The Skeleton Cupboard: The making of a clinical psychologist by Tanya Byron

Author:Tanya Byron [Byron, Tanya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781447261674
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2014-05-21T23:00:00+00:00

He paused, opened his eyes and looked at me.

‘She didn’t, Harold. I don’t know what this song is.’

‘This song is called “Zog Nit Keyn Mol” – in English, “Never Say”. It is written by Hirsh Glick and known as the Partisan song. It is a symbol of our resistance during the Holocaust.’

‘How do spell the name of the song?’

‘Don’t write this thing down, Liebling. I just wanted you to know this song.’

There was no more coffee to pour, and the day was getting late. My fingers ached from writing.

‘So finally the end. The Americans came and we were liberated. They gave us chocolate and good food, which was their kindness, and I believe in response to the horror of how they found us. Many more then died – the rich food was too much for them. Yes, the Americans killed some of us with their kindness.’

I put my pen down and closed the notebook.

Why is it that the most highly stressed, overworked, heart-attack-waiting-to-happen people are generally more likely to die when on holiday relaxing than when at their desk? They work like buggery, sleep too little, eat, drink and smoke too much, yet somehow keep going until the day that they can pull on their beachwear, really acknowledge their dire need to relax and then promptly die on the sunlounger.

This must be a phenomenon; it must have a name.

I witnessed a similar phenomenon take place in Harold. When he suspected he might be suffering from dementia but there was no official confirmation, he soldiered on and compensated as best he could to keep up a semblance of ‘normal’. As soon as the diagnosis was made, his condition acknowledged, his descent into dementia was horrifyingly rapid.

Over the final months of my placement I visited Harold as often as I could when I was in the home and struggled once or twice with having to reintroduce myself to a suspicious man. He found nights difficult and became a real problem for the night staff to manage – sometimes aggressive and occasionally violent, Harold often had to be sedated.

One night I decided to do a night shift and realized that Audrey, the kindly Jamaican care worker, needed to change her clumpy shoes. As she walked between rooms checking on the residents as they slept, Harold heard jackboots. A conversation with Dr Gee resulted in a change of uniform policy and all staff wore rubber-soled shoes. Harold soon slept again, under his bed.

To compound Harold’s deterioration, Sarai was fading fast. She refused food, drank little and gradually lost all bodily function, becoming bedbound.

I had started smoking on this placement and sat on the terrace of the care home with Chris on my final day. Both of us puffed away.

‘Sarai knows Harold is changing.’

I didn’t want to tear up in front of my clinical supervisor and so took a long drag on a Marlboro Red.

Chris, who had turned up early for our final, end-of-placement meeting and spent some time with Dr Gee in her office beforehand, dragged on her cigarette companionably and nodded while listening.

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