John Schofield September 22, 2007

This is John Schofield.

He was one of the funniest, and most passionate, teachers I have ever met. John was Head of Physics at Herschel Grammar School until last year, when another school was lucky enough to employ him as Head of Science. We all missed him terribly, and a bunch of sixth formers formed a band and wrote a song about him and performed it at the end of term. John wasn’t even there to see it as he was at the interview for his new job. What a fantastic dedication he missed. I still have a recording of it on CD somewhere…

John was known for his honesty, passion for teaching and his great sense of humour. He had a way of making even the most rowdy class of teenagers fascinated by science, and always used his set phrases and hand gestures (all relating to physics!) often which pupils and teachers alike copied. He was well loved by all his pupils at Herschel. I particularly enjoyed hearing his stories of his days teacher-training at rough schools in Basildon. As an Essex girl by birth I could relate to his experiences, having gone to a similar comprehensive myself as a pupil.

When I joined Herschel Grammar he was one of the few long-standing members of staff that would treat you as a friend straight away. He gave me advice about teaching when I was newly qualified and showed me how important it is to be passionate about your subject. He was always eccentric, which I loved. He would tell me about the numerous classes he had confused by running out of the lab in mid speech, only to run all the way through the prep rooms and enter the classroom through the door on the other side of the room, and carry on exactly where he left off. The pupils loved it, although I am not entirely sure if they ever knew how he managed to come through the other door. He was certainly a teacher to look up to for inspiration, especially if you tend towards the eccentric yourself.

Earlier this year John got married to his long-term girlfriend and their baby daughter was born 3 weeks ago. Yesterday I found out about the birth of his little girl, but that he couldn’t be there at the birth because he is now housebound with terminal cancer which has progressed rapidly through his body. He didn’t realise that a tumour had been growing in his spine, and by the time he knew something was wrong (early this summer) it was all too late. The chemotherapy and radiotherapy he underwent this summer for the bone cancer had no effect. He was given about 6 months to live.

It is all so surreal. When John left Herschel last summer, he left a gaping hole in many pupils’ lives. We all missed him in the staff room. I particularly missed the fact that sometimes he would walk into the staff room at lunchtime, grab a cup of coffee, and claim there was no one worth speaking to and make haste for the science office. He sometimes offended people by this, but I loved it. It was hilarious. You always knew where you stood with John, and he always seemed to get away with it. Many a discussion we had at lunchtime with him about atheism, rounded decimals versus fractions, and theoretical physics. When he entered a room, you always knew he was there even if you couldn’t see him. He had so much presence.

I left Herschel this summer but I have heard that the atmosphere there is now very strange. Pupils have formed groups on Facebook to raise money and organise events. Teachers are in shock. Everyone has come together: teachers, current pupils and ex-pupils alike, desperately wanting to show how much he meant to them. I am still trying to come to terms with the news and am hoping to wake up and find out that this has all been some kind of nightmare.

If you want to share your own story about John, please leave a comment below.

Snake Oil and Other Preoccupations September 22, 2007

This is the book I am reading at the moment. It is by John Diamond, who wrote for The Times and was married to Nigella Lawson. He battled with throat cancer for many years and was, ironically and tragically, unable to eat the delicious food cooked by his domestic-goddess of a wife. He wrote on many subjects and this book, published after his death, comprises the first 6 chapters of a book he was writing on alternative “medicine” when he died, and a collection of columns that he wrote for various newspapers and magazines. He wrote with such clarity and authority and I urge you to read it if you have not done so already. Especially if you are paying a lot of money on alternative therapies.

A Nation of Animal Lovers September 17, 2007

I will always remember my visit to the Philippines some 11 years ago. Skinny cats and mangy dogs roamed the streets of Manila and hung out on butcher’s slabs in the markets, looking for scraps of food. I was horrified that dogs were eaten – not a myth, I discovered, when my friend bought a dog’s leg on one of the street-food stalls. Much bigger than a chicken drumstick, and apparently not as tasty. I was appalled. Nobody seemed to have cats and dogs as pets, and would treat them badly on the streets.

It couldn’t be different in the UK. We lavish such luxuries on our pets – buying them squeaky toys, comfortable squishy pillows, scratching posts and the like. When they are unwell we spend hundreds of pounds at the vets’ surgeries on worming tablets, vitamin injections and operations to repair broken limbs. They are treated like royalty in most peoples’ houses. Some people take in stray cats and open rescue centres in their back gardens, like my late dear friend Eileen who did so much for the thousands of cats that passed through her hands. When our pets get really old or begin to suffer from an uncurable disease, we do the kindest thing we can and have them “put to sleep”. It’s a difficult decision to make for so many people, and is not to be taken lightly. But we do take that decision, understanding that we are doing what is “right”.

