Mum is worn out.

Recently I went to Cornwall to look after a cat that belongs to some friends.  I thought it would be a pleasant break but it turned out to be a proper holiday. The weather wasn’t wonderful but the cat sat on my lap and let herself be stroked – mind you, in payment she wanted to be treated like an empress. And indeed, I did obey her every command! But as well as offering pet-therapy, my friends’ house is in a beautiful setting, right on the cliffs just north of Land’s End. I could sit on the couch with the cat on my lap and watch the weather sweeping in over the sea straight from the wild Atlantic Ocean – and it’s true quite a lot of wind, mist and rain did sweep in. But the house was full of interesting books – and the bus stopped right outside so I was able to visit St Ives and Penzance, and even made a 6 hour round trip – which was very scenic, of course – to Truro, where I got a lot of help from the Cornish Family History Society for my research into mum’s family.

Half-way through my visit, I received a text from Liz the Carer, who went into see mum while I was away. She said all was well and they were sitting together, looking at the Postcard of Cornwall that I’d sent to mum. Unfortunately, only a couple of hours later, mum collapsed at the dining table while she was eating lunch. They were helping her walk into the lounge when she collapsed again and fell. The Doctor was called. In fact, by the time I got back the following week, the Doctor had been several times.

When I got back and went in to see her, for the first time ever, she wasn’t sitting in the communal lounge but was still in her room. And she didn’t seem to be interested in my visit. She seemed happy enough, and quite peaceful. Said she was enjoying just sitting and thinking. She talked about me when I was a little girl, but didn’t seem to quite understand that I was that same person, now somewhat older. Sometimes she seemed to think she was talking to her sister and it’s true, I do look like my aunt. But, for me, the main issue was that her energy was very low. And indeed, she told me that she felt ‘worn out’.

A couple of days later it was Mothers’ Day, and so my brother made the effort to come. I didn’t say anything to him but when he returned from visiting her, he was quite down in the mouth. She wasn’t like mum, he said. She seems to have lost her ‘bounce’. I agreed.

Next time I went into the Care Home, the boss took me to one side. The Doctor had said there was nothing specifically wrong with mum that could be treated. Basically, mum has reached the last few months of her life. She is, literally, worn out. But while she doesn’t seem to be completely aware of her surroundings, she does seem calm and happy enough to sit and day dream and drift off to sleep. And she doesn’t think she’s stuck in the Home. No! Some of those day-dreams involve going out to the shops or down to the sea. Which can only be a good thing.

She is very tough old bird, as they say. When I went in yesterday, I was amazed to find her dressed and sitting up in her chair. She thought she still lived in Brixton, in the house where she lived during the war, but otherwise she was bright and very chatty. She was still in her room, but they told me she’d been downstairs to the lounge the day before. So, although she does seem to have gone downhill, this new phase could go on for several moons yet!

20190317_143457

The edge of England! And the view from my friends’ cottage.

20190317_114205The cat naturally wanted to sit in the middle of the map when I was trying to find my great-great-great grandparents’ farm!

The mysterious St Michael’s Mount from Penzance and St Ives from the bus station!20190320_142042

If you ever visit St Ives, don’t miss the wonderful Barbara Hepworth Sculpture garden!

Advertisements

Mum lives two realities at once.

First of all, thanks for all the helpful advice re the dilemma I had a few weeks ago over dad’s love letters. In the end, I did tell mum I’d found them. She seemed to be having a good day and was quite like her old self so I told her I’d been sorting things out and had come across a box of letters from dad.

Immediately, her face lit up. ‘I kept them!’ she said, so she knew exactly what I meant. I asked if she’d like to have them with her and she said she would. But when I took them in, she wasn’t having a good day. When I showed them to her, she didn’t know what they were. She didn’t recognise the box and the letters didn’t seem to have any resonance for her at all, even when I pointed out her old address and the war-time postage stamps.  When I showed her my baby photo she asked, ‘Who’s that? It looks familiar.’

Luckily, I found her lack of recognition amusing. I have after all changed quite a bit over the years.

It seems the only babies mum cares about these days are my brother’s children. Ever since her first fall she’s been living in a time warp of nearly 35 years ago at a time when brother’s first wife tragically died and, for a while, his young, motherless children were cared for by their grandparents. And so Mum asks continually if the children are ok? They’re upstairs, she says, but they haven’t made any noise. I did ask if ‘the children’ were me and my brother, but no, it seems she does mean her grandchildren.

