Practising for a Future My weekly visits to the hostel continued. There, Jack and I mulled over our dreams and fears. We still occupied ourselves with our separate handicrafts. I was then making lavender bags for a local firm, which was often hard and exacting work for me. I lived in a continuous muddle of organza material, buckets of lavender, and ribbon bows. Friends approached my bed, jokingly fighting their way through the maze! I was paid one new penny a bag, and worked long hours for £1 a week. But it was satisfying to see the finished hearts, squares and circles all neatly crimped round the edges, and looking shiny and new in their individual cellophane packets. At least it was valuable savings to my credit! Social Security Benefit for a person in my position was then £4.50 per week. My extra pound, though hard-earned, was no mean achievement. Jack continued with his jewellery making, but much depended on his own salesmanship and he found that trade was spasmodic. For someone "in care", the pocket money allowance at the time was £1 weekly. If our private hope had any substance, we had to think seriously about saving. Were we lucky enough to have a home of our own, we could not expect everything to be laid in our laps. All monies received in lieu of wedding gifts had been put into a joint account, and we planned to add to it. Fortunately, Jack had always been a thrifty person, managing to accumulate a little money in his own way. But I suppose, to be quite honest, we could possibly have mustered no more than £150 between us at that time, and that was hardly sufficient to build a home on, even by our own modest standards. Nevertheless, we did not allow our low financial backing to disturb us unduly. After all, saving was the one tangible contribution we could make to the future. Everything else, it seemed, was founded on hypotheses. Having set our sights and taken aim, we did not mind how distant the target was. We were content merely to be moving in the right direction. Six months elapsed quite quickly. Another letter recalling us to the Assessment Centre set our hearts beating excitedly once more. We were ready for anything. We went though all the medical checks again, with gritty determination, and even agreed to experiment with the mechanical hoist! Using a hoist would certainly have its advantages over the expensive and awkward handling of two people. And our daily routines were timed to the minute, in order to try and simulate the real thing. Having been got up each morning, I would make our cereal breakfast, and a pot of tea. I would boil water in a saucepan, because I found it easier to grip the handle for pouring. Then I washed up those few things, before starting to prepare some vegetables. Everything to me was so slow and laborious that soon it was coffee time. I fought on through the preparations to dinner, and it was washing-up time again. And getting used to my new chair hampered most of these activities, anyway. There were numerous interruptions for visits to the assessment room. Perhaps my arm supports needed re-aligning. Or a group of students wanted to talk to us. Back in the flat again, I would manfully tackle hanging out some garments on a clothes-horse outside. Dragging a bowl of wet linen on to m y lap was heavy work, and my arms got tired. At the end of the day, I was completely worn out. I lay beside Jack, aching from the day's activities. We discussed the future tentatively. Could I carry on, or would the pace prove too much? Jack had known all along that he was already contributing as much as he possibly could. But he was always a great comfort to me. "Well, don't worry, dear. If it all fails, at least we have tried, eh?" He was playing his part well, and two small tables were spread with his pens, paper and jewellery pieces. "I'll drop Miss Barnes a line today," he would say "Or shall I write a shopping list?" He was ever aware of what was needed, and I appreciated his advice and encouragement. Up to my elbows in soap suds, I would call out my requirements for the week's housekeeping, budgeting with the allowance allocated us for that purpose. Little did we realise that we were setting a domestic pattern that still largely obtains for us today. We hardly saw anyone between our allotted times of assistance. It was part of the policy of "Planned Negligence" we came to learn. Alarm bells were everywhere, in case of difficulty, but it was against our principles to use those. One day. Doctor Anne asked Jack how much liquid he took, and exclaimed in horror when he replied, "About four or five cups per day." "No wonder we can't get this urinary bug out of you system. Hasn't anyone every told you to drink plenty?" Jack had, of course, received that advice, but pointed out that he needed help with frequent visits to the toilet. "Can't Margaret help you with the bottle?" asked the doctor. But this was one problem which had so far been overlooked. "I wish I could. But the male urinals don't have a handle that I can grip," I said. The doctor stood up, and looked thoughtful. "I'll see what we can do about that". Next morning she returned, triumphantly holding a polythene receptacle, complete with extended neck and a large curved handle. It looked idea for the purpose. And, of course, it was. It meant another giant step towards our sought-after independence. But I could not be sure whether Jack was pleased with this latest development or not. "Right'" said Doctor Anne later, in her brisk manner. " I want you, Jack, to drink six pints of fluid a day. And you can keep an input and output record for me." "Operation Irrigation" brought lots of practice for our new bathroom requisite. Jack was constantly concerned for me in the extra work it entailed, but my reward was to see him looking and feeling mush fitter. It was a proud time for me. In fact, my achievements were manifold. It