On convalescence and Cliftonville

So - the Massive Inconvenience came and went; not quite in the blink of an eye but almost. I had the surgery; I had the radiotherapy and I bounced back. Except that I didn't, not quite. Because the road to recovery is proving to be rather more uphill than I had envisaged. I blame it all on that rotten staphylococcus or its near relative, which seems to have been taking up residence in various parts of my anatomy, one after the other, and then wreaking havoc. As my gentle Polish dentist, Ewelina, explains, anywhere that there's a weak spot. Factor in my notoriously inefficient immune system / pathetically low white blood cell count and I am definitely in a state of festina lente.

Recovery, I now realise, cannot be rushed or forced so nothing for it but to adopt a Taoist approach, namely one of least resistance. Hooray, no feeling guilty about housework and chores undone; I can just stretch out on the sofa, in the manner of Madame Récamier, with a good book, or with a DVD on the laptop and be entertained - which is just as it should be when one has zero energy, a hacking cough, which has been hanging around for weeks, wheezy lungs, root canal related toothache etc etc. And it is raining. And cold and grey. (But in case you are wondering, yes, I still walk the dogs for two hours every day. Because that's what you do when you have dogs.)

On a deeper level, however, it occurs to me that I haven't wanted to venture out much either. I don't want to be with strangers or people with whom I have nothing in common, nor with people who lack sensitivity or compassion. I just want to be with people whom I know and love and trust. The precise feeling is hard to pin down. Breast cancer has left me with a legacy (temporary, I hope) of feeling vulnerable at times and, at others, as if my confidence has packed its bags and left town.

I wondered if this was a common experience and asked my dear friend, M, over at Random Distractions if she too had felt this way 16 years ago, in the early stages of recovery from her own encounter with a Massive Inconvenience. It had, she said, and she urged me to give myself time, plenty of time.

"It's called convalescence," said M.

And that's a word one doesn't hear very often, which was not the case when I was a child. Whenever my granny, who lived with us, had been 'poorly' (I was never quite clear as to the exact nature of the poorliness), she would take herself off for a week's stay in a convalescent home at Clifttonville on the Kent coast.

You see what I mean? When was the last time you heard anyone mention that they were spending a week at a convalescent home?

Granny would return from her sojourns at Cliftonville if not exactly a new woman, then at least a refreshed one. I was pondering this after my conversation with M. What did the guests do all day? Sip cups of nourishing beef tea?  Take light meals selected from the invalid menu - apple snow, that sort of thing? Gather round the wireless of an evening to listen to the latest episode of Dick Barton on the Light programme? Go for gentle strolls along the promenade? 

Granny wasn't much of a one for walking, she far preferred sitting, so I suspect that Cliftonville's Nayland Rock promenade shelter was as far as she would have wanted to go, preferably with another guest, so that they could have a bit of a chat and then wander off to the nearest tearoom for a pot of India's finest and a cake or two. A favourite pastime.

In choosing Cliftonville at which to ease herself back to health, she was in the very best literary company, for this was where, in 1921, T S Eliot came to convalesce after a breakdown. He stayed at the long-since demolished Albemarle Hotel. And it was at the Nayland Rock shelter that he wrote part of The Waste Land.

'On Margate Sands./ I can connect / Nothing with nothing. / The broken fingernails of dirty hands. / My people humble people who expect / Nothing./ La la

To Carthage then I came . . .'

All of which I find rather thrilling, the thought of Granny sitting in the very same shelter as T S Eliot. I think she would have been less impressed, however, being more inclined to light verse of the Patience Strong variety.

Given the significance of the Nayland Rock shelter in the history of 20th century Eng Lit (and in the life of my grandma), it was reassuring to learn that, in 2009, it was given listed status.

John Betjeman, that chronicler of quintessential Englishness, also immortalised Cliftonville in Margate 1940, thoughtfully posted here on the Cliftonville Chronicle blog.

