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The first cleric's problem.
Chapter 1
OVER BURDONED
The sheep splattered hillside encircled the north face of the town. Their confining stone dykes, gave shelter to the giddy yellow daffodils. Winter left no lingering effects save for the light white dusting on far away hill tops. It was a time of renewal. Lambs had been born, primroses grew from garden paths and even some lawns had had their first cut of the year. Fluffy white clouds were light and few had any movement to distract. Jasmine brought bright yellow stalks to awaken gardens. So too did the flowering currant, never to be brought indoors to stink. Above the blue sky announced a very fine day to all who ventured out.
Amid such visual optimism a solitary man in a dark grey suit beneath a cream trench coat dragged his heavy shoulders along King Street. It was his intention not to be noticed. Not to engage in casual greetings. He couldn’t. Yet the walk to the hospital had been a regular visit for this Methodist chaplain. Hospital visitation was not on his mind this day, in fact very little stirred from the depths of his brain that Monday afternoon.
The Reverend Alan Barker’s day, like every day, started with the regularity of the domed 16th century French clock striking 6 am on his study mantelpiece. He ate his breakfast in the kitchen alone accompanied by the bite sized pieces of news on the Today programme and prepared his wife’s tray. He climbed the stairs with her orange juice, stone-less prunes and a slice of buttered toast. The crusts had been removed. Shaking in the bone china bird emblazoned mug was Assam tea with a splash of milk and no sugar. The mug had a plastic cover over it, with an aperture on its lip.
A smile always met his unsteady hand when he entered their bedroom. It was a genuine and grateful smile. Propped up in front of three cushions was his wife, Penny. Thirty one years of a happy, loving, fun-filled life had been cruelly restricted. Thirty-one years which ended last summer when Penny was knocked off her bicycle by a car driven by an intoxicated driver. The driver’s consequences were financially injurious and his nine points on his license was sobering. It must be said a two year ban on driving made his immediate future desk bound job inevitable. But a sympathetic boss kept him as a car sales employer and retained his salary. Yet still he felt he had been hard done by.
Contrastingly, The Criminal In juries Board had provided the chair hoist and stair chair, even a special handicapped car to enable Penny to receive physiotherapy five miles away but the road she was on was much longer as every tetraplegic knows - a journey fraught with pain, an everlasting daily pain.
He bathed Penny and dressed her. It took him the best part of two hours each day. Then he placed her in a mobile chair which only he could move around the manse. By then it was coffee time. Soon after to the shops he went, greeting parishioners with courtesy. No longer did they ask about Penny. They had asked too often and the reply never varied.
The daily ritual left no time for him to prepare his working week and led to Alan’s breakdown. Instead of mounting the pulpit he sat in his study with tears in his eyes holding his head. The family’s general practitioner made an appointment for Alan with the psychotherapist.
The Psychiatric wing was at the rear of the hospital grounds. It sat apart and unlike the red brick general hospital, the psychiatric suite of buildings was constructed in cold grey granite. Alan surmised that it increased the depression he felt he had by entering, but when he would leave, the brighter, warmer buildings before him might change his demeanour, perk him up a bit, if that was at all possible.
Alan reported his arrival to the desk secretary and took a seat in the square waiting room. The NHS could not afford a fresh coat of paint but a flat screen stared at Alan trying hard to occupy his mind with house purchasing in far away warmer climes. A mere quarter of a million would secure this view; twice as much with a pool and an extra bedroom. To him it was pure Disney land. His manse was large of course but it was on loan to each succeeding occupant. It too had a good view of the glebe but there was no swimming pool; just a damp patch at the bottom of the lawn supporting a few tadpoles at this time of year.
Four minutes later, Dr Tony Scriven arrived extending his hand further, projecting his smile.
‘Alan. Hi. This way,’ he said turning to take the lead. Tony was on Alan’s church roll but Tony rolled out in his Volvo on Sundays to exercise his mind and body on the golf course. Easter and Christmas rituals were his sole times of attendance making him a nominal Church adherent should anyone ask.
