Lessons From My Mothers

This year I am the same age my mother was when I got married. On my wedding day twenty years ago Mum was the typical parent – responsible, calm and organised. For my part I was nervous, worried and panicking that the wedding would be a disaster. Was there enough food and drink? Would our guests enjoy the music? Would the rain hold off long enough to allow the photographer to take some memorable pictures?

Through my panic Mum reassured me, and the wedding ceremony and reception went off without a problem. Twenty years later I look back on the day and wonder why I let myself become so stressed. Twenty year of living has, I hope, given me the same kind of approach to life’s challenges as my Mum demonstrated on my wedding day.

While I don’t believe I ever really thought of Mum as “old” I had a lot of respect for her opinions and advice. I might not always have followed it, but I certainly paid attention to her thoughts and opinion. However, when I realise I still feel the same way I did twenty years ago I have to wonder if I did actually think of Mum as an elderly or middle-aged person. It’s a sobering thought, because I don’t feel middle-aged. Yet society tells me I have reached that status.

During my most recent trip to Zimbabwe I found myself in a confusing financial environment. Just before we arrived the government re-valued its currency, removing ten zeroes from all prices and values. My mother in law had a savings account of Z$640,000,000,000.00 – it is easier to read this as Z$640 billion. After the devaluation her saving was worth just Z$64.00, and the bank closed the account. Prior to the devaluation that massive sum of money would buy six loaves of bread; after the zeroes were removed her saving would buy one bread roll.

Grocery shoppers use the country’s worthless currency to buy their items, but there are three different exchange rates to international currencies like the South African Rand and the United States dollar. When paying cash the rate to the dollar was Z$1,000.00. When paying by cheque the rate was ten times higher – in an economy where inflation is now 251 million percent by the time the cheque has cleared it is virtually worthless. Then there’s Real Time Gross Settlement (RTGS), a direct transfer between banks. The rate applicable for this transaction was Z$500,000.00 to US$1.00.

Zimbabwe’s hyperinflation means prices and values increase hourly. Working with the different exchange rates was very difficult, and the horror of the situation became more real when I saw how it was affecting our elderly relatives and friends. My mother in law carries a piece of paper in her handbag showing her the old and new values of the currency, because it was the only way she could understand the revaluation and new prices.

The collapse of Zimbabwe’s economy has affected every aspect of daily life in the country. Electricity supply is sporadic, and 24 hour power cuts are frequent and common. Most of the country’s main cities are no longer supplied with municipal water, leaving those homes fortunate enough to have a borehole totally reliant upon the underground water supply for their daily household chores and drinking water, despite the fact that a lot of the borehole water does not meet international criteria for safe consumption. And the increasing number of boreholes being drilled has adversely affect the water table in the major cities, as well as the volumes of existing boreholes. There are frequent outbreaks of cholera in highly populated areas.

For my mother in law the water situation is perhaps the most worrying factor of life in Zimbabwe. After a successful colonoscopy to remove cancer five years ago she needs a reliable water supply to deal with her condition. Fortunately there’s a reasonably good water supply from the borehole supplying the seven units in our cluster home complex. The other problem she faces is securing a regular supply of colostomy bags. There is one supplier left in Harare, and she will only take an order for a ten month supply. There is no social medical scheme available in Zimbabwe, and her local private medical aid supplier pays just ten percent of the cost of the bags. Her income is just US$200.00 per month, so she is reliant upon her children to help her with the purchase of a product vital to her wellbeing and peace of mind.

Next year my mother in law will be 70 years old, and she has expressed a desire to downsize and move into a retirement home. There are a number of places around Harare, and she told us there were two she was considering. I made appointments to visit them, and one morning we set off to inspect the two choices. The first one was situated in the suburb of Marlborough, and this was my mother in law’s first choice.

“I know a few people already living here,” she explained, as we drove into the complex. “And I grew up in this side of Harare, so this is where I’m most comfortable.”

I had my doubts. The red brick wall surrounding the home didn’t look very secure, and the main gates were wide open and unmanned. Security is a priority for anyone living in Harare – with unemployment levels in the country at over eighty percent many residents have been forced to become criminals. Carjacking in broad daylight is not uncommon, and the elderly are sadly easy targets for thieves intent on stealing a vehicle at the gates as it is driving into a residence. We met one of my mother in law’s friends in her little cottage, which although shabby was clean and tidy. My momentary relief vanished when I noticed a large rat walking across her paved garden to eat the food she’d put on her veranda for her little dog. The very erratic and virtually non-existent refuse collection in Harare means vermin like rats are thriving and spreading disease. I mentioned the rat to the matron, who shrugged and said there was nothing she could do about the problem: “It’s beyond our control, I’m afraid.”