It’s obvious she’s returned to an event which must have been deeply concerning for her. So, I reassure her that the children are fine. They are in their own home. Then I add: they are grown-up now with children of their own. In fact, the babies who come to see you are not my brother’s children but his grandchildren!

Last week, my niece turned 40. I got mum to sign her birthday card. Mum shook her head in wonderment. ‘40! Granddaughter is 40!’ Then she said, ‘The mind is a strange thing. It’s like I am living two different times at the same time and they get muddled up and meld together.’

I found this an incredibly lucid comment. And a possible window into what it’s like to have dementia.

I told her: you’re like someone time-travelling with Dr Who in the Tardis. Sometimes being in the present while simultaneously, being in the past. As she’s a fan of Dr Who, this made her smile.

These days, as I live alone and am somewhat isolated, I often think about the past even if it’s simply on the level of: how on earth did I get myself into this situation? And I’ve found certain memories isolate themselves and continually reoccur – apparently, they’re still very much alive in my subconscious. However, I do know that they are memories. Similarly, when I see a photo taken 40 years ago, I know it’s a photo of me yet at the same time, it’s a photo of someone who’s not me anymore.

For mum, it’s not simply that she’s lost her short-term memory. Her memories, especially ones that are particularly meaningful, seem to have pushed themselves into the centre of her reality and are replaying themselves as if they are happening now. And she can’t separate the past from the present.

But it was interesting she could grasp the concept of a dual universe; of the fact that she’s living in concurrent realities. But of course, the next time the subject comes up she’ll have forgotten all about our conversation and will ask me once again whether I’ve seen my father or if the children are all right?

 

I have issues with the hospital

.IMG-20190131-WA0000When mum had her fall in December, the hospital sent her neck scan to a major orthopaedic unit at a hospital about 30 miles away. The results had been inconclusive – they couldn’t tell whether it was an old neck fracture or a new one, so they decided she’d better wear a neck brace for between 2 and 6 weeks with a review after 2 weeks. As that would fall within the Xmas holiday period, I didn’t think much about it when they didn’t contact us, but as it drew near to 6 weeks, I asked the Care Home staff if they’d heard anything.

Mum is incredibly uncomfortable with the brace: she can’t sleep properly, she can’t eat properly, she needs a straw to drink. It rubs on her chest and under her chin. With the result, said the Care Home, that she keeps trying to take it off.

They assured me they’d been phoning the hospital but had not yet got any answers. When we were into the 7th week, they said the Doctor’s secretary had rung to say he would be looking at the case. But it had nothing to do with any doctor! The physios had put it on, following the orders of the main hospital. This Doctor wouldn’t know anything about it. I decided I was going to take matters into my own hands and put it in writing to the hospital that, if they did not respond soon, we were going to take the brace off anyway.

At this point the paramedic from the local GP’s surgery got involved. I know him, he came to the house a few times when mum was still living at home. He said, leave it with him, he’d sort it out and indeed, he rang me back the next day. He had got in touch with the physio. She’d been on holiday, was shocked to hear nothing had been done and would quickly check and get back to him.

That was on the Wednesday morning. On Wednesday night, mum fell out of bed again and smashed her head again. Apparently, she was rolling over, trying to take off the neck brace and rolled off the bed. I had a call on Thursday morning, had to drop everything and go off to the hospital. Mum had an x-ray, then a scan. It’s an ill wind, everyone said, because then maybe we can get this problem with the brace sorted out. But really mum should not have had this second fall. She bashed her face again to the extent that one of her eyes was completely swollen up, hurt her back again and for the first few days had to have an oxygen mask. She’s 98 – she doesn’t need this and quite frankly neither do I!

The first day, I spent 7 hours at the hospital. At that point it had started to snow, so I phoned a cab and got home just before the snow became heavy. I know we don’t have a lot of snow compared to many places, but by the same token, we aren’t equipped for it. The next morning was below freezing and I got a cab into town as it was too slippery and dangerous to walk to the bus stop – by the evening, the snow had thankfully cleared although it was still bitterly cold.