The word “humane” (defined in the online free dictionary as “ Characterized by kindness, mercy, or compassion” and ” Marked by an emphasis on humanistic values and concerns”) is what we ascribe to decisions like that, yet why can’t we be “humane” to humans. Why is it that we can make these humane decisions for our pets, yet when someone we love so much is suffering and has no quality of life left (let alone their dignity), the “humane” approach would be regarded as “inhuman” (let alone illegal)? There are many good and valid reasons why we can’t make decisions like that for our loved ones. But my instinct, when I see my mum in so much discomfort and with no quality of life left, is to want what is “right”. It’s not “right” for her to have to live like this. When I think of how she once was I know in my heart how appalled and angry she would be if she knew she would end up in this desperate situation.

My Mum September 16, 2007

My mum was a proud, and fiercely independent, woman. She would never leave the house without her hair and make-up looking immaculate. This caused many mornings of arguments about length-of-time-spent-in-bathroom before work and school, because of course I took after her in my image-conscious teens, like mother like daughter. She loved to party, and I was often dragged along to many an evening tennis club function, where I would be given much attention by her friends, although I was much happier sitting in a corner of the bar with my maths books.

We had our own flat which she bought after her and my dad got divorced. I loved that flat and so did she. We had a garden and a cat that adopted us, and beams in the dining room.  It was a nice place to be a teenager and we were more like flat mates than mother and daughter. She worked as a manager of a famous high-street fashion chain and I loved the endless discounts that she was given, my wardrobe being full of their clothes. We often raided each other’s wardrobes, although I was upset that my feet were bigger than hers.

Mum was so fashionable and young-looking that we often got mistaken for sisters (and not just by guys pulling that old chat-up line), and when she took me to Ibiza when I was 13 I was envious that all the guys fancied her and not me! She must have saved up for so long to take me on holiday – not easy as a single mother with a mortgage and two mouths to feed.

When I went to University she took a few days off work and helped me carry my bags all the way to Aberdeen using the reliable Kings Cross service (the route of the flying Scotsman, no less!). Whenever I came back home for the holidays, she would always be waiting for me at Kings Cross station. Wrapped up in her long woollen black coat, and huge beautiful scarf (why can’t I ever get a scarf to look that good on me? I tend to resemble a snowman when I try, yet effortlessly she looked like a model!) she would never be late and would always cry a little when she saw me. She was such a dedicated mother.

I got off the train at Kings Cross yesterday, coming from visiting her at Grantham hospital, and had a few tears in my eyes. I looked for the beautiful woman standing waiting for me at the barrier with the long black coat. She wasn’t there.

Grantham Hospital Revisited September 16, 2007

Mum is not going home. That has been made clear to the doctor. In her current (not to mention future) state there is no way that my step-father could cope. Mum cannot walk or speak now. Her mouth doesn’t seem to be able to move much, and swallowing is now a huge problem. I cannot begin to conceive how she can possibly get worse. She is to be moved to another unit in the hospital next week, until a decision is made about her “future”.

I arrived at the hospital yesterday to find her slumped in the chair beside her bed, food down her top and her mouth covered in dried food remains. She looked parched and neglected. There were 34 patients on her ward yesterday, and 3 nurses. There were care support workers, apparently, and posters on the walls about treating old folk with dignity. My mum is not old at 59, and I didn’t see much evidence of her dignity. Surely the nurse who fed her (she is way beyond feeding herself now) could have wiped her mouth for her? Maybe could have put a towel over her lap to avoid her spilling food down my mum’s clothes? Maybe I am expecting too much.

Mum was sleeping and I dabbed her mouth with a moist flannel, and she responded like a baby who obviously felt relief at such an action. Her lips were dried and cracked, and she seemed to like the Vaseline which I applied. It must be so awful not to be able to make oneself feel comfortable. I brushed her hair and put cream on her face. She seemed to like the gentle massage action. It’s difficult to know because she can barely smile anymore.

I was there for 2 hours (constrained by strict visiting times), trying to ply her with drink (not alcoholic I hasten to add, although I bet a nice big G&T would go down well – if only she could swallow properly), and towards the end of my visit she suddenly registered who I was and leant forward to kiss my cheek, and something in her eyes told me she knew who I was and that she was happy to see me. Her eyes had been expressionless for the rest of the visit. That moment of communication and understanding between us is what I have left to hold on to.

It’s crazy to know that her brain is dying a little more each minute, and when I rubbed her forehead I tried to imagine what was going on underneath. Not much, is my guess. It seems that her body is shutting down bit by bit and I don’t know how much more it can possibly deteriorate while she is still with us.