was marvellous having so many new doors opened. The strain on my muscles was easing, and I began to cope better. I had not been used to such physical exertion, equal to someone taking up a new sport activity. The endurance of that month's work must surely have merited a Duke of Edinburgh Award at least! But I was now learning when to rest, before real fatigue set in. And my confidence grew. There was now a distinct possibility that I would be able to manage on our own home, I was sure. However, optimism was slightly marred towards the end of our stay, when Jack slipped into one of his despairing moods. I had encountered them before, but was still not sure how to cope with them. He just hated everything! He mooched around, and spoke only when necessary. "Why don't you go for a ride round? I'm OK here," I said. "I can't go on pleasure trips, while you work," he grunted. I reassured him. "Go on. Don't be silly – I'm enjoying myself." "Well, I'm not," he finished emphatically. To everybody else, Jack was just "quite", and not full of his usual jokes. We had made the acquaintance of several other patients, so I suggested that he go and talk to them. "Get away from the domestic scene, " I prompted. He grunted again, "YOU can't get away from it." I realised that he would not be jollied out of these moods, and preferred to be left alone. "I can't help my moods, you know," he once apologised. "It's like a black cloud comes over me – and I could kick things." I still felt that something must be niggling Jack, and in bed that night I began to question him. He resented the interrogation. But eventually, I realised that this particular mood stemmed from feelings of utter uselessness. "Can't you see?" he pleaded, "I'm not going to able to contribute ANYTHING to running our own home." How well I understood his frustration. It seemed that I was having success after success, and that Jack was accomplishing nothing. Yet while I had not married him for his usefulness around the house, he was my whole purpose for going through with this experiment at all. I tried to comfort him once more. "I don't mind if you can't so anything. I want to be with you." But I knew that I was not really succeeding. Obviously, Jack saw things differently. He could visualise me struggling day after day just to keep us alive, while he looked on helplessly. To the onlooker, many tasked appeared to be hard work for me, although I myself felt completely in control. I had never fooled myself that it was all going to be easy. But Jack had a habit of underestimating himself, and nothing could convince him otherwise. We decided to sleep on it. Next morning, and with Jack in mind, my visit to the assessment room presented an ideal opportunity to browse around the equipment on display. Sewing machines, reading aids, gadgets to help disabled people to use the telephone – all held my deep interest. Then I noticed an electric typewriter! By its side was a short stick with a rubber tip, and a flat piece at the other end. Immediately, my mind started working. If Jack held a similar stick in both hands, I was sure that he could type. This electric typewriter had an automatic carriage return, and needed a very light touch on the keys. My thoughts were temporarily forestalled then, as the occupational therapist returned, saying: "Reports will be sent to your doctors, and to Norwich Welfare Department, so how do you feel about the way you've managed here?" I said that I had been more than satisfied. "But do YOU think we'll be OK?, I queried. She confirmed that modifications to a ground-floor flat would obviously be necessary, including wide doorways, lowered work surfaces and manageable cooking facilities. We would also need a hoist, and helpers to come in at peak times. This could be arranged by the various authorities in due course. We were told that our efforts at organising ourselves into a routine had been very successful. "Now are there any other problems you can think of?" I hesitated for a moment, remembering my idea of the typewriter. "I wondered if you could persuade Jack to try typing?" I explained briefly what had transpired, and that Jack was feeling very inadequate. He badly needed to succeed at something just then, but almost had to be bullied into it. "He'll probably protest", I told her, "and he won't want anyone to watch him at first – neither would I, really!" "Say no more – I get the picture," she said understandingly. Back in the flat, I cautiously mentioned the idea to Jack. His first reaction caused me to busy myself in preparing some vegetables. After lunch, the occupational therapist summoned Jack, and, used to unexpected calls, he complied obediently. Behind his back she winked at me knowingly. I proceeded with my tasks, concentrating hard and hoping. At 3 p.m. I was still engrossed in my work, and listening to the radio. Jack had been gone for over an hour. When he did appear he could not conceal his pleasure, any more than he could hide the typed sheet of paper on his lap. "Got your own way then, didn't you?" he grinned. "Can I see what you've written?" I asked eagerly. Expecting to see a copy of some boring piece of script, I was surprised to read a full- length letter to his mother. "Never could bear to waste your efforts, could you?" I jibed. But I got a greater sense of achievement from this than I had from my own successes. The letter explained my "conspiracy" to get him typing, but that he was pleased to have an understanding wife who would bully him when necessary. He was full of praises for the work of the Assessment Centre as a whole. Jack was given contacts for obtaining a reconditioned electric typewriter at the special price of £25 to disabled people. He enjoyed writing, and started wondering how to put his new-found skill to good use. His depression had lifted, and we left the Centre buoyant with success.