My Birthday Celebrations (2012)
We'd got our wish to get Mum home in time for my birthday on 28 March, and Wendy had gone to great lengths to prepare a festive table for the celebratory tea. Have I ever mentioned birthdays and celebrations feature large in our family? There were Happy Birthday napkins, a Happy Birthday tablecloth and everything ready to celebrate not only Mum's homecoming, but my special day as well.
We managed to get Mum our of the chair in her bedroom and back into the wheelchair, and brought her into the dining room, sitting her at the top of the table. Wendy then disappeared to light candles on the birthday cake; a few seconds later, she bore it triumphantly in, ablaze with light. We could see how pleased and happy Mum was to be home, and to be part of the celebrations; whilst I cut the cake, she joined in singing Happy Birthday, with great gusto.
It was proving to be quite a party. We had just handed round plates for the cake, when there was a ring on the doorbell; it was the maiden visit by two lovely carers.
The first lady - petite, smiling - came up to Mum and knelt down beside her. Her first words were,
"'Ello, Darlin'! My name's Carol. It's good to see you!"
Mum beamed. "It's good to see you, too," she said.
And so began a nearly three year long relationship with a group of friendly, caring, carers. It continued until June 2015, when that particular company became unable to provide domiciliary care, but during that time, even though she could never walk properly, with help, patience and encouragement, Mum made great strides in becoming more confident in transferring from chair to glider, and glider to bed.
Wednesday, 13 December 2017
Heading For Home - Part 2 - Home At Last
Heading For Home - Part 2 - Home At Last
Stays in the rehab hospital were meant to be limited to 6 weeks; in the event, Mum stayed there a little while longer, whilst arrangements to get all the equipment we needed was ordered and delivered.
Halfway through March, the hospital style bed was delivered; we also paid for an engineer to assemble it, and make sure everything was working perfectly. I got in supplies of plastic bed covers, and lots of single sheets, both fitted and flat - Mum does not like duvets, and needs a sheet between her and the blankets. We also bought a very comfortable arm chair, that fitted nicely by the side of her bed. By the time the hoist was delivered, supplied by the local authority, the bedroom was fairly full. It was, thank goodness, still big enough to manoeuvre all the equipment around as necessary.
During this time, Mum was aware of the plans being made to bring her home, and she had been questioned about this by various social workers. She was adamant she did not want to go into a care home, but wanted to come to live with the family.
Several times, I was warned by the staff - very gently - that this decision would not make for an easy life, as the dementia diagnosis meant Mum would get worse and become more difficult to care for. There was no way of assessing the time scale, or how quickly her condition would deteriorate.
Whilst still in the hospital, Mum had one really bad episode. She seemed to forget where she was, and all inhibitions went out of the window, whilst she berated me and accused me of doing all the things my father had done. It was very painful to hear her going on like that, and all sorts of emotions coursed through me - I was extremely upset - and angry.
One of the nurses, who knew something of Mum's history, "rescued" me, and said, "Just come away. Take a couple of deep breaths - don't let it get to you." I walked down the corridor, away from Mum's room, with steam coming out of my ears.
"How on earth can she say things like that?! Accusing me of things my father did to her?"
"Because she is transferring things someone else did to her, on to you. It's not fair; but it happens."
The other very disconcerting aspect I learned from this outburst, was how much it upset me to hear the cruel words my father had used when verbally abusing Mum, coming out of my mother's mouth and directed at me. I know what a hard time my Mum had had when we lived abroad; I remembered what my father used to do and say, and now it was as if my dead father had come back to life through my Mum, venting his verbal abuse via her. I thought I had dealt with it all; I've been blessed in that my life is very different to the one my Mum experienced, so it was very hard to have so much from the past brought back into the present. It must have been even harder for Mum still to have those memories still readily available in her mind, so that she could summon them up easily.
Well, I could not change the past. Memories from long ago may indeed last longer than those formed more recently, but I reckoned we could continue to provide many happy occasions, with better, happier memories for her to draw on.
The week beginning 26 March arrived; we were told Mum would be coming home within 24 hours. I was really pleased, because we had been talking about how good it would be, if she could be back in time to celebrate my birthday with me on 28 March.
We were told all the paperwork was being put in place, and if Mum was not discharged on the Monday afternoon, then Tuesday should be going home day.
Mum was very excited, but Monday came and went, and then Tuesday dragged on, with no sign of everything being in place for her to come home.
I was equally keen to get Mum home; it felt as though we were teetering on the brink, " Will we get there? Won't we get there?!" and it was all dependent on getting the right discharge documents signed.
Wednesday, 28 March dawned; I was with Mum bright and early, getting her teeth brushed, breakfast provided and pills taken, when, at last, the good news came through that Mum would be taken home that afternoon. The care package was in place, with the first visit from carers scheduled for the tea call at 3.30 p.m. A few more forms were signed, and an an ambulance was organised to take Mum home after lunch.
