided in family members; made adjustments in routine;; compared my circumstances favourably with the hardships faced by tens of millions of humans exiled in refugee camps; established friendships with Laurier House residents and some of the staff; taken a short vacation; enlisted help so that I could go out more; inhaled an extra glass of wine when friends have brought dinner; befriended a visiting cat; told my troubles to an imaginary friend; sent gratitude notes at Thanksgiving and celebrated the presence of bacon at Sunday breakfasts. In addition, I have traded much of the time I might have spent sleeping for time spent reading—thereby consuming a list of books that would strike pride in the heart of any bibliophile. At the end of it all I am left with joy, love, hope, gratitude, sorrow, worry, dread and the unshakable hunch that nothing I do will ever be quite enough. All of this is contained within the boundaries of commitment and loyalty that keep me where I am, living in a nursing home, doing the intimate caring things I do for a partner who used to do things for me. Though I don’t doubt the possibility of a happy future, there is no framework that allows me to plan for it. In this unfamiliar state, I am easy prey for every bad feeling that offers itself up for the taking. If there is a difference between sadnesses of the past and present then it is surely this: emotions in this phase have become inextricably tangled together, so that one emotion cannot be replaced by another. Where once my happiness would have been David’s happiness, now it tends to be his sadness, or at the very least, a great inconvenience. Am I delighted to savour delicious food in a pleasant restaurant? Well, sort of, as long as I don’t remember that David was fed nursing home puree from a spoon while lying in bed. Do I eagerly anticipate a concert performance? Well sort of, except that David always feels vulnerable when I am out. Happiness in greater amounts does not replace sadness the way it used to. In some cases, having more happiness means having more sadness. And what is a person to do with the sadness when your main purpose at the stage is to be with someone you love? Perhaps there has been a time when, above the cacophony of emotions competing for my attention, I have been summoned by a still small voice asking: “What would Nellie do?” The answer to the question is, of course, indisputable. Whether happy or sad, Nellie would wallow—wallow with passion and unbridled determination to cool her skin. But wallowing is not as easy for humans as it is for pigs, especially us gregarious, fun-loving types. Our friends and family find it off-putting. Nobody likes a whiner. That said, there are other ways of wallowing. Back in my counselling days, clients used to tell me that they relieved their misery by crying in sad movies. They selectively attended the movies most likely to elicit tears and sobs. It seemed to fly in the face of the cheering up imperative, but for them it worked. As for me, I’ve opted for music to wallow by. To this end I have shamelessly indulged in hours spent with: Superman song by Crash Test Dummies—a true anthem to those who carry on despite the presence of injustice; Falling Down Blue by Blue Rodeo—an ode to the relentless onslaught of grief; I Guess That’s Why They call It The Blues by Elton John—a nod to ecstasy no longer experienced; Killing Me softly by Roberta Flack—heart twisting lyrics; and my current favourite, Angel by Sarah McLachlan. Sarah McLachlan waits patiently in my iPhone these days. She can be coaxed out through the earbuds anywhere, anytime: while washing dishes, or writing this blog, or even on the bus. How blissful it is to lose track of everything in the lilt of her soaring voice, the mournful anchor of the strings, the simple piano elegance! Here is a song penned from a place of pain. The singer lies in a hotel room, trying to sleep amid the wakefulness of a racing mind. She has declared herself not good enough, longed for a beautiful release, and pleaded to be carried off in the arms of an angel. Then suddenly she is struck with a bolt of wisdom. “It don’t make no difference Escaping one last time. It’s easier to believe In this sweet madness Oh this glorious sadness That brings me to my knees.” What’s that you say, Sarah? Sweet madness! Glorious sadness! Words to wallow by if I ever did hear any. And what do these twisted lyrics bring me but happiness in wallowing, as a human no less. It’s confusing to say the least, but Nellie would likely support that.