Guest Post: The Knock On The Window
Written by Helen Farrar
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Introducing this republishing of Helen’s work: The Knock On The Window. I hope you enjoy what you read here and please show her some love by following and subscribing to her newsletter
The Knock On The Window
Reflections on a groundhog journey of weariness, late 2024
For a split second, I felt disorientated. Where was I? Who was I? What was happening? As I turned in automatic reaction to the thud on the window to my right, I jerked awake in realisation. I was in the driver’s seat. Naomi sat in her wheelchair at the rear. A young man with kind eyes was studying me and mouthing, ‘Are you ok?’
Bleary-eyed, I sensed the damp of dribble to the left of my mouth as I formed the shape of the words ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, thanks.’ I seemed to have lost the ability to open the window, so I edged open the door to convey the rapid explanation I felt I must give to this concerned stranger.
‘I’m so sorry. I was just asleep. Just for a moment, you see. My disabled daughter is here, see?’, waving pointlessly into the dark rear of the vehicle. ‘We have drives. And coffees. She keeps me up at night you see. I thought I’d have a brief nap. I’m sorry. Thanks so much for checking on me. I’m fine. She’s fine. I’m sorry.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘ I thought I’d better check on you as the short wiper at the back had been going for some time and you, well, you looked like you’d passed out.’
Oh my.
Two images flashed through my mind. The tiny wiper stub whirring ridiculously back and forth behind the wheelchair ramp, its deformity occurring as Naomi snapped it off in a driveway meltdown last week. And the image of me, head back, mouth open, somewhat disheveled and still, other than maybe the slight tremor of a snore. By the sound of the unfamiliar storyline of the audiobook playing through the car speakers and the fog of my brain, it may have been much more than a brief nap. I glanced back at Naomi, ashamed and concerned. She was fine, still breathing, still awake, content on her iPad. Phew. I also realised it was dry, almost sunny. No wonder the defunct wiper-stub-in-action looked so incongruous. When I had pulled into the service station car park it had been raining, the sky dark, the garage forecourt quiet, and my exhausted form hidden behind rain-splattered windows.
I jumped out of the car, hoping to shake the image of a comatose senior from my rescuer’s memory. Apologising and thanking profusely again, I bounced and beamed. Look at me, I was saying, I’m sprightly, and conscious and able. After a few more unnecessary explanations from me, he bade his farewell and returned to his car. He and his partner drove by a minute later, whilst I remained stood at the car, fully awake now. We waved and smiled. I’m cool and at ease, my smile was saying. I bought another coffee from the garage, along with a sugar laden treat and returned to the car where I sat for a moment longer in quiet, before starting the engine. ‘Let’s go, darling. Where shall we drive next?’
It had been another drive together, after another tough night, within another long week of commitments and angst. As the rain deepened and my weariness worsened, we’d pulled over for one of our characteristic coffee-stops. These punctuated our frequent and lengthy journeys to nowhere, often with much glee and people-watching merriment. We’d buy a takeout latte from one or another Costa Express machine, in one or another mini supermarket or filling station pit-stop, selected for the view of automatic doors and motorcycles and interesting people doing normal things. When feeling brave, I’d take her out into a cafe or supermarket or park. Often we shared a companionable contentment as we drove on, my audiobook and her kids-YouTube keeping us in our own worlds. Sometimes, a spectacular sunset over the East Yorkshire lowlands treated us, with our familiar power station providing an aesthetic foreground. Or we’d wait patiently at level crossings before both clapping at the train when eventually it passed.
But this day, despite the clearing skies and Naomi’s content demeanour, a melancholy settled over me as I reflected the encounter with the stranger at the window. I welcomed his concern, of course. My dependance on the help of strangers during outings with the unpredictable one had become commonplace. If she slumped to the floor in a supermarket, held me in a headlock, or stuck out long legs from her wheelchair to protest the passage through a doorway, I’d often swallow my pride and ask for assistance from passer’s-by. Most responded in kindness, grace and humour, and I would leave the situation grateful; relieved and chuckling at our adventures.
On this day, however, the weariness etched into my bones, infiltrating my thoughts, telling me I was failing to give Naomi a meaningful life. It taunted me with feelings of insufficiency and frustration, teased me with disappointment. I relived the emotional slump that had followed many a frustrating communication with ‘the system’ this last week. My limbs ached from uncomfortable co-sleeping during a night disturbed by her insomnia and seizure activity. The impromptu nap in the car was symptomatic of the sort of week we’d had. During my work-from-home days this week, I’d slipped off for afternoon naps between Teams meetings. These weary weeks, these drowsy days, these wakeful nights - they were so common of late, memories of them merged into one.
Soon we would be home again.
Recalling the promise of a night-time carer coming later lifted my slump. Noticing a small flock of geese in formation against a watery dusk sky refuelled my hope. Hearing Naomi behind me shriek in delight at Blippi, made me smile. These may be groundhog days of repetition during the interminable wait for something more, but her continued ever-presence in our lives was something to be deeply grateful for.
And tomorrow was another day.
Helen Farrar: Emerging memoirist, imperfect poet, wife, mother and working carer. Finding fragments of grace and glimmers of hope interwoven through this messy life.
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Thanks for writing this, Helen! A beautiful picture of a parent’s strength and love for their child no matter the storms that come (and keep coming . . . ) I loved reading it.