Alan felt a surge of relief that the process had begun. What lay ahead remained a mystery. This was a medical appointment of no similarity in the past.
‘So tell me Alan. Tell me how you see life at present.’
Alan hung his coat on the pegs behind the door reflecting on whether he would provide the over arching question with a monologue of gigantic proportions or he could produce a meek short sentence. He sat down before his congregational psychiatrist. He crossed his legs and rested his hands in a tight clasp.
‘Something’s not right. I don’t feel like.......well......’
‘Burnt out? Sermon drought?’ suggested Tony.
Alan nodded, briefly looking up at his inquisitor. He knew his sermons had been recovered from years gone by in recent weeks. He felt it safe, as few would remember an aired sermon or its message.
‘Your wife. It must be very difficult for you.’
Was that a question? Stupid, Alan thought as his blood temperature rose.
‘Of course it is bloody difficult. It’s time consuming. It has changed my way of life. I’m now the cook, the dishwasher, the clothes washer, line laden and line denuded, garden maintainer, Hoover traveller, duster, window washer, shoe cleaner, tooth brush aid, bath aid...
‘It must leave little time to be a pastor?’
Alan smiled. Tony had understood the flow of his words and adopted a concerned look.
‘Do you get enough sleep?’
‘Disturbed, I’d say. But I try to go to bed early. Don’t watch much TV these days.’
‘Does your wife read, watch telly?’
‘She can’t turn pages. The telly’s in her room. Yes, it’s her pal when I am out.’
‘Does the congregation help, in any way?’
‘No, not much?’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Probably the nature of the disability.’
‘Not a very Christian lot I’d say. You mean no one to do the garden for example; ironing; making meals?’
‘A few loafs and crumbles we get occasionally, that sort of thing,’ said Alan wondering if the psychiatrist was acting more like a social worker. But the thought was cut short.
‘Your sex life. Satisfying?’
God, always sex. Psychiatrists must be obsessed with the topic, he thought.
‘The sin of Onan. Self-satisfying, but mutual.’
‘Good. I don’t know how I’d cope in your situation Alan especially as the change was so sudden. But you’ve not got depression. You are over burdened. You are doing the job of two people if not three and I can see why you feel you are losing the place. And you are.’
Alan knew he was certainly not functioning and was glad his own diagnosis had been confirmed.
‘So it’s not depression this thing I have?’
‘No. Mind you, your GP was right to refer you to me. He’s not of your Kirk of course, does not know the finer points. He must have suspected the dark dog.’
Alan felt relieved but saw no further purpose in the examination. His eyes wandered round the room.
‘So what happens now?’
Tony lifted his telephone. As it rang he focussed his eyes towards Alan and smiled.
Tea perhaps? Yes, that’s what he’ll be arranging, the British solution to all aches of the mind and body. However his opening remark sent a shiver down his spine.
‘Can you come to my room? I’ve a client for you.’
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Web Site:
Fault Lines Chapter 1
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I have no assistance from family, friends, or church members. This has been a concern of mine, because early on even though I was paralyzed, I was quite independent and helped many others, never asking for any money for my assistance. For example, for two summers I mowed the quarter acre lot of the 93-year-old man who could no longer even get to his mailbox to pick up his mail each day.
When I could no longer be independent, I had to hire people. My partner, these days was one of my first hires and has been with me 23 years. Each year gradually gets harder for her as I decline and she becomes older. The stress is immense and help is not readily available from the other two who do other work as well and are also aging.
From what I read you seem to have some experience in the matter, except that electric wheelchairs don't do well with stairs, so I had to assume that Alan carried Penny to the stair lift (or had a portable wheelchair upstairs) to get her downstairs for the day in the electric wheelchair. A little more detail here may or may not make it more realistic for the reader, actually how difficult it is caring for someone in my condition.
Hopefully you will share some more of this story with us. You've got my interest.
Ron