'There are three types of human being'

FIRST-HAND Her father's stroke brought out the best or worst in everyone, says Rushka Benjamin

Rushka Benjamin
Sunday 23 July 1995 00:02 BST
Comments

MY WIDOWED father had a healthy disregard for book learning. With his boundless curiosity and fine sense of the absurd, he taught me something I consider far more important: the observation of human nature. So were it not the case that a stroke has left his mind irreparably damaged, and that he weeps as often as he used to laugh, he would relish his friends' reactions to his illness.

The events of the year since Dad's stroke have taught me more about the dynamics of personal relationships than he ever imparted when he was well. I have come to the conclusion that there are only three categories of human being: those who instinctively know how to help others; those sensitive souls who simply cannot cope with hospitals and crematoria and who are conspicuous by their absence; and the villains of the piece, the pests.

Since Dad's stroke, I have come across many fine specimens of all three categories. I will never forget how my own friends have always been at hand to listen, to help me laugh and cry, to understand my darkest thoughts and to provide a link with the life I had to relinquish as soon as my father fell ill. I'll always remember, too, the neighbour who held me in her arms at my worst moment of grieving and absorbed my great paroxysms. As for the craven people who offered nothing but feeble excuses - they have my pity. But what hurt almost as much as Dad's illness itself was the behaviour of a number of my parents' friends, who almost drove me to nervous collapse.

They would be outraged to hear themselves described as pests, because they probably pride themselves on being "friends in need" - in fact they are the needy ones. When you most need cuddles, the pests' fragile egos must be massaged. They are the relentless poppers-in and ringers-up, the faffers, the control freaks and the talkaholics, the "snap-out-of-it" squad and the crashingly cheerful ones who steer you forcefully away from "painful" reminiscences.

Then there are those who, instead of going to visit the patient, regale you with reminiscences of their own: recollections of strokes, deaths, and parents with dementia. When I desperately wanted comforting, I found myself emitting the statutory little gasps and cries of commiseration about obscure, long-past deaths or minor strokes.

Mum and Dad were indiscriminately gregarious. They were a glamorous couple; but still I suspect they were insecure. Or else they had the siege mentality of people in a close-knit emigre community - a mind-set that made them over-indulgent towards other members. Whatever the reason, my parents seemed content with what I regarded as brittle, demeaning friendships. That has been their legacy to me. I have inherited not only the paraphernalia of their bustling social life: enough tableware to stock a small hotel; the pile of address books; but also - God help me - the friends themselves.

I spent those early days after the stroke, when Dad hovered between life and death, hunched over a payphone in the hospital's noisy casualty department, making my duty-calls in a choked voice to a handful of Dad's friends, who demanded (that's the only word) daily in-depth bulletins. Yet my great unmet need at that time was to be with Dad, or alone, or with my own friends to be healed, not to have to give endlessly of myself.

When I tried to care for Dad at home, matters became even worse. Carers generally complain of isolation; but I had to suffer the friends' disruptive visits, during which they all but elbowed me out of the way; their re- arranging of our kitchen; their unsolicited advice to me and to Dad's paid carers, their carping and interference. It was when I realised that my home life resembled an Anita Brookner novel filmed by Roman Polanski, that I opened Yellow Pages at Nursing Homes.

With Dad in the nursing home and his house on the market, the pests have for the most part drifted away, not without bitter recriminations on their part. I've been left to auction off the unwieldy dinner service, junk the address books and prepare the family home for demolition.

I had thought it would hurt terribly, seeing my parents' possessions going under the hammer and into the garbage cruncher, saying goodbye. In the event, it hasn't been too painful. For what the past year has taught me is that I didn't lose my parents recently: in a sense, they left me years ago, when they formed those friendships. I wonder what Dad would make of that.

Join our commenting forum

Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies

Comments

Thank you for registering

Please refresh the page or navigate to another page on the site to be automatically logged inPlease refresh your browser to be logged in