The end of an era

I hate moving. I’ve been sorting, disposing and packing since February, but it’s getting intense now. Nearly everything I have left is in boxes and every few days, I have a ‘where the hell is x’ moment.

This little gem of a house has been home since 1968 and certainly in the last year, with the knowledge that I shall spend the rest of my life in a nursing home, I’ve come to realise how much I love it. Others will just see it as another 1930’s Tudor style house but to me, it’s been a quiet sanctuary in a leafy riverside road. With a huge garden and near a private meadow. I’ve got my own apartment in the new home, and I’m currently sorting out a new cooker, TV and washing machine (why do so many programmes take hours?), but I’ve adored the old ones. When they worked. It was reassuring hearing the pipes groan at night. The birds sing in the morning. And I was so blessed to live near a John Lewis ten minutes from me. I shall miss it, but I’m getting on and the disease has progressed to a stage where the best, safest place for me as a home.

I’ll miss friends, food and freedom. I’ll have to get used to an airfryer, and induction plate. I hope my desktop will survive the journey.

I was surprised that the same doctors who wanted definitive evidence of disease, uncritically accepted gossip. So I treated family and friends. No, I never did. Mum and dad had BUPA and sensibly relied on their GPs and competent consultants. I once placed a plaster on a cut though. And I might have removed a splinter. No idea where they get their information about me as a person from, but it was nothing I said. And nothing they saw. I shall definitely not miss the b…..t.

I won’t miss gaslighting ‘professionals’ who can’t be bothered to google my diagnosis and inform themselves. Who want to know the subtype of leukodystrophy before putting a care plan in place although the genome tests don’t always find the errant gene and the results are not expected for a year. And even if we know the subtype, it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, the illness can’t be cured. But as in many illness, symptoms can be managed. I’ve had to go private for that.

I’ve missed my British family for the last three years but had no choice but to cease all contact. Once identified, you have to avoid the narcissist and those close to them. Their friends or children might pass on information they can use to abuse. Hence I have never seen my little grand niece, and she won’t ever know her great aunt Ellen. I had hoped one of my relatives might have tried to encourage sibling to apologise and get us all where we should be. Who we should be. What we used to be. A supportive, caring family. But I think none of my family tried. After the smear campaign, Auntie Ellen became nothing more than a source of money and when they had received their thousands from mum’s estate (half of which I had inherited), I became uninteresting.

Some people see disabled people like that. Lesser beings. Not really worth their time. They don’t value your humour or knowledge, as you merely confront them with a horrible and progressive disease. Ofcourse, lots of families and friends aren’t like that. I thought mine wasn’t. And then mum died.

My last connection was through a letter from her executor, in which sibling asked for all the interest from my money which had accrued during the time it was in the executor’s bank account. I let him have it. £150. Amazed he was still thinking of ways to fleece me after three years. I would not have thought about that money. But when I move, all contact ceases. He won’t know my new lawyer. My bank. Anything.

And as for being of no value, my gorgeous home is. There would have been a considerable inheritance. Oh yes. But I don’t think they thought that far ahead.

Now I’m looking at the mountain of boxes, I feel loss. I have spent rather too often thinking of happy times in the past. Maybe my new abode will be exciting. Maybe I’ll make new friends. I hope so. But I realise that at my age, I don’t really like change. I adored being so close to shops like Waitrose, Marks and WH Smith. I miss my independence. Off on my bike, or rather, mum’s, to buy a chocolate muffin. But the bike has gone. And soon, so shall I be. Goodbye Teddington. I am starting a new phase in my life but I really wish I wasn’t.

I’ll be 68 soon. Not a bad innings. I’ve been lucky to have lived in a beautiful home for so many years. The future is always uncertain and especially now. You just never know what is around the corner. But I’m determined to enjoy the positives eg I am not poor and don’t have to count the pennies like so many others. And like I used to. I was never materialistic but as they say, you can’t take it with you. Time to treat myself. But do I really want a TV with all those bells and whistles? Not really. I like people. Honest, decent people who care about others. I like gezelligheid. (No English equivalent). And you just can’t buy that.

Off to dream about the seaside. Be kind my reader. And do follow my mantra. If you hear accusations about a person, don’t judge them until you know the other side of the story. Decency and kindness are so important.