The ravages of time …

A trademark Stetson hat, three piece suit and tie knotted in the double Windsor style, as well as highly polished and buffed leather shoes set Eric apart as the quintessential English gentleman. Employed in the upper echelons of the prestigious civil service of the 1940s, he boarded the train to Cape Town daily and would devour the Cape Times news of the day en route to the office. Alighting at seven-thirty each morning on platform thirteen, he would take a leisurely trundle along Adderley street to his office in Marks Building, Plein Street, opposite the Houses of Parliament. 

An Under-Secretary, he wielded influence as an advisor to the political class serving in the cabinet. He would arrive already appraised of the latest publicly available news regarding the progress of the war, in which many South African troops were serving “up north.” On his ample desk were screeds of text that had come in overnight, and been decrypted by staff on the night shift who had the security clearance to deal with information transmitted by the War Office in London about the state of affairs in Europe and North Africa. Reclining in his plush chair that denoted his pivotal position as a civil servant with power and influence, Eric would prepare for the daily round of meetings, briefings to cabinet ministers and the Prime Minister himself, as well as the dispatch of memos regarding decisions that needed to be expedited without delay. The aura of the office exuded power.

Eric occupied his key position adjacent to Parliament and the Cabinet Office, because of his agile mind and his demonstration of brilliance during the years he gained experience, and recognition for his unquestioned ability as an administrator, and manager and astute leader. At a critical time that the country was conducting a war effort as well as fending off sabotage from quarters opposed to South Africa’s support for the British Commonwealth, his incisive insights earned him the respect and deference of his political chiefs and staff alike.

The War over, he continued in his key role in the service of the government. In 1947 he was due for retirement at the age of sixty-five, but not before he had played an extensive part in arranging the Royal Tour of South Africa. He wrote text and provided input for the many speeches the King and his entourage were required to deliver, as well as crafting the speeches of the South African political elite that accompanied them on their visits to major cities and country towns alike. At the end of the frenetic Royal Visit, he felt that the time had come for a well-earned retirement. Having been aware of his impending retirement, he had the foresight to set out a succession plan. The transition to a new generation of civil servants, at least in his department, was seamless. It could not be foretold at that time that power would soon shift dramatically to a whole new ideological class of nationalist politicians. However, governments come and go, but civil servants continue to serve whoever is elected to wield power.

Eric found the transition to retirement rather taxing. The loss of influence and the status of high office was rather a shock to one who was accustomed to being a “mover and shaker.” One moment he was giving counsel to the nation’s leaders and dispatching instructions to staff, the next he was “chatting” to his plants in a well tended Newlands garden. The sudden changes in his life somewhat dented his self-esteem. He continued to read and write, and kept up to date with the events unfolding in a post-war world. Nevertheless, the adjustment to the status of “pensioner” soon began to take a toll on this energetic and astute man now entering the sunset years of diminishing influence. He would be called upon less frequently to tap into his extensive knowledge as his relevance in a changing world diminished.

It was not long into his retirement that Eric experienced his first brush with the ravages of time. He stood flummoxed as he gazed into the mirror, unable to recall how to tie a double Windsor knot in his tie. A ritual he had performed for well nigh sixty years suddenly had him perplexed. His wife was called to rescue him and assist in the simple knotting of a tie. Within a few days he regained the ability to knot his own tie, but the first hint of trouble on the horison had startled him.

Soon he had to deal with other trifling matters that, on their own, were not a harbinger of unrelenting decline. Taken together, they sounded warning bells for his wife, children and friends who had come to know him as an erudite and astute figure and a fine gentleman to boot. One day it was a case of misplaced keys. Then an odd incident where he placed a book he was reading in the refrigerator. Next it was a simple drive to Cape Town CBD and the return trip that caused major distress. He couldn’t find the route to his own home. Mercifully he was able to find a “tickey box” (phone booth) from which he was able to contact his wife and arrange to be rescued from his spatial confusion. Not long after that, he could no longer be trusted to venture out in the motor car without being accompanied by his wife or one of the grandchildren.

Within three years of retirement, Eric began to show other disturbing signs of age taking its toll. In a single conversation he retold the same story or repeated an incident two, perhaps three times. A man with an extensive vocabulary and the skill to write speeches for national leaders, began to lose the fluency he once had. His speech began to show signs of the loss of his former linguistic agility. 

The forgetfulness began to creep up on him. It was the most recent events he struggled to recall. Somehow it appeared as if the container of his mind had been filled to capacity. The first records that had been filed in his memory were the last to disappear. The events imprinted the most recently were the first to lose their traction. Short term memory was unpacked and discarded rapidly. Childhood memories remained the longest and stuck around for him to regale his family and friends with them – repeatedly.

By the time five years had elapsed, the more complicated tasks such as budgeting, dealing with cash and writing letters had to be abandoned. Others increasingly had to take over responsibilities. Alas, one day he found himself unable to execute even mundane tasks of everyday life without assistance.

As the years wore on, Eric’s world shrank around him. Fewer friends visited their buddy whose stories were repeated with monotony. Even the children and grandchildren began to tire of the old man who could live his life only in the moment – whose concept of past and future was disappearing into a dense fog around the outskirts of his very existence. Confined to his home, his life had become dull. He began to act in an ever more bizarre fashion. He would berate his wife (and eventually his caregiver, when his wife could no longer cope alone). Then he would be tender, respectful and  even cheerful. The mood swings were erratic and wild. He would regard everyone around him with suspicion – believing implicitly that practically all who crossed his path were stealing from him.

In the final years the incident with the tie that couldn’t be knotted had progressed to a complete inability to get himself dressed. After dressing with the assistance of his wife or caregiver, he would begin to shed clothing inexplicably. He would turn socks inside out  before attempting to put them back on. Shirt buttons were most perplexing for him as he descended into the deep abyss of dementia.

Ravaged by time, he receded into a deep, dark space – a shell of his former self. With scarcely an intelligible word passing his lips, the last glimmer of light left his eyes as he silently crossed over into eternity. A shadow of the man who once he was, Eric had already “passed away” some years before he died. His wife, family and friends had long since lost him to the cruel and bitter onslaught of dementia. It was death by degree, as it were. Time gone! 

©Paul M Haupt

 [This is the last story for this year. I'm taking a break during December, but will commence with more uploads of my silly little stories midway through January 2023]

From: The Kimberley Bulletin

Brain ravaged by Alzheimers