The Wasp Factory September 14, 2007

Bleary-eyed, I made my way into the kitchen at 5.20 am this morning. I put the kettle on, wiped the tiredness from my eyes, and put the porridge on to cook while I showered. I realised it was raining, hearing the drops hard against the kitchen door and window. I went into the bathroom and realised it didn’t seem to be raining in there.

Heading back to the kitchen, and questioning my hearing, I looked through the kitchen door to see the rain that was so hard a moment ago. Was I dreaming, or were there really hundreds of wasps dive-bombing into the window? I rubbed my eyes, but the wasps were still there. The sound was incredible. A dozy wasp made it’s way through my legs and I realised that a few had somehow gotten into the kitchen. I stopped and wondered if the whole of London was going to be like this when I left my house to go to work. I thought it might be a good enough reason to stay at home. But alas, outside the lounge window all was well. I guess there must have been a nest somewhere nearby and that they made their way to the light, which would give them warmth on this chilly autumnal morning.

The wasps have stayed with me today and I keep wondering about this. Has anyone else experienced a similar thing? What is going on with the London wasps?

The 35 minute lesson September 12, 2007

I have no time to do anything. I am now living my life in 35-minute chunks. I feel stressed, rushed and cannot think straight. Lessons at my new school are ridiculously short for teachers, and probably slightly too long for pupils. We also have no bells. Quasimodo would be grateful – I am now having to look at clocks to help me out. The clocks here are actually networked, yes networked. In theory, someone in the office can change the time and it will appear altered in every single class room. A good thing when the clocks go back (never a good thing when the clocks go forward). But it would be great if the office could help us through the day by fast-forwarding time a little. Maybe be a few hours, perhaps. Little would be accomplished, but then again in a 35 minute lesson little constructive is accomplished either.

In this 35-minute slot, here is what I have generally managed to achievethis week:

Pupils arriving to lessons in dribs and drabs (5 mins)

Getting pupils to stop talking, put gum in the bin, open their books (5 mins)

Pupils mark their homework (5 mins on a good day + 5 mins for excuses).

This leaves 15 mins left to teach anything new. Oh yes, and subtract 5 mins from the end of the lessons to pack their bags, do their hair and make-up, and ask questions about the homework, like “when is it due, Miss?” (look at the board); “What questions do we have to do Miss?” (look at the board). So really there is about 10 mins teaching time. I am panicking. What happens when parents want to know why little Jimmy has not learnt much at the school when they are paying £x a year to send him here? I have yet to find out the answer to this that would satisfy.

So I return to my “drawing board” (read as cramped little space in large noisy office) and attempt to figure out how the hell I am going to get round this problem. If I could hear myself think, of course.

Visiting mum September 9, 2007

Mum is now in Grantham hospital, having been admitted to A&E on Friday evening. She has now been moved to a medical ward where Dr Sood (a geriattrician specialising in Parkinson’s disease, strokes and complex rehabilitation – as discovered on the internet) will be assessing her condition and helping to make a decision as to what happens next. One of the nurses told us to push for what we want. Apparently, if you know what to ask for, the hospital have to comply with your wishes. That’s if you know what is available to you in the first place. All we have decided now is that there is no way she is going home until another carer is assigned or until she has been given a place in a residential care home (unlikely because she is under 60).

A month ago I was visiting my mum in the hospital’s assessment centre twice a week. It was not so bad – she could communicate at times and was able to walk around unaided. Having been away for the summer, I got a terrible shock when I saw her yesterday. Skin and bones – 6 kg lost since her last weighing 6 months ago – and unable to communicate effectively at all. She cannot walk unaided either, and she suddenly looks like she is in her 80s. It does appear, from her limited facial movements, that she either suffered a stroke or a series of mini strokes (very common in Alzheimer patients) but last week’s CAT scan was inconclusive. So now we play the waiting game until someone makes the right decision about her future.

Is this bad enough? September 8, 2007

It’s Saturday morning and I have just finished reading all about the ongoing case of Madeline McCann in the Guardian. I just don’t buy the whole parental involvement thing, I realy don’t. Straws are being clutched at, the Portuguese police need to get a result and the parents are being hurt in the process. They must be going through hell, wondering if they will be charged for something they have not done. As if losing their daughter wasn’t enough.

Last night my mum had another fall (see previous post), and again she fell and cut her head open and blood was coming from her mouth. The ambulance was called and to the hospital she was taken. The third time in 2 weeks. Is this bad enough for social services? Can she be put into a nursing home now please, before something even worse happens? I am going to take the 12.30 train from Kings Cross and visit her in the hospital at Grantham, where she is now in the Emergency Assessment Unit. They have 24 hours to decide what to do. Let’s see if they make the right decision this time. What would they do if we refused to take her home? They would have to sort something out, right? Well maybe it will have to come to that, as horrible as it sounds.

