Rosemary Macmullen: A tale of two centenarians (From Hampshire Chronicle)

Rosemary Macmullen: A tale of two centenarians

2:49pm Wednesday 9th April 2008 in

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MY sister and I adored our great-aunts.

Sundays were a treat of tasty tomato sandwiches, strawberry jam and chocolate cake.

Each aunt had her favourite niece and we grew up supported by their loyal affection.

Eventually, Georgie was unable to cope with running up and down the stairs of their Edinburgh townhouse to look after bedridden Esther. Residential care was proposed. Esther settled in and entertained us with caustic comments on her "fellow inmates".

At 90, she had no sympathy with the weakness of others.

"See that auld yin," she'd declare disparagingly. "Never stops moaning - it's Nurse, Nurse' night and day!"

Stoically, she put up with her own pain, determined to hold on till she got her telegram from the Queen.

My last photo shows a deceptively sweet-faced old lady wrapped in a shawl and wielding a large knife with a wicked glint in her eye.

Georgie, having played second fiddle all her life, developed a social life and hobbled off to Jenners in Princes Street for fashionable tea parties.

I was constantly summoned to advise on the latest hat, handbag, or smart shoes for this newly-elegant octogenarian, who, in her turn, became the life and soul of the home's social events, being a superb mimic.

My mother, always a private person, hid the fact that, as a widow, she was living on tea and biscuits for some time.

My practical sister took control and filled her fridge with nourishing things, and organised meals-on-wheels.

Politely, my mother would refuse the delivery: "Oh, no thanks, I have plenty of food. My daughter looks after me." Eventually, it was decided a large house would be bought with private quarters for my mother, where my brother and his wife would cook and care for her.

True to form, she sat in her room and read and listened to the radio, not wanting to be a bother, until my brother developed cancer and she had to go into the dreaded home.

Well, it took a while, but again a transformation took place.

From being a recluse, my mother became a force to be reckoned with, and held court in the residents' dining room.

Sadly, she developed an infection weeks before her 100th birthday, but a room was kept at the hospital for a party and she was wheeled in to meet the numerous family and friends who had gathered round.

As we lifted our glasses in a toast to this indomitable centenarian, she crooked her finger and summoned us near. "What a waste! Should have kept it for the funeral!" she admonished.

The freedom from domestic responsibility and improved diet is a positive aspect of residential living.

New social interaction and wider horizons beckon if you have the courage to embrace change.

No-one felt sorry for my great-aunties and, more importantly, they did not feel sorry for themselves.

They made 'em tough in the '50s!