I can’t afford to take a taxi every time I go, so my other journeys to and from the hospital have been on the bus and they have been horrendous. It can take between 1 ½ hours and 2 hours each way, depending on the connections. Most of the time it’s been raining, with a bitterly cold wind. I’ve managed to grab a bit of shopping in between waiting for the bus – but add the travelling to spending several hours in the hospital – and it’s a pretty long day. That’s what bureaucrats forget. Even though I’m no longer mum’s official carer I’m still expected to drop everything, cancel appointments, whatever and head off to the hospital. (And I have to say, there are always quite a few other adult daughters sitting with their aged parent in the geriatric ward and they all have something to say about the lack of support from their other siblings).

Anyway – back to mum. The first couple of days they classed her as having a spinal injury and made her lie flat – which is very uncomfortable for her. As they’ve agreed it’s an old injury and she’s therefore been walking around with it for a least a couple of years – I asked if she could sit up in a chair- while wearing the brace, naturally! And they did finally agree to that. Today the Care Home are going into to assess whether they’ll accept her back. I hope they will as she’s happy there and also, if they don’t – well, I’ll cross that bridge if I have to. And it will be me who has to sort things out. After one text on Friday afternoon I had no word from my brother until a brief text on Tuesday evening. As you can imagine, I could hardly be bothered to reply to him

But the fact remains, if the hospital had only got back to us when they said they would, mum might never have had this second fall.

 

Mum gives us cause for concern

Three weeks ago mum celebrated her 98th birthday. She was in fine form. The grandchildren came with their kids – her beloved babies. She was very happy to see everyone and, more to the point, remembered their visit.

Two weeks ago, I was up in London for a week full of get-togethers with my friends interspersed with visits to exhibitions. I was feeling quite like my old self. Then, the day before I was due to come back here, I got a call from A&E at the local hospital. ‘Do you know your mother is with us?’

No, I told him, I didn’t know. I learned that mum hadn’t been very well that weekend, muddled in the head and unsteady on her feet so the staff at the Care Home had moved her to a room closer to where the night staff sit. Unfortunately, in the middle of the night mum tried to get out of bed. She can’t stand without help and needs to hold onto something at all times, but it seems she had an infection which made her confused, perhaps she was dreaming she could walk or was dancing. At any event she came crashing down and smashed her head on the bedside table.

Initially, the hospital doctor said they were going to send her home that evening but, after an intervention by one of the physiotherapists and several more phone calls to me, they decided to keep her in for the night under observation. When I saw her the next day, I couldn’t believe they had even considered sending her home. She looked terrible, her face was purple and yellow with bruising and she was linked up to various monitors and intravenous drips. When I arrived, she was asleep and appeared to be in a sort of coma. They told me she’d had a bleed on the brain and a possible fracture in a neck vertebra. I really thought she was on her death bed. I texted my brother: You have to come ASAP!

Eventually mum woke up; they even got her to sit in a chair, but she was still very confused. She had no sense of her surroundings, had no idea she was in hospital and appeared to be in a time warp -worrying about events that happened 30 years ago.

The next day, when I went back, mum had been moved to an isolation ward because she’d had mild diarrhoea and been vomiting. Again, she was strapped up to machines and being dosed with intravenous antibiotics. It was a relief when my brother arrived, so I didn’t feel I had to bear all the responsibility. Mum was still very confused; she kept saying she wanted to lie down when she was already lying down. She kept trying to get up and out of bed when she was already in bed and indeed, had she managed to get up, she would have fallen again as she had no sense she might need some support to help her stand or walk.

The third day, mum was calmer and the infection seemed to be subsiding. She was, however, still convinced she had fallen in the street outside the house of her best friend – who she first met during the War. And perhaps mum was remembering something that really did happen at that time, but she had no recollection of the Care Home or of falling out of bed. When I said that was what had happened, she got quite upset and accused me of lying; nor would she accept that her best friend had been dead for many years. While I was sitting with her, two physiotherapists came and fitted her with a neck brace which she must wear for the next few weeks. They did say the bleeding on the brain had stopped and what had showed up on the scan might be the shadow of an old injury.

That evening they moved mum up to a general ward. When I got there on the 4th day, the nurse said they were sending her back to the Care Home that afternoon. This took me by surprise. I admit I was relieved. Not only because no one wants to stay in hospital any longer than they need to, but also because the round trip on the bus takes at least 3 hours. The weather is getting more seasonal, wet and windy while the sun sets at 4pm and with the dark comes increasing chill so the journey was exhausting me. However, I was genuinely amazed that mum was able to recover so quickly from what was a major incident and really impressed by her strength and resilience.