Hiding my outrage I asked her if the residence had a frail care unit, in case one of the residents fell and was injured. Her nonchalance fuelled my anger: “Good heavens, no. These people are not our responsibility. When they move in here they nominate family or friends who will take care of them if they get sick. Now, may I give you an application form?”

My mother in law took the form, following me as I exited the office, appalled by the apparent lack of interest in the elderly by the person supposedly in charge of the complex. On our way to the second retirement home I told my mother in law I didn’t believe she should live there. She was adamant that she wanted to stay in the area she’d known her entire life. Realising I couldn’t force her to see what I was seeing I stopped trying to reason with her.

The second complex is in Rietfontein, one of Harare’s more upmarket northern suburbs. Enclosed by a grey cement Durawall, access to the retirement home is via a locked gate manned 24 hours a day by a security guard. After explaining my reasons for visiting he told me where to go to reach the office. Driving into the property my heart sank as I took in the dusty brown roads and paths, and the neat but sparse flower beds. A number of massive eucalyptus trees reached up into the sky in front of the Durawall on the right of the road. They were the tallest eucalyptuses I’d ever seen, and I wondered why they hadn’t been removed. Each tree can draw up to 600 litres of water a day, seriously depleting valuable underground water resources in dry regions.

We were met by two elegant, elderly ladies working on a computer. Introducing themselves as Meg and Elizabeth, hey explained they were preparing the monthly invoices for the residents. Meg then took us around the complex, showing us an excellent three bed frail care unit staffed by four qualified nurses. She told us she spent six weeks there last year when she broke both arms in a fall at her cottage.

“And look at me now – fully healed!” she laughed, stretching both arms in front of her.

The cottages are more spacious and tidier than those at the first complex. The gardens are not paved, and there’s more space for residents who enjoy gardening to indulge their love of plants. My mother in law is an avid gardener, and loves her roses, azaleas and orchids. Meg took us to the communal rooms, where residents can eat meals should they want a break from cooking. There’s also a library, and seating area for friends to meet and gossip over a cup of tea. I was most impressed by the atmosphere, which was welcoming and friendly. I also felt this place was secure and safe. I was happy to take the application form when we left.

Discussions between the family followed, but Mom was determined she would be happier in the first complex. I realised it is her choice, and that none of us could force her to see we felt she’d be safer and better cared for in the second complex. Two weeks after our tour she developed a lump in her leg. Her doctor, believing she might have a thrombosis, sent her for a scan. The results showed a hematoma had developed after she slipped walking in my brother in law’s garden. The pain she went through and her week of enforced immobility during her recuperation made her change her mind, and after she was better we took the completed form to the second retirement complex.

Many of my friends back in Zimbabwe are facing “issues” with their own elderly relatives. It hasn’t been easy dealing with my mother in law, who is generally a strong lady. I spent a week with my own parents in Bulawayo, and saw how my mother’s gentle nature and compassionate character has been torn apart by the daily struggle to complete the most basic chore. My parents have no borehole, and they are forced to buy water at an astronomical cost because the municipal water in Bulawayo runs for just five hours every week. They fill their toilets and baths with buckets, adding a small amount of hot water to the bath. After the bath the water is taken out by bucket and poured over thirsty plants.

On my last night in Bulawayo Mum sighed, and told me: “Dad and I have worked and lived here all our lives, and we didn’t expect to be living like this in our sixties. I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve this.”

Not wanting to cry in front of my mother I found myself getting angry. I don’t like the fact that my parents have been forced to live like this. I live on another continent, far away from my family. I don’t like feeling helpless while Robert Mugabe, the man who is responsible for the destruction of Zimbabwe, continues to ruin the country as he attempts to evade answering for his actions.

As I look to my mother to try and discern what kind of person I will be twenty years from now I recall a quote from American writer and critic Mary Lamberton Backer: “We grow neither better now worse as we get old, but more like ourselves.” I believe I am today how my mother was at this age. I don’t recall my mother feeling helpless and angry in the face of adversity, but twenty years ago Robert Mugabe’s disregard for his countrymen was not fully known. Perhaps she was angry, and perhaps she – like me – tried to keep her negative feelings from her loved ones.

I wonder how my mother and my mother in law manage to cope with the horror of daily living Zimbabwe at their ages. And I wonder how long the current situation will continue, and if I will be able to deal with it the way they do. I want to believe I can, but I wonder if I have the strength to do so.

2061 words

Durawall is a Zimbabwe manufacturer of precast cement walls, and for many years it was the only company in that line of business. As a result Zimbabweans call all cement walls “durawall”