When does growing old stop becoming a privilege?

Fly me to Switzerland before putting me in a nursing home

I went to visit my Nan in her nursing home last week. I don’t even like admitting this to myself, let alone you, but visiting her has been something I now have to force myself to do.

I know I’m walking the right way down the corridor when I see the black and white wallpaper with a giant image of Tower Bridge, along with framed lyrics for the song Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner.

Nine times out of ten I’ll find my Nan in the lounge, usually asleep in the chair. This time however she wasn’t there. The friendly staff member tells me she’s in the bathroom, so I sit down in one of the armchairs that hisses under my butt cheeks thanks to the pressure cushion.

There’s a fish tank to the left of me and This Morning is playing on the TV. Two ladies are asleep but one is awake. I didn’t know her name before, I just knew her as the most “with it” on the dementia floor. The conversation that followed proved I was right, as well as learning she was a Nurse who moved from Ireland when she got married.

When my Nan finally comes out, it’s lunchtime. You’re not usually allowed to sit in at mealtimes, but with permission I took a place at the table with my Nan, my new Irish friend and another lady who stared blankly at me throughout.

This day my Nan wasn’t overly chatty. Some days she is, some days she isn’t. She introduced me to her friends as her cousin, which makes a change from sister or daughter-in-law I suppose.

A man comes in with a strong London accent. Like my Irish friend he seems quite with it and joins in our conversation. He asks if I’m eating? “No.” I tried to hide the horror in my response. I joke with my Nan that she missed a big event last week: my birthday.

Another man joins, this one I know. He’s told my Dad he should go on a diet before and is prone to pointing out people’s skin colour… if you get my drift. He gives me the same tense feeling I get when a drunk man gets on my train carriage.

The trolley with chicken pie and lasagne arrives. As predicted my Nan and friends pick the pie. I notice that the rogue gentlemen can now barely speak since I last saw him. An awful part of me feels a wave of relief wash over me, while the other part wants to burst into tears for him.

“This isn’t porridge!” I look over to see my chatty friend with the strong London accent complaining to the staff.

“No, it’s lunchtime. You had porridge this morning.” He shakes his head in disbelief, he looks confused and I feel almost guilty watching. Then, he asks me, “Have they all got porridge?” gesturing to my Nan and co. “No", I tell him.

Meanwhile, the lady opposite me hasn’t touched her lunch, let alone moved. I wondered if I should help her, but as ridiculous as it sounds, I’m scared. The carer crouches down next to her and in a very loud voice that catches me off guard - almost making me laugh - asks her if she would like a cup of tea.

Ten minutes later the untouched cup of tea remains next to the untouched plate of pie. The carer comes back and crouches down again, but this time I’m prepared for the volume change. Finally, she responds. “I don’t want anything”.

The concerned carer tries her best, but the silence resumes. When she finally gives up I hear a quiet, croaky voice come back, “I’ll have a cup of tea”. The carer and I lock eyes as we glance at the still steaming mug sitting in front of her.

After 45 minutes, I need a break. I can feel my mind spiralling and with my Nan not giving much, I’m all out of conversation points.

I wheel her back into the lounge and give her a kiss goodbye. As I leave she calls out, “Sorry about your birthday”.