It’s now over a week since she was sent Home. She’s still very tired, still caught in a time warp of about 30 years ago. She’s very, very uncomfortable in the neck brace. Also, she still looks dreadful, her face is green, yellow and purple like a Frankenstein mask for Halloween. I’ve gone into the Care Home nearly every day to make sure she’s ok. This is much easier to do than get to the hospital, but I’ve also been trying to get everything ready for Xmas. Believe me, I’ll be very glad when everything’s been done. Of course, I’ll also be glad if mum does settle down. I trust the Care Home to look after her but she’s so miserable at the moment and I wonder if at her age she’ll have the stamina to properly recover. If she does, then I think there really is a chance she’ll make it to a 100 and get that telegram from the Queen – so I’d better prepare myself for having to live here for some time to come.

In the short term, I was concerned she’d be too frail to enjoy Xmas, not only because it’s Xmas but because the grandchildren were due to come on Boxing Day and she does love to see The Babies. I did not want to cancel their visit when, for all I knew, she’d be able to enjoy it. I held off posting this until I knew how it would go. In the event she was fine and able to enjoy seeing the children. She was due to see a pantomime last week which she would have thoroughly enjoyed but of course it was impossible for her to go. It’s such a shame she had this fall. I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did.

Best wishes to you all for 2019!

 

 

 

We are going to take a risk.

I’m writing this a few days before mum’s 97th birthday. In the last few weeks, her two grandchildren have both had new babies. She’s convinced they belong to my brother and his partner, who are both in their 60’s, and needs to be reminded that the new babies are my brother’s grandchildren. He did once, it is true, have a little girl and boy, but now they are grown up and have started families of their own.

The young couples have offered to come and visit mum the weekend of her birthday. But two new-borns, a very active two-year old and seven adults can’t descend on the Care Home. They will have to come to the house.  If mum wants to see The New Babies and her much-loved Great-Granddaughter, which of course she does, she can also come to the house. But she has to understand that she can’t sleep here. She will have to go back to the Care Home. I have explained this to her, and sometimes she seems to understand and sometimes she doesn’t. So, what to do for the best?

I’ve discussed this with several people and most of them say it’s too risky. It will unsettle mum and she’ll get too upset. But I still think it’s worth the risk for her to see The New Babies, which she very much wants to do. A Carer who’s become like a family friend, takes mum out for a drive once a week. When I mentioned my dilemma to her, she immediately offered to pick mum up from the Home and bring her to the house, then collect mum at 5pm and return her to the Home.

This has actually been my main concern. Because the problem will be when it’s time for mum to leave. If the Carer comes, mum will hopefully go with her without too much fuss – whereas she’s quite likely to play us up and give us a hard time. And so, it’s been arranged.

Recently, one of my friends suggested a strategy they used with her own elderly mother: tell mum she has two homes now. Her Own Home is still here, and I am looking after it, but she can’t live there anymore. I am trying this approach, telling mum she’s going to visit her Own Home and see The Babies but, because she’s so old now (she does tend to forget just how old she is, bless her!) and needs so much looking after that she needs to live in the Care Home where she can be safe and cared for.

In a few days, we’ll find out whether we were right to take the risk! This morning mum did say she understood that The Babies couldn’t come to the Care Home but that she could see them, if she came to the house. Fingers crossed it will all work out well. I really hope it does.

Mum fails (or passes?) a test

A couple of years ago, I tried to get mum a clinical diagnosis of dementia. But although the Doc agreed there were issues with her short-term memory, they would not agree to give her a formal diagnosis. As I live with her full time, I felt they’d made a mistake, but there was nothing to be done.

After my recent brush with the bureaucrat, I realised a firm diagnosis would be helpful when I next had to deal with the bureaucracy, so I asked them to test mum again. This time, her results were greatly improved – at least from my point of view. Some might say she’s deteriorated. Her score had dropped sufficiently for them to decide (taking all other factors into account) that they’d give her the diagnosis without the need of a brain scan. (Thank goodness for that!) And mum is going downhill quite rapidly. She’s increasingly confused, losing words, forgetting names, getting muddled about the time of day. She can no longer work out how to switch on the tv, and has to be instructed on what to do during her trips to the toilet.

Sometimes though, especially when she wakes from a nap, her face is lit with a beatific smile, as if she’s stoned or she’s been in another dimension and is now surprised to find herself here, in this mundane world of material reality.

