Ted The Shed, Chapter 28 - Well-Meaning Professionals

Now that Dad is a regular at the hospital, his home becomes a Mecca for well meaning but often ineffective health professionals. They stroll around his flat with a proprietorial air, and leave their notes and files around. The week Dad turns 95, he decides to get revenge.

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Transcript

Hello there.

Welcome back to Ted the Shed,

My memoir about my dad's allotment.

Thanks for joining me tonight.

We've reached July 2018 and tonight's chapter is called Well-Meaning Professionals.

But before I go ahead,

Please make sure to make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your chair or your bed.

Relax your hands.

Drop your shoulders and soften your jaw.

That's wonderful.

So if you're ready,

Then I'll begin.

Well-Meaning Professionals.

Now that Dad is a regular at the hospital,

His home becomes a mecca for well-meaning health professionals.

They treat it as an extension of their own workplace,

Leaving folders about and striding here and there with an annoying proprietorial air.

The week Dad turns 95,

He receives two memorable visits,

Neither of which goes exactly to plan.

Concerned about his mental health these days,

I've booked him another assessment,

And a young woman comes,

Another member of the flowery dress brigade.

He's very deaf these days,

I tell her at the outset,

Noting her light,

Quiet voice.

It's best to keep things short and loud and practical.

The possessor of a light,

Quiet voice myself,

I know it's hard to change it just because someone asks you to.

But the young woman does the opposite of what I'd requested.

After a few brief questions about the alphabet,

The date,

And the Prime Minister,

Even I can barely remember who that is,

What with all the changes recently,

She crouches down in front of Dad,

And in her light,

Quiet voice,

Embarks on a seamless,

Endless spiel about the benefits of mindfulness and meditation.

She has obviously learnt it by rote.

She seems unaware that he can't hear her.

Look,

I interrupt.

Dad's a man of his time.

I don't really think.

.

.

Oh no,

You'd be amazed,

She says.

I have plenty of clients your father's age who find meditation really helps them.

They enjoy recollecting happy memories.

I picture them,

Polite elderly ladies,

Happy to think about their grandchildren for 10 minutes while whale music plays in the background.

Don't get me wrong,

As an anxiety disordered meditator myself,

I know the value of 20 minutes of calm.

But I also know that meditation ain't Dad.

But Dad's a man of action,

I say.

We both glance at him marooned in his recliner with his heavily bandaged leg and dishevelled hair.

Well,

He used to be,

I qualify.

Thinking,

Perhaps,

That I am a mindfulness naysayer,

She counters by turning to Dad again and embarking on the value of gratitude lists and counting the breaths.

I go hot and cold,

Knowing that any minute Dad is going to react.

I'm just not sure how.

And then I find out.

He slumps forward violently in his chair,

Head lolling and arm dangling over the side of his recliner.

She stops talking abruptly.

She looks horrified.

Ted,

Are you OK?

She asks urgently,

Touching his arm.

I feel sorry for her.

I'm sure he's OK,

I say.

Indeed,

He comes round immediately.

I'm so sorry,

He says.

I suddenly felt very faint.

I think we'd better leave it for today,

I say,

Standing up to usher her out into the hall.

Of course,

She says.

I'll just write up my notes.

She sits down next to Dad.

Five minutes later,

She's still writing.

Can't you do that in the car?

I want to ask,

But can't,

Thanks to a lifetime of over politeness.

I do ask her to relocate onto a chair in the hall,

However.

While I make Dad a cup of tea,

I hear her shuffling papers out there and wish she would just go.

Go before Dad says something very rude about you,

I silently urge her.

But at least with Dad's deafness,

He has no idea that she is still on the premises.

The second visit is from Occupational Health.

Still refusing to use a stick,

Dad has become more adept than ever at furniture surfing.

It seems increasingly unsafe,

So I'm delighted when he entertains the idea of a Zimmer frame,

Having used one in hospital.

But the OT who comes to assess him stares in horror at his floor,

A flaky pastry of rugs and pieces of old carpet from the various homes that he and Mum lived in for 50 years,

All laid on top of the existing fitted carpet.

If you want the NHS to supply you with a Zimmer,

The OT tells him,

You'll have to take up these rugs.

She points at a particularly big bump on the floor.

I mean,

Look at that,

It's a health hazard.

Dad accepts this news in silence.

But the next time I go round,

He has been down on his hands and knees with a screwdriver.

Everything that ever flapped,

Overlapped or curled at the edges is screwed down into the floorboards.

In the kitchen,

Where there's a cement floor,

He has glued the rugs to the lino.

It must have half killed him.

I am at once appalled and impressed.

I ring the OT.

Following your visit,

I say,

Dad has secured all his rugs firmly to the floor.

It's a lot safer now.

How do you mean secured them,

She asks.

With screws,

I say,

And superglue.

There is a short,

Frustrated silence.

They'll all have to come up again,

I'm afraid.

You're not prepared to come and take a look,

I ask.

He's done a thorough job.

Those rugs aren't going anywhere.

That's hardly the point,

She says.

We manage another couple of exchanges before I realise that our conversation isn't going anywhere either.

