Jean, A Monologue

A couple of years ago I went a did a few days work experience in a nursing home, which was a real eye-opening experience! I met many people there, sadly unable to get much sense out of any of them. But there was one. This one woman, Jean, was fantastic and entertaining. It was so sad that she was there, especially as she seemed to have her faculties together even more than me myself. I wrote a monologue in order to honour her. Many of the lines included in it are ones which actually came directly from her, speaking in her darkly humorous manner. Anyway, here it is:

Jean

Three girls came to visit us the other day. It was Stacey, I think. And Sam – but not short for Samuel – Sam for Samantha no less! And Tootsie. Yes… No! Not Tootsie – Lottie. I just keep on making that damned mistake. She must think I’m mad. But I’m not. I tried to make that quite apparent to her; the fact that half the folk in here hardly know what’s going on. Take the rabbits for example – they’re both male, but they don’t act like it, if you know what I mean. They’re out there in the courtyard all day and they get closer and closer to each other until they’re… well you know. And one of the old dears’ll say to me – ‘what are they doing Jean?’ – and I say ‘they’re only playing love.’ But I know they’re not. I know what they’re doing really. But I mustn’t say – they have this renewed innocence and who am I to ruin it? They are children again.

So anyway. Two of ‘em came served me some tea and toast. I didn’t finish the corner, despite the fact there was a bit of marmalade left. I never can manage the last corner. They gave Ted some toast as well. They tried to talk to him (bless ‘em) but they were too quiet and he didn’t understand; he’s very deaf you see. A hundred in June. And I told them: ‘you’ll have to speak up. He’s a hundred in June.’ They nodded and spoke up a little but he still didn’t hear. They gave up in the end. Can’t blame them though – Ted can be hard work sometimes but he’s bound to be isn’t he. Well you would be if you were ninety nine.

Ninety nine!

So I started telling them about the home – Stacey and Tootsie. There’s Mrs. Francis, she’s a sad one. Pretty much blind and deaf, can’t even tell if someone’s walked into the room. Must be lonely. She must be very lonely. And I told them about Gwyneth. She’s a real sweetheart but you can’t get much sense out of her. Shame – she used to be a matron in the hospital. She used to be way up at the top: in charge. But you’ve got to get used to the fact that things change. If they didn’t, you’d never get anywhere. I told them about Mark. He’s a lovely one. All the ladies want his attention.

‘Where’s Mark? Bring me Mark! I want to see Mark!’

Mark works in the home – he’s not a resident. He’s such a sweetie – swings the same way as the rabbits but a sweetie nonetheless.

The next time I saw Lottie I was waiting for my paper. Takes bloomin’ hours for them to get round to bringing them to us. Sometimes I can sit here on this very chair, my chair, and I can see them all bundled up sitting on the doorstep. Just sitting there, out in the rain even sometimes even, waiting to be read but ignored and forgotten.

But we mustn’t complain. I said to her what I just said to you. We mustn’t complain, because the nurses are busy working in the rooms upstairs. What’s it to them if the papers are taken round a couple of hours late? We mustn’t complain, because this is a nice home here we are happy that we get papers at all, two hours late or otherwise. We mustn’t complain, because here we’ll get found if we fall over.

Lottie, the one with all that hair, asked about me. Why me? I’m certainly not the most interesting subject in this place. I told her about my stroke, so she knew exactly why I was there. I said that the other day I had a fall. Well, I told her, I didn’t actually fall as it were… but I sort of… crumpled. I said picture a pile of ash blowing down in a light breeze and that’s what it looked like.        

I laughed; she didn’t.

But you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? The alternative does no good at all. So I laugh and laugh and laugh. Laugh at the newspapers; laugh at the coffee which is always too weak. And I told the girls that laughter is the best medicine, although truthfully I seldom believe it. ‘Mrs. Jones is suffering from arthritis, what do you suggest doctor?’ ‘Laughter, and plenty of it!’ ‘Mr. Johnson’s got a broken rib, what do you suggest doctor?’ ‘Laughter, and plenty of it!’ I didn’t tell the girls – surely they ought to work it out for themselves – sometimes laughter is senseless. But where’s the use in sense nowadays? It gets you nowhere. What with poor old Sylvia thinking she’s still pregnant after sixty years, and Mr. Bazely lying half dead his bed all day, and that Jeremy bleeding Kyle on every television in this damned place…

But still I mustn’t say this to the girls. ‘Yes girls,’ I said. ‘Yes girls it’s wonderful here. You get your toast brought to you; you can watch television as much as you want. And there’s as many large print romance novels as you could ever read.’

And I mustn’t say these things to myself either – I must continue to accept that this really is the best of all possible lives for me. But by God, it’s hard. When you’re young you always pray you were older, but when you get there you realise the truth.