Whatever the Social Services might claim, it’s just not safe for us here anymore. Mum’s getting more and more unsteady. In fact, she had another fall the week before last, again on the steps coming up into the house from the conservatory. This time she was on the bottom step, so she just tipped back onto the carpeted floor. I was behind her once again, and once again cushioned her fall, altho I didn’t have to take her weight and manoeuvre her into a safe position like the last time. This time, I just stressed my neck, my back (once again), my knee (where I had an operation 20 years ago), and some general muscle ache around the ribs. Luckily, my brother came that weekend. Having a couple of days off helped me to recover – as did having a very nice time with friends in London!

I feel mean, but I’ve banned mum from the conservatory, where she likes to sit because it looks out over the garden. I’m terrified that, in the time left before we find a permanent place for her in a care home, mum’ll have another fall and this time it’ll be catastrophic – either for her or for me. Every moment she spends on her feet, I worry.

I especially don’t want her to injure herself before she goes on holiday! Yes! We’re planning to try and get mum down to Somerset for a week. She’s long expressed a wish to see my brother’s new house and to return to an area where she has fond memories of a holiday with dad. It’s taken quite a bit of arranging, but it has been arranged. I really hope it will all go smoothly and that the journey won’t be too much for her. We leave tomorrow. Watch this space, as they say!!

Mum has a bacon sandwich and I have a narrow escape

Mum really enjoyed the visit from my brother and his partner. She enjoyed having different people to talk to.  But then, two fresh, temporary carers have to be better than one grumpy, monosyllabic daughter.

She also enjoyed a change of diet. She had bacon sandwiches – which she likes very much, but which she never gets from me because I don’t eat bacon and won’t cook it; she had sausage and mash – which she also likes. But although I will cook her sausages (in a different pan from my veggie ones!) I get bored mashing the potatoes. Mum complained so much about how my mash was so lumpy that I now refuse to do it; and she also had take-away fish and chips – which I do eat, but can’t provide as I don’t have a car to go and fetch them.

For my brother and his partner it was a novelty; after two nights, they could leave and go back to their own lives. And as brother admitted, they did not have to deal with any messy ‘events’. Well, good, I’ve already booked them in for a second visit.

Just being able to walk away from the house, knowing mum would be 100% looked after, made a huge difference. To be able to hand over the responsibility of mum’s care to my brother and head off to the station, felt like I’d laid down a burden. And even though my break lasted little more than 48 hours I felt much better for it, with more energy to carry on with what is an increasingly heavy task of sheer drudgery.

I spent my free time in London. I stayed with my South London pals, one of whom I’ve known since school.  It was so civilised not having to get up at the crack of dawn, get mum changed and then make a dash for the station, praying the train would be running. It was so relaxing to be plied with delicious food and sensible conversation the evening before. Then, the next morning, to eat a leisurely breakfast and get a bus over the river. We were meeting up with two other old school friends at the Tate Gallery. We planned to see the new retrospective exhibition of David Hockney. When I walked into the exhibition, I almost burst into tears. I felt as if I’d found my identity once more; that I was again a person I recognised, the sort of person who goes to art galleries. And I’ll say in brackets that the next morning, before I returned here, we went to see another exhibition, this time of Vanessa Bell, which was equally wonderful, although in a very different way.

But back to our rendezvous at the Tate. After lunch, we couldn’t decide what to do next. One of us wanted to check out a nearby boutique that sells individual, crafted jewellery; then someone else suggested we went to a cafe she’d discovered that was just round the corner. But the cafe had closed down. We dithered, trying to decide what to do next.

We discussed getting a bus over to the South Bank. If we’d done that, we’d have gone round Parliament Square and crossed Westminster Bridge sometime around 2.30pm. When we talked about it later, we couldn’t remember why we’d suddenly changed our minds. But out of the blue, we decided to return to the Tate and have coffee there. Just after 2.30pm, a mad man drove his car into a crowd of innocent bystanders on Westminster Bridge. He killed a policeman outside the Houses of Parliament and was then killed himself. If we’d got that bus, we might well have been caught up in the mayhem. As it was, the Gallery was just outside the locked-down, cordoned off area and we all managed to get home safely.

I don’t know whether I believe in Guardian Angels, but I certainly feel like I had a narrow escape!

By the way, I apologise for not posting sooner but I had some IT issues and I just didn’t have the mental energy to sort them out…until now!