So I thank her and hang up.

I've got an idea.

Five Minutes on Amazon reveals that Zimmer frames are as cheap as chips.

I buy one and take it round to Dad's flat a few days later.

I pretend it's the NHS one,

Of course.

Back at the plot,

We face a late summer heatwave.

It defeats many allotmenteers,

Especially those furthest from the taps.

Broad beans go black and onions are overpowered by the soil turning to concrete around them.

Currants and berries,

However,

Flourish to the point where harvesting and preparing them turns into a task in a fairy tale set by a tyrannical king,

Impossible to complete within the span of one human lifetime,

Especially when added to the onslaught of plums that's just starting.

I become enslaved to a group of fruit trees and soft fruit bushes.

This is by far the largest crop we have ever faced.

I resort to deliberate mental strategies to enable me to tolerate sitting night after night in the flickering blue light of the TV,

Plying my paring knife with fingers as stained as Lady Macbeth's.

First,

I tell myself that the repetition involved in topping and tailing is like a meditation.

Dad's mental health assessor would approve.

But this delusion has a limited shelf life.

Next,

I try channeling my granddad on my mother's side.

I never met him,

But he was a market gardener,

As was his father before him.

I'm getting in touch with my agrarian ancestors,

I tell myself,

As repetitive strain injury kicks in and I have to down dose after dose of ibuprofen.

Once the novelty of this thought wears off,

It's a quick plummet into good old-fashioned resentment and irritation.

Why does no one name and shame this aspect of allotmenteering for what it is?

A pain in the neck?

Could it be because most allotmenteers are men who have brainwashed their wives and children into setting two with their bowls and small knives without complaint?

But even as I formulate this nasty accusation,

I know it's rubbish because most of the plot holders on our site are women.

Perhaps they have very helpful partners,

Though in my experience,

The level of fanaticism required to sustain an allotment through all weathers tends to be an alienating factor in a relationship rather than a unifying one.

To be fair to Mr.

MS,

He is outwardly helpful,

But his preparation of plums,

Gooseberries and black,

Red and white currents is conducted at a pace so outstandingly slow that I suspect a form of passive aggression is at play.

I am reduced to shouting,

Get into the rhythm of the work,

A phrase once used to manipulate my own work rate as a fat teenager slapping joints of topside on the heat-wrapping machine at Sainsbury's.

It didn't work as a motivator then and I'm sure it won't now.

I only escaped back then by showing an aptitude for the cigarette kiosk.

As for the raspberries,

They don't taste so good after freezing,

So I decide we'd better eat as many as we can fresh.

Here,

Dad's short-term memory loss comes in handy.

We sit in his living room while he munches from a full punnet.

These days it's not worth trying to talk while eating is underway.

One thing at a time and all that.

I shan't have any more,

He says,

Putting the half empty punnet down at arm's length on the windowsill or I shall be running for the toilet.

I know what you mean,

Dad,

I say.

He frowns.

What?

We go to and fro with this a couple of times.

He only gets my meaning when I shout at the top of my lungs.

I was just agreeing with you.

Well,

Why didn't you say so,

He says.

I try and start a conversation about next door's looking out from his window.

I point to a large bird sitting on a branch and wonder aloud what it is.

But as he looks out of the window,

The raspberries recapture his attention.

I'm not surprised.

They are far more interesting than anything I've got to say or rather repeat several times at high volume.

Oh,

Look,

Fresh fruit,

He says.

Nothing to beat it.

He reaches the punnet down from the windowsill and tucks in.

In deference to Dad's digestive system,

I wonder if I should intervene.

I decide not.

He's enjoying himself too much.

And anyway,

I've got three more punnets of that size in the fridge,

And that's only today's crop.

I need all the help I can get.

To be continued.

Reviews

Garden struggles, sigh! The worst happenings make the best stories! Between skunks and racoons eating the worms in the raised beds and the extreme heat I don’t have much left. First year, though. I find hybrids don’t grow as well. Will try the “tea” recipe from the last Chapter. Thanks for all the groans and laughs!

Beautiful. I absolutely love your writing Mandy, and your voice is so soothing. Thank you for sharing your Dad's story with us

I was happy to enjoy time with you and your Dad today! 😀😆

lol - I’m sure most of us can so relate! But can there ever be too many raspberries?! (I’m sure there can be, but not having grown them myself, and them being quite pricey from the market, I can’t help but being a bit envious.) Thanks so much Mandy!!

Another beautiful chapter that captures the daily life of your family. I admit I chuckled when you were close to telling the well meaning mediator to p off! And I imagined your dad wanting to do the same just a few short episodes ago. Thanks for sharing as always x

Oh, Dad. And now I want raspberries! But it’s 2:00 am! Off to listen again and have a lovely sleep. ❤️🙏

Story of my life as a small farmer, you just make it funnier!
Thank you ❤️😂🙏🏼

Thank you! Ted is a classic, and that fainting spell was brilliant.

I don’t want this series to end… ever! I love it so much, thank you for putting me asleep ever night, I’ve listened to you for two year and I am hoping for more! 😊🙏