Taking charge

MY 99-year-old grandmother was a Bernardos child, raised in an institution. Now, two husbands and a productive life later,  she's back in one.

THIS column is written out of bewilderment and anguish and a deep love that is going nowhere.

My grandmother's 99. She's just gone into a nursing home. She did not go gentle, oh no. And suddenly, after a lifetime of mutual respect and delight and chuff, there's anger. How did it come to this? I'm painted as the ogre and I'm exhausted, flinched, just want it to stop.

A strong, proud woman, whip-smart, always smarter than what society expected of her. A Barnardos child, born in London's East End, sent off to a children's home at five and then shipped off to another in Western Australia at 11. Raised to be a domestic servant, she hauled herself up using a fine mind and an inclusive sociability that has always stood her in good stead, and after a lifetime of two husbands and varied, satisfying work she finds herself alone, deliciously, in her own flat, purchased from hard-earned funds; the one thing to show for a life lived vigorously, magnificently, quietly. Yet musings return, often, to the bewilderment of childhood institutions. She can't release the past - and her beloved grandchildren are now reminding her of it most cruelly. Because she's back in an institution.

She's been in hospital a lot recently. Can barely get out of bed by herself, struggles to dress, shower; her mind's sparky but the body's failing. "There's no dignity in getting old, Nik." During the last hospital bout the medicos said it's time for a nursing home; she couldn't use the hospital as a nursing facility. My brother and I asked her and she indicated yes, it was time.

The day before she was due to go: nightmare. Nan dug in her heels. Snapped that she didn't want it, we weren't listening.

The hospital called a family conference; all the way through she covered her ears, crying, "Stop talking, too loud, all of you." Oh, the mess of it. Swamped, can't think straight, just this morning shovelled baby food into a stunned five-year-old's mouth - only realised when I caught her astonished expression; too much in my head right now and feeling like I'm failing, at all of it.

What I've learnt: that extreme stress, at any age, is caused by a loss of control. My grandmother feels she's lost control, that momentous decisions are being made without her say. What I've also learnt: that strong, intelligent women can still be pleasers, right to the twilight of their lives. My brother and I concluded that as people in medical coats started suggesting, she concurred out of a sense of duty, acquiescence, but it was only when push came to shove that the enormity of the situation hit. Now, a submerged anger over a loss of control bursts spectacularly to the surface, like a mighty horse's kick.

So. Nan's in a nursing home, for a month. A respite situation now because we can't bear to see her unhappy. If she still wants to go home at the end we'll do our best to get her there, with professionals helping out. (I offered to have her with me: "Only if you can give me a flat, Nik." Wise. I wouldn't want to be crammed in with the mad, cacophonous lot of us either.) But as a woman whose early years were blighted by institutions she deserves a choice; as a woman whose motto has always been "If I rest, I rust," she deserves a say. Because she's stayed active her entire life and it's kept her young and we all dread the stasis of a nursing home, of what it may do to her.

She's almost 100. I'm organising congratulatory missives from her MP, Prime Minister, Governor-General and Queen. All women. Who would have thought such a thing possible in her birth year, 1913? I want to honour her proud independence. But it's hard. We feel like stumbling amateurs who've done everything out of a protective love and concern - but it doesn't seem that way to the person who matters the most.

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