We survive Granddaughter’s wedding

Just as Cinderella went to the ball, my mother went to her granddaughter’s wedding. And in spite of it being a logistical nightmare, everything went smoothly. The hire car driver was a nice chap who dealt with mum well. He did the journey in just over 2 hours – which was really quick and just at mum’s limit. At the Care Home Mum had a bit of a wobbly ‘Are you leaving me here all on my own?’ but my niece saved the day by arriving with Great Grand Daughter – which improved mum’s mood no end.

My hotel was about 6 miles away. To get there, I got a cab through the countryside, along dark lanes. I felt a little nervous but the driver was ok. And the hotel was good. It’s a converted manor house on the edge of a village. I had a single room but it was nice and big, obviously meant for people travelling alone on business. Mind you, it wasn’t cheap! And the bus back to town stopped right outside. So the next day I caught a bus into the central bus station, and from there I got another bus out to the Home.

Mum seemed fine, so I got the bus back and found a groovy coffee bar that did really nice coffee and panini. I began to relax. Eventually I returned to the hotel, which turned out to be in a pleasant historical village. After dinner I met some people I knew in the lounge. My brother’s first wife – and the mother of his children -died tragically young, but her family have maintained close contact. I knew them from all those years ago and it was unexpectedly pleasant to see them again – which was good, because apart from them I didn’t really know any other wedding guests!

The great day dawned. The staff at the Home seemed to enjoy the challenge of getting mum to the wedding. They arranged for her to have her hair done, made sure she got dressed in her wedding outfit without spilling porridge down the front – and were happy to welcome her back late in the evening. But I couldn’t have managed without my nephew and his wife who came up absolute trumps. They’d borrowed a folding wheelchair and nephew pushed mum around for most of the day. The church was on the top of a hill, as these charming old buildings often are. Nephew pushed her up the slope through the churchyard and then helped get her back down through the crowd of guests. Back at the hotel, we had the reception. Mum was mentioned in the speeches. Everyone clapped and cheered the fact she’d made it. She enjoyed seeing people; she even enjoyed the party in the evening. I thought she’d find the music too noisy but no, she really didn’t want to leave. In the end, I booked a cab for 10pm, which was quite late enough for old ladies of 95! Besides, until I’d taken her back to the care home – another scary drive through the dark countryside but again I was lucky and the driver was fine – I couldn’t really relax. Then I did have a couple of drinks and a dance. I even had a cigarette as we all sat around chatting until after midnight.

Sunday morning brother, nephew and nephew’s wife took me and mum out for a woodland walk, which she really enjoyed. And then…..we left her to rest. Brother dropped me off in Glastonbury on his way home. I had a terrible night. When I woke up the next day, I thought I had the flu. I realised I was detoxing from all the stress that I’d been living with for months: should mum go? could she manage? Because she wanted to go so much, I’d tried to make it possible but, if anything had gone wrong, the responsibility would have been all mine. But I felt blessed, as they say, that I could detox and de-stress in the wonderful Chalice Well gardens and guest house in magical, mystical Glastonbury.

On Tuesday I sadly got the bus back and picked up mum. The hire car driver arrived and brought us home without any problems. However, I’d not been prepared for just how long it would take mum to recover from the trip. For over a week now she’s been incredibly difficult, fractious and ultra confused – the one good thing is that she’s been going to bed early! – and it’s really been doing my head in. I still have an awful lot of things to sort out, both for myself as well as for mum, as she’s about to go into respite care for two weeks and I am going on holiday to Portugal. (I can’t wait!)

But I’m pleased mum made the wedding – and so is she! She even said thank you!!

My niece is getting married

My niece, that is to say my mother’s granddaughter, is getting married in a couple of weeks. The wedding was announced earlier this year and since then it has been a constant background of white noise in my life. Mum wants to go to the wedding, I mean she really wants to go to the wedding but she’s not sure if she should go. ‘It will be too much trouble for everyone.’ But you want to go? ‘Yes, I want to go.’ So, we will try to work something out. And then, the next day: ‘I don’t think I’ll go to the wedding.’ But I thought you wanted to go? ‘I do! But perhaps it will be too much trouble for everyone.’ On and on, in a refrain which has been repeated endlessly – and when I say endlessly, I do mean, endlessly – for months.

One of the main issues is that mum will have to stay alone in a residential care home. She can’t possibly stay in the hotel with everyone else as she is too disabled, incontinent etc. But it took a long, long time and many conversations before I was absolutely certain that mum had fully grasped this. She often complains that she hasn’t understand something – even though we’ve had several seemingly sensible discussions about the matter in question – so I couldn’t risk her having a tantrum about staying in a care home when it was too late to do anything about it. And so, slowly, patiently, I have repeated and repeated: you will have to stay ALONE in a residential home. Do you understand?

