Mother is it Worth it?

Rusley Turner

Description

Mother is it Worth it? Is a hilarious, heartwarming and deeply emotional memoir which seeks to explore two questions. Firstly, if it's sensible to leave prosperous careers in suburbia and move to an idyllic spot in the countryside to enjoy an unstructured, unusual life, which leads to the realisation of what is really important for a contented existence.Secondly, what would you do if a beloved family member becomes ill with a long-term disability, and you feel unable to place them in residential care?The book looks at how Rusley Turner and her husband resolved these questions, in an inspiring recollection of caring for a relative with a mental illness, with sundry other snippets about their lives including moving to the Welsh Outback. It will appeal to readers who are thinking about, or already caring for a loved one, or those considering a change of pace in life.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juillet 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838599744
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Rusley Turner

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1838599 744

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

This work is dedicated to MAMA, the heroine of the piece, hoping that she would forgive me for publishing all the funny, rude and down to earth parts of her story.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue – February 2019
Chapter One
The warm September day was sinking into a slumber as twilight deepened to nightfall. A faint tang of autumn mists mixed with wet peat drifted from the dark woods behind the house. In front of us black velvet mountains reached up into the translucent, deep-sea sky – speckled with myriad crystalline, winking, stars – and the ‘wheep’ of a curlew echoed back from the saltings in an otherwise silent world.
An owl flew slowly past – within twenty feet of us. A breath of wingbeat and a glimpse of a pale intense face, as this ghost of a creature was momentarily silhouetted against the heavens.
It settled in the oak tree by the top gate, thought for a moment, then let forth a shriek. Another one answered from deep within the woods.
The stillness was broken by the swish of the sea. Someone was rowing a boat up the coast – the creak of the oars against the rowlocks in a steady rhythm – slowly decreasing until it was lost in the darkness.
Bats flickered through the dusk on their erratic, noiseless flight – will-o’-the-wisp creations adding to the unreal quality of the night.
Brian leaned forward to put another log on the open barbecue fire. The dried bark burst into flame and burned with a comfortable yellow flame, illuminating our faces – relaxed and at peace. Our meal was over and we were replete with food and the atmosphere of tranquillity.
Four years ago, in 1982, we left settled jobs in the prosperous home counties and moved to this enchanted spot on the coast of Wales where the clear Irish Sea washes up to the immutable Welsh mountains. We exchanged regular salary cheques for the doubtful income from a small sheep farm. We also exchanged the noise, the traffic jams, the smoky atmosphere and the expensive housing, the rates and many other urban characteristics for the silence of the open spaces, the clean air, the warmth of a supportive village community and the relatively uncomplicated life of the satisfied human being.

On our arrival, newly emerged from the suburban rat race, it was sheer bliss to be able to ignore the clock – to make up our day’s work only as our inclination, or the weather, dictated. It was difficult to believe that an irate employer would not want an explanation for that odd hour spent idling in the rock pools at the top of the beach or merely sitting in the sun contemplating one of the most spectacular views in Britain from the front door of our new home.
There were some initial disadvantages of course. The tiny farmhouse – a toy town home – lay snuggled in woodland, a stone’s throw from the beach. A fairy-tale place – the sort of home where Snow White and the Dwarfs would be found. But it was also dark, damp and chill on the inside. So we had blasted and hewn the solid rock from the side of the hill and had built a light, warm, spacious extension to house our middle-aged hopes and also Mama.
Mama, Brian’s mother, is something special. For many years she has suffered with Alzheimer’s Disease or Senile Dementia. Not the sort that causes silence or emptiness in a mental home, but the jolly, devil-may-care sort that sings and laughs a lot and is ungoverned by any need to conform to what is known as polite behaviour.
But many of her eccentricities and aberrations are scarcely noticeable in the general disorder that was, and still is, for much of the time, normal life for us. If Mama has a fancy to wear two hats on her head and meanwhile laugh herself to stitches at some private joke, then I am glad she is enjoying herself. If she wails – she can no longer talk – I will often join in, to serenade the sheep, or the dogs, who will sometimes lift their noses skywards, and howl their mite too. There is something quite therapeutic in this sort of thing. Although I cannot emulate Mama’s bold attempts on some loud and seemingly discordant classical work, I will happily wail out one of the old hymn tunes, a sea shanty or something from a 1920s musical.
The local wildlife, some of whose members had watched our initial endeavours with apprehension, soon turned us to good account and settled back to resume their lives with, in many cases, an improved range of food and shelter. I am sure the birds, the badgers and the small mammals eat as much poultry cereal as the hens, and the constant piles of building materials make a temporary home for many a passing soul. When I moved an old tarpaulin that had lain unattended for several months, it housed a grass snake, at least half a dozen assorted frogs and toads, and innumerable creepy-crawlies.
As the snake lives on a diet that includes frogs, it was understandable that it should choose this site, but were the frogs suicidal or did they not know that the snake was there?
Such Pickwickian intellectual debates have replaced issues that formerly occupied my mind. The terms of the latest Finance Act are now a matter of supreme indifference. It is no longer necessary for me to burn the midnight oil to keep abreast of the complexities of the constantly changing fiscal legislation. My present existence makes me more likely to be concerned about what the tide is doing. Have I time to go and collect that big log which arrived on this morning’s tide, before it is washed away again? And whether I have sufficient food, in all the necessary different forms, to supply the hungry hordes that haunt the farmyard or manage to get their legs under my kitchen table.
The farm animals have added another dimension to our existence. We knew little of the art of farming when we arrived here but, by degrees, and aided by a stalwart Welshman who has coerced and bullied us into shape, we have stocked the farm with breeding ewes. Sadly, our mentor will tell you that they are not like the ewes on the average Welsh farm. They are distressingly tame with distinct characters that amuse, interest or enrage, depending on their respective specialities. There are shy ones, sly ones, greedy ones, bossy ones, aggressive ones, rebels, hooligans, comedians, gentlemen, good mothers, bad mothers and some who will give you a thumping butt on the bottom when your back is turned if the mood takes them.
As I write this in May 1986, the future looks relatively comfortable. We feel able to cope with the vagaries of farm life and with Mama. So has our move from the conventional rat race been a success? Nothing, absolutely nothing, would tempt me back to the suburban life. There are perhaps hot summer evenings when, instead of enjoying a good soak in the bath with a cooling drink in my hand, I find myself down in the hay meadow – embraced by the warm smell of dried grasses – aching limbs as each armful is hoisted on to the top of the hay cart – hair full of dust and scratchy bits in my bra – but oh so content with life.
Perhaps, too, we were lucky in that our responsibilities to Mama – her own name for herself as speech became a difficulty – had forced us quite early on to seek jobs where at least some of the duties could be carried out at home so that one of us could take over the caring role. Thus the transition was not as great as it might have been since we have both continued to work on a part-time basis in the same line of business as before. And this has produced an income to supplement the meagre amounts from the farming enterprise and from our small campsite. Coupled with that we had no responsibilities for dependants apart from Mama. While I think many families would enjoy and benefit from this type of existence, I do not think it is sensible to expect to be able to make an adequate living from the land alone. But those who have yearnings for the outback and the will to work – although it doesn’t usually seem like work – should move heaven and earth to muster the wherewithal and do it.
Chapter Two
Back in the misty depths of time when I was a teenager, there was a local lad who had caught my eye and whose attention I was anxious to catch in return. In fact, we’d known each other for donkeys’ years. In a utility liberty bodice – buttoned down the front – and with long suspenders reaching down to thick hand-knitted black stockings and a pair of navy blue fleecy knickers with long legs under a black gymslip, I had been obliged to sit near