Load-bearing backs and DVLA extras

 When I took my penultimate driving test (there were a few) I found myself wondering if the DVLA was in the habit of paying extras to create a bit of additional complexity for wannabe drivers to navigate. I kid you not, anything you can put on wheels sailed past me on the housing estate I was traversing including a kid on a pogo stick, a space hopper and someone in a mobility vehicle giving at least three close friends and an out-sized speaker a lift. If you’re wondering why I failed the test it was not on account of that lot. No, the examiner had to use the emergency brakes when I failed to stop at a zebra crossing for a woman who, I maintain to this day, was quite clearly not going to have taken both feet off the pavement before I nipped past. 

Anyway. I do sometimes wonder if they’ve lined up the most challenging customers for me at the reablement centre when I go in on Friday afternoons to give massage. You would not believe the things I’ve had to navigate because I can hardly believe it myself. 

Last week, a lovely woman with no end of complexities - I can’t list them all because I didn’t have space on my form to get them down as she reeled them off - but she  was in constant pain, didn’t respond to painkillers, couldn’t feel her fingers or toes, had had heart attacks, stomach this and that. And severe halitosis to boot. I mean, it made my menopausal niggles seem almost irrelevant.  She was also so lucid and intelligent. I suppose I mention this because people who are in pain so often shrink inside themselves. She talked about how hard it is, living with invisible ailments when inside you’re screaming. People offer more love and compassion when they can see what you’re dealing with. 

Needless to say, I don’t think the massage I gave was particularly effective. It wasn’t the first time that I felt the service I was offering was that of a listening ear and a bit of kindness. 

We started sharing stories. Dementia came up. You know why I can’t say too much on that subject. Turns out her husband had it. We managed at giggle at that being one condition she’d managed to avoid. We went into a bit more detail. Turns out he’d also had one leg. I forget why. She described how she used to carry him around on her back. To get him upstairs. In and out of the car. She mentioned this in passing. I was thinking WTAF? She said it was easier than the faff of getting him in and out of his wheelchair. Sometimes the wheelchair didn’t go places they needed to. I had an unhelpful image of them visiting a beach on a Greek island. I mean, wow. That’s a whole new level of ‘for better and worse’. And now he has passed. And she’s dealing with so much. 

I don’t have a cleverly-composed rounding-up comment. I’ve been thinking about burdens we all carry. Especially as women. I’m trying to get a job, keep the balls in the air, single parent (pretty much, or ‘double-parent’ as some of my friends call it), manage the emotional distress that comes with the complex illness of a parent, and keep track of how much cheese is in the fridge. (We perpetually run out of bread, milk and toilet paper.) I still experience, to some degree, the metaphorical load of my ex-partner. But the literal load? No words. 

I suppose one thing I can add is this: massage does, if only temporarily, lighten this load. Helps one to let go.