The next step was to find a suitable place. My brother and my niece live in the area so I thought it made sense for them to look for one. I had the impression my brother didn’t really want to be bothered. ‘She’ll never make the journey’ (It’s three hours in a hire car). And ‘It’ll be a logistical nightmare.’ That’s so true. However, she does really want to go and she thinks she’ll be ok to make the trip so, after a lot of encouragement on my part, my brother actually did find a place that he thinks will be ok and which is close to where my niece lives. And it seems mum has accepted she’ll be staying there. My nephew, meanwhile, has elected to organize a wheelchair for mum to use during the wedding day.

So, this is the plan. Mum and I will travel on the Thursday. I’ll leave her at the Home and get a cab to the hotel. Mum will spend Friday resting although I will check on her (apparently there are buses I can catch) after which I will spend the day mooching around a town which does not appear to have a museum, art gallery or historical centre. (Its tourist webpage lists a shopping mall as one of the attractions!) On Saturday, my nephew and his wife will pick me and my brother’s partner up from the hotel, then we will pick up mum and go on to the church. At some point on Saturday night, someone (probably me) will take mum back to the Home in a taxi. On Sunday the rest of the family can visit mum, but I’m heading for Glastonbury which is only a few miles away from the hotel. I’ll spend two nights there on a sort of recuperative retreat while mum rests. On Tuesday morning I’ll get the bus back to the town, which should take about an hour, and get mum ready for the arrival of the hire car. And then we’ll come back here, hopefully without any drama.

I don’t mind helping mum get to the wedding, and working out how to cope with her disabling arthritis but I hadn’t prepared for the stress that’s caused by her dementia and loss of short term memory. Even a couple of days ago, she started the litany again. ‘I don’t think I’ll go to the wedding, It’ll be so much trouble for everyone.’ I nearly screamed. I told her it’s all been arranged and it’s too late to change her mind!

This wedding should have been a pleasant if slightly dull family occasion. It should have been a long weekend that just involved booking a hotel room, booking a train ticket, and buying a nice outfit. But now, it’s become something I can’t think about without feeling I’m getting a migraine, something that needs to be endured. And in mum’s mind, it’s assumed huge proportions – like the coronation or something equally momentous. But then perhaps, it’s the last major social event she expects to attend.

I’ll be oh so glad when the whole thing is over!

Mum turns 95

This week was Mum’s 95 birthday. Two days before, she met her great-granddaughter for the first time. This has lifted her spirits no end.

She’s been saying recently that she just wants to see The Baby and then she wants to ‘go’. Indeed, one morning she was so blue, she said she didn’t even care about  seeing baby! She asked me several times if dad died at Xmas. He died just after New Year, but this is the first time she’s brought the subject up in the five years since his death. She wondered if she would die at the same time of year as he had?

My grandmother had a stroke on the anniversary of my grandfather’s death and died shortly afterwards. So I began to be a bit concerned. But since mum’s seen The Baby, there’s been no more of such talk.

The birthday celebrations went on for several days, starting with a visit from my cousins bearing gifts from their side of the family. Since then, there’s been a steady stream of visitors: my brother, his kids and their partners – and The Baby of course; neighbours etc. At the last count, mum had received 19 birthday cards. She even got greetings via Face Book. All this has improved her mood immensely.

Mum has always been a gregarious person who enjoys chatting and laughing. I can’t really provide that sort of companionship. I could do, if there were two of me: one to do all the work and one to sit and chat and watch tv. The carers, who are here for an hour, the cleaners, the hair dresser, all cheer her up briefly, but mainly, she misses my father.

She told me, ‘I just want to see my Frank. Do you think he will find me when I die?’ I don’t know the answer to that one. I imagined the afterlife like a very crowded wartime railway station with refugees pouring off packed trains. I said ‘Well, thousands and thousands of people die every day. It might not be so easy for him to find you.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘You don’t know my Frank. If there’s a way, he’ll find it.’

Well, of course, I hope she’s right. But for now, The Baby seems to have provided some sort of compensation for being forced to stay in this boring world. She has the child’s photo by her chair and speaks to it a lot. And she does seem to be much happier. I guess she really was, quite simply, depressed.

 

mum&alana