There's clearly a lot to be said for convalescence, especially at Cliftonville. Shame it's on the other side of the country, otherwise I'd be packing my bags right now.

Comments

[colleen]

What a gentle and reflective piece of writing. Such a good thing that you have recognised that you actually need to take it easy. So often we don't. The symptoms you describe are also very similar to a state of grief I experienced last year after the death of someone I had been very close to. I simply had not recognised it as such.

Here's hoping that the next few weeks will be restorative and kind).

[ramblingfancy]

Oh poor you all that and toothache too! Lovely account of your grandmother and T S Eliot and convalescence. As another long ago recoverer from my own Massive Inconvenience, I do agree with Random Distractions comment. I do hope though you begin to feel more robust very soon, and, in the mean time, are able to bring Cliftonville to you? Lots of gentle books, treats, fresh flowers and glasses of your favourite tipple perhaps? And something to do with your hands? I found knitting drove me distracted enough to have me longing to walk a dog!

[Zoë`]

Identify with so much of this - even down to loosing teeth! Sending you warm healing and soothing vibes, and hoping it doesn't drag you down too far.

I think Colleen isn't far from the truth - we do grieve after such encounters with mortality, and the realisation of our own frailty.

Thinking of you x

[Dranfly Dreams]

Thank you for such a poignant post. I think it best that we all slow down and take care of ourselves without feeling guilty. I do hope you feel better soon!

[Maureen]

The winter must end soon and then you'll be able to relax in your beautiful garden. Not quite Cliftonville Promenade but just as good for a convalescent, I'm sure.

M xx

[Dancing Beastie]

You are so good at pieces that read like a stream of consciousness, taking the reader effortlessly on a delightful journey of allusions and images. Much cleverer than it looks (which is a compliment!). Goodness, though, your paragraph about feeling vulnerable, and needing to withdraw from all but the most sympathetic of companions: that really struck a chord in me. That is how I felt for most of last year following my brain injury. Lying on the sofa ignoring the chores can be terribly frustrating, but you are so right to recognise that it is what you need at the moment. You've taken a real battering and good old-fashioned convalescence is exactly what is required. Both convalescence and (as Colleen has suggested) mourning seem to be out of fashion in our hurried world - but our bodies and souls still need them at certain times.

[Jay from The Depp Effect]

Oh, certainly you are convalescing and convalescence cannot be rushed. You must take your time to recuperate and not feel guilty at all!

I had an Inconvenience of my own, not perhaps quite so massive as yours, but it shook me, and I think some of the recovery from such things is emotional and not physical at all. Long after I'd healed (as much as I was going to) I felt very vulnerable and uncertain. I have regained quite a lot of my savoir-faire and in fact gained more zest for life than I had had before!

I loved the John Betjeman poem. So gentle and so true. It is the small things that are worth fighting for.

[Shelley]

Interesting that you are choosier about the company you keep now that you are recovering from illness. It does take energy to cope with difficult personalities and rather than having lost your confidence, perhaps it is a matter of physical and mental strength that is lacking? I think whenever our resources are diminished we become more selective and that's a good thing. Hopefully as your strength returns you'll be more able to face the 'outside world'. I'm impressed you still manage your long dog walks. Cliftonville sounds very interesting. Must remember to see it if we ever find ourselves in that part of the country. It's not very likely, but one never knows. Keep on taking good care of yourself! The housework can wait...

[60 Going On 16]

I am so grateful, as always, for your thoughtful comments - it always feels like a conversation, not simply a blog. But I apologise for taking so long to acknowledge your supportive words.

I am certainly feeling better than when I wrote the post - there will be a blogpost to prove it a little later today - although I recognise that there are 'miles to go' yet. However, I didn't want to write anything new without first saying 'thank you' to everyone.

[Teri and the cats of Curlz and Swirlz]

Your strength and guidance comes from there, your Granny would be proud.