It was through researching groups and services in my local community that I came across the Respite Centre. I turned up to interview and left as a newly recruited volunteer.
Goodbye, Sundays, I thought.
That was three months ago and I now look forward to these Sundays that seem to be over all too quickly. Working with the aged rewards me as a volunteer in many ways, the greatest of which is the complete satisfaction that others benefit from qualities which I am naturally blessed with, but which the aged no longer have: youth, health and strength.
For their part, the clients bring their life experience and their stories. Of course, older people living alone and coming together once a week to socialise, want to talk. The group I see each Sunday are mostly women, and so the talk is driven by them. The lone male, a WW1 veteran, does manage to get a few words in now and again, but for the most part, he has little chance. Thats where I come in.
Roy is adorable; like a soft, cuddly puppy, he is almost completely vulnerable. With hands and legs shaking uncontrollably, he sometimes comes to a complete halt when walking. It is only his determination that sets him in forward motion again. His face is deeply lined and painted with age spots. His eyebrows have taken on a life of their own, growing upwards and outwards as if powered by the force of character which beams from the bright blue eyes they rest above.
Roy has realised that I have a soft spot for him, and when Im not helping the others, he will catch my eye and call me over. It has become such a habit now that I automatically sit next to him during lunch, and it is here that he regales me with his tales. Unfortunately, it seems that his repertoire is limited to only two stories, with a preference for one.
Maggots. A rotten corpse. The meal before me loses its appeal. The women to my right are trying to talk to me, telling me stories of their grandchildren. Lively, happy stories. But the story to my left continues on and on, following the same unchanging path. Like in a fairytale, the order of events never changes, nor does the story grow any more or become any less. It has become so familiar that, as with a fairytale, I begin to feel the associated emotions before the instigating events occur. But unlike in a childs fairytale, there is no happy ending. No resolution. The story just ends. Around a certain point, the teller is always interrupted. Always. There is no sense of closure. And ..?
While Roys reminiscence is no Saving Private Ryan, I feel as if I have seen the story as a film, in slow motion, replayed over and over until it has become my story.
The setting is Papua New Guinea during the second World War. The troops are Australian. The orders were given for the men to crowd into fewer vehicles rather than to take more. The first jeep is blown up; the soldiers killed. The natives concerned, belonging to the only tribe working with the Japanese, escaped through skilfully pre-constructed trails hidden by dense vegetation. One was recognised as a captive released at the request of the Padre the day before. The dead were buried on the spot, to be later exhumed. And this is where maggots come in.
Roys hand is on my wrist. I try to think of something else, anything else, but his eyes show a need to explain, in detail, the scene. Soon, I know, it will come to an end and I will quickly finish the meal which has grown cold.
Suddenly the sound of the others voices grow louder and the tale is over, at least until next Sunday. I turn my attention back to the now laughing and teasing older women. The jungle scene fades into the background. I stand to collect their dinner plates and from all around me come expressions of appreciation for the meal. Being thanked. Another of the many benefits of doing volunteer work with the aged.
Goodbye, Sundays, I thought.
That was three months ago and I now look forward to these Sundays that seem to be over all too quickly. Working with the aged rewards me as a volunteer in many ways, the greatest of which is the complete satisfaction that others benefit from qualities which I am naturally blessed with, but which the aged no longer have: youth, health and strength.
For their part, the clients bring their life experience and their stories. Of course, older people living alone and coming together once a week to socialise, want to talk. The group I see each Sunday are mostly women, and so the talk is driven by them. The lone male, a WW1 veteran, does manage to get a few words in now and again, but for the most part, he has little chance. Thats where I come in.
Roy is adorable; like a soft, cuddly puppy, he is almost completely vulnerable. With hands and legs shaking uncontrollably, he sometimes comes to a complete halt when walking. It is only his determination that sets him in forward motion again. His face is deeply lined and painted with age spots. His eyebrows have taken on a life of their own, growing upwards and outwards as if powered by the force of character which beams from the bright blue eyes they rest above.
Roy has realised that I have a soft spot for him, and when Im not helping the others, he will catch my eye and call me over. It has become such a habit now that I automatically sit next to him during lunch, and it is here that he regales me with his tales. Unfortunately, it seems that his repertoire is limited to only two stories, with a preference for one.
Maggots. A rotten corpse. The meal before me loses its appeal. The women to my right are trying to talk to me, telling me stories of their grandchildren. Lively, happy stories. But the story to my left continues on and on, following the same unchanging path. Like in a fairytale, the order of events never changes, nor does the story grow any more or become any less. It has become so familiar that, as with a fairytale, I begin to feel the associated emotions before the instigating events occur. But unlike in a childs fairytale, there is no happy ending. No resolution. The story just ends. Around a certain point, the teller is always interrupted. Always. There is no sense of closure. And ..?
While Roys reminiscence is no Saving Private Ryan, I feel as if I have seen the story as a film, in slow motion, replayed over and over until it has become my story.
The setting is Papua New Guinea during the second World War. The troops are Australian. The orders were given for the men to crowd into fewer vehicles rather than to take more. The first jeep is blown up; the soldiers killed. The natives concerned, belonging to the only tribe working with the Japanese, escaped through skilfully pre-constructed trails hidden by dense vegetation. One was recognised as a captive released at the request of the Padre the day before. The dead were buried on the spot, to be later exhumed. And this is where maggots come in.
Roys hand is on my wrist. I try to think of something else, anything else, but his eyes show a need to explain, in detail, the scene. Soon, I know, it will come to an end and I will quickly finish the meal which has grown cold.
Suddenly the sound of the others voices grow louder and the tale is over, at least until next Sunday. I turn my attention back to the now laughing and teasing older women. The jungle scene fades into the background. I stand to collect their dinner plates and from all around me come expressions of appreciation for the meal. Being thanked. Another of the many benefits of doing volunteer work with the aged.
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