Carlie Newman, family carer
In the final act of this play, a young professional carer is dressing and undressing an old man. She dresses him, moves him to his chair, and the moment he’s sat down she has to start undressing him for bed again. It goes on for 15 minutes, in silence. It’s hardly a jolly night out, but this play would be really good for adults who know little about what happens at the end of life.
The carer was very respectful: she undressed him carefully, let him do up his own shirt, only did the cuffs. So that’s good caring. But she also had plenty of time. In real life, a paid carer only has about 15 minutes for their visit in total, and they go boom boom boom – they’ve already done four people, they’ve got four more to do.
It can be a silent affair, though. After four years of doing the same thing with the same old man, he’s got nothing to say. He just lives within those four walls. The whole thing’s exaggerated, but I think the play was trying to show that there wasn’t any affection – it was just an automatic process. And that was really moving.
There’s a funeral scene at the beginning where they talk about the same man: they said he was a political man, he made jokes, he was lively, a social animal. And then at the end of the play, you see what the man became and that’s what’s sad about it.
Eleanor Wooldridge, live-in carer
I feel terribly sorry for the carer. I sympathise with her. I came to the UK in 1998 when I was 63 – the company I worked for in South Africa went bust and took my pension with it. I wrote and asked a friend who worked as a carer to get me a job.
I lived with the 80-year-old widow of a famous composer in London. I was really fortunate because she still led a normal life: she’d go to concerts, we’d have a lunch or dinner party every week, so her friends were there for her. She used to exude sex appeal and she never wore knickers.
I looked after her for six years, living as a servant in one little room in the basement, with a view into a coal hole. I didn’t know many people. All her friends were quite well-to-do. While I was working for her I was socially acceptable, but when I left her employ they wouldn’t continue any kind of relationship with me. Trying to get another job as a carer at 68 was very difficult.
So I identify with this carer. But even so, when she started undressing him for the third time, I thought: “How much longer have I got to endure this?” I come to the theatre to get stimulation and mental energy – not to sit and watch people dying.
Helen Findlay, palliative care researcher
I thought the first scene, at the old man’s funeral, had some clever lines. There was a conversation about struggling to remember things and one character said: “Record your voice.” Well, people do that. My dad had motor neurone disease and you lose your voice before you die. It’s not just for the people left behind, it’s for you to remember it, too.
But still, it was a limited view. I was thinking: “What about social media?” People leave a digital footprint now. They’re going to have a Facebook profile, videos of themselves on Youtube. My mum had dementia and we had recordings of her playing the piano to help her.
I’m doing a PhD in palliative care, so I’m interviewing people with terminal illness. They’ll tell me things, they’ll cry, they’ll say: “I’m so pleased to have someone I can say this stuff to.” They don’t want to talk to family because they don’t want to upset them, and they don’t want to tell the carers because they don’t wantto sound like they’re complaining.
I could see the point Caryl Churchill was trying to make, trying to capture the monotony of old age, of being cared for. The carer was very good – she made sure everything was covered as she undressed the old man. Sometimes that doesn’t happen, it can be much more slapdash. You can get a great lack of respect. And of course we didn’t see him being washed. The washing process can be totally lacking in dignity.
Jinnie Kleboe, Age UK volunteer
This play was so absurd it made me giggle. I volunteer at my local Age UK day care centre and I don’t find communication with any of our members difficult. Sometimes they’ll say things that are a bit over the top, out of line, but I let it wash over me.
I felt this play was written by somebody who has read Dante’s Inferno but hasn’t had to live in it. And who doesn’t realise that “the big sleep” can be a relief. I’ve lost a child, I’ve been in a war, I’ve seen somebody’s head blown off. I so often wanted that big sleep. And I suspect when I reach the end of life, I’ll be OK with it. I read about a woman who spent her whole life worrying about death and, when she got close to it, she realised she was looking forward to it.
Most elderly people I know have a great sense of humour, they know a lot of things, they don’t let the ageing process get them down. Caryl Churchill’s play takes a bleak view of old age, but it’s a minority view. The majority of old folk I care for enjoy being with you. They just need a hug, their hand held, some talking to. We have a great time. Most of them are happy!
• Here We Go is at the National Theatre, London, until 19 December.