That’s the thing with Alzheimer’s disease. If it’s a written diagnosis, the State has to provide care. In theory, although all the outward signs of her illness are obvious to anyone who has done their reading, no tests can be done to confirm this. It is only by post-mortem brain biopsy that it can be proven with 100% certainty. Which is why you will rarely see a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s on a patient’s notes. The staff will talk in terms of “dementia” of which there are many forms (of which Alzheimer’s is a particularly nasty type). It’s all about money at the end of the day. How can we be called a civilised society where funding issues take priority over someone’s well-being in such a drastic case?

My mum brought me up by herself. She had no option but to go to work, and when I look back she did pretty well to pay the mortgage by herself, give me a small allowance and have a job with a lot of responsibility. She paid her taxes and National Insurance contributions for all those years. We were no bother to the State. I got a job as soon as I could legally earn money, and I was brought up to believe that you did whatever job you could get rather than ever claiming benefit. Neither myself nor my mum have ever been unemployed or claimed benefit for anything. Now that she so desperately needs help, no one is there to help her in return. What did she pay all that money for over the years? Why can’t she get some of that back now? If she had a disease, such as cancer, people would be bending over backwards to help. With mental illness it’s so different. It’s the skeleton in the closet that no one wants to deal with.

I Hate Alzheimer’s Disease! September 5, 2007

I have survived now for 3 days at my new school without being sacrificed to the great Teacher in the sky. I am so happy by this. However, the kids are being let loose on us tomorrow and I fear for my safety yet again. How will the posh kids take to a common North London girl like myself? Stratford Girl will understand that although I am not originally from London, it’s better than being called “Essex Girl”. So I will stick to North London Girl. To those south of the river from priveledged backgrounds, they will think that being from North London is bad enough. That’s it! I will hide my Essex roots as well as I can and will affect a neutral accent so they can’t tell. As for my roots – I don’t bleach – that’s a different kind of roots that I do not actualy share with your stereotypical Essex girl.

Anyway, the regional thing is just an aside.

I now want to do some ranting, in a Stratford Girl style. And this time it’s about the NHS/Social Services and whoever the hell else is involved with keeping my mum from being a danger to herself. A bit of background before I rant.

My mum has Alzheimer’s disease, and she’s only just turned 59. It’s all happened quite quickly in some ways, although looking back the signs were there but I guess you just choose to find other explanations for memory loss, repeating stories and being generally irritated by embarassing parental behaviour (my mum used to embarass me on a fairly regular basis, as witnessed by Stratford Girl on several occasions). Since her diagnosis a couple of years ago she has gone downhill very quickly. The disease is horrible and affects people in slightly different ways. If you didn’t know this already, Alzheimer’s disease is where the brain starts to shrink and die. In this way, bodily functions begin to deteriorate and eventually stop altogether. The only way it affects people differently is the rate of its progression and which parts of the brain get affected in which order.

So, the story goes. Mum was hospitalised for a month in July to undergo “assessment and observation” following a very rapid fall in her cognitive ability, as identified by a “Memory Team” and social services. After a month she was released with no apparent solution. During this time she had become rather attached to an elderly male patient, who she thought was her husband, and was convinced she had been in there to have a baby. She also told me, rather politely in one of her more lucid moments (which were very few and far between) that I had a fat arse. This was not one of the moments where we bonded particularly well (I hear you, Amydebe!). However, I was glad to see how observant she was and how she was able to articulate her feelings so eloquently (someone pass me the Dr Atkins book!).

So, I was away for a month during August. A week before my return she collapsed (maybe from a stroke), although my step-father failed to tell me this until I phoned on my return. She was rushed into hospital once more and now she cannot sit or stand without falling. Obviously this is a big problem as she does not have 24 hour care, apart from that which my step-father provides (when he is not in the bathroom or sleeping, which he has little time to do given the difficult circumstances). Social services still didn’t seem to think this was bad enough to give her a place in a nursing home which she so desperately needs. In fact, questions were asked about what would happen if…..she fell and hurt herself badly? No response. She can, it would appear, only be provided with a place if “something really bad” happens. No prevention. Just have to let it happen.

So therein lies my frustration. It’s difficult you see, they said, because she’s under 60 and there’s no procedure in place to deal with this if it happens to someone under 60. So there’s no box to be ticked. No place to be had (unless something “really bad” happens). Well, this afternoon she fell again. This time she managed to cut her head badly from the fall and again she was rushed into casualty. The doctor’s file said they had recommended to social services that she be put into sheltered accommodation. First we heard of it. Don’t think social services had heard of it either. So she’s back at home in Lincolnshire. Now we’re waiting for the “something really bad” to happen, because it’s inevitable really when you think about it. Maybe then she’ll get a place.