Sitting in her wheelchair, Mum was carried over the threshold by the ambulance crew; a few moments later, she was safely ensconced in her newly arranged bedroom. Everyone wished us good luck; it was then, I think, the enormity of taking care of Mum hit home. Apart from 4 half hour calls every day, for the rest of the time, we were totally responsible for Mum's care and safety. I was very, very glad then, to have the support of the family.
Stays in the rehab hospital were meant to be limited to 6 weeks; in the event, Mum stayed there a little while longer, whilst arrangements to get all the equipment we needed was ordered and delivered.
Halfway through March, the hospital style bed was delivered; we also paid for an engineer to assemble it, and make sure everything was working perfectly. I got in supplies of plastic bed covers, and lots of single sheets, both fitted and flat - Mum does not like duvets, and needs a sheet between her and the blankets. We also bought a very comfortable arm chair, that fitted nicely by the side of her bed. By the time the hoist was delivered, supplied by the local authority, the bedroom was fairly full. It was, thank goodness, still big enough to manoeuvre all the equipment around as necessary.
During this time, Mum was aware of the plans being made to bring her home, and she had been questioned about this by various social workers. She was adamant she did not want to go into a care home, but wanted to come to live with the family.
Several times, I was warned by the staff - very gently - that this decision would not make for an easy life, as the dementia diagnosis meant Mum would get worse and become more difficult to care for. There was no way of assessing the time scale, or how quickly her condition would deteriorate.
Whilst still in the hospital, Mum had one really bad episode. She seemed to forget where she was, and all inhibitions went out of the window, whilst she berated me and accused me of doing all the things my father had done. It was very painful to hear her going on like that, and all sorts of emotions coursed through me - I was extremely upset - and angry.
One of the nurses, who knew something of Mum's history, "rescued" me, and said, "Just come away. Take a couple of deep breaths - don't let it get to you." I walked down the corridor, away from Mum's room, with steam coming out of my ears.
"How on earth can she say things like that?! Accusing me of things my father did to her?"
"Because she is transferring things someone else did to her, on to you. It's not fair; but it happens."
The other very disconcerting aspect I learned from this outburst, was how much it upset me to hear the cruel words my father had used when verbally abusing Mum, coming out of my mother's mouth and directed at me. I know what a hard time my Mum had had when we lived abroad; I remembered what my father used to do and say, and now it was as if my dead father had come back to life through my Mum, venting his verbal abuse via her. I thought I had dealt with it all; I've been blessed in that my life is very different to the one my Mum experienced, so it was very hard to have so much from the past brought back into the present. It must have been even harder for Mum still to have those memories still readily available in her mind, so that she could summon them up easily.
Well, I could not change the past. Memories from long ago may indeed last longer than those formed more recently, but I reckoned we could continue to provide many happy occasions, with better, happier memories for her to draw on.
The week beginning 26 March arrived; we were told Mum would be coming home within 24 hours. I was really pleased, because we had been talking about how good it would be, if she could be back in time to celebrate my birthday with me on 28 March.
We were told all the paperwork was being put in place, and if Mum was not discharged on the Monday afternoon, then Tuesday should be going home day.
Mum was very excited, but Monday came and went, and then Tuesday dragged on, with no sign of everything being in place for her to come home.
I was equally keen to get Mum home; it felt as though we were teetering on the brink, " Will we get there? Won't we get there?!" and it was all dependent on getting the right discharge documents signed.
Wednesday, 28 March dawned; I was with Mum bright and early, getting her teeth brushed, breakfast provided and pills taken, when, at last, the good news came through that Mum would be taken home that afternoon. The care package was in place, with the first visit from carers scheduled for the tea call at 3.30 p.m. A few more forms were signed, and an an ambulance was organised to take Mum home after lunch.
Sitting in her wheelchair, Mum was carried over the threshold by the ambulance crew; a few moments later, she was safely ensconced in her newly arranged bedroom. Everyone wished us good luck; it was then, I think, the enormity of taking care of Mum hit home. Apart from 4 half hour calls every day, for the rest of the time, we were totally responsible for Mum's care and safety. I was very, very glad then, to have the support of the family.
Monday, 13 November 2017
Hiccups In Rehab
Hiccups In Rehab
Every morning, I was at the hospital bright and early, helping Mum to get her teeth brushed, followed by sitting with her whilst she ate her cornflakes. We would have a chat until about 10.00 a.m., when I would leave her with a daily newspaper, a good programme on the t.v., and jam sandwiches for lunch. It wasn't every patient who got home-made strawberry jam or ginger jam sandwiches! I would then go back home and get on with preparing the dinner and catching up on the housework. Time really flew.
Mum liked a few chocolates to nibble on, and one day I left her with a large, 24 piece tray of Ferrero Roche chocolates; I thought she would dip into them occasionally, when she felt like it.
When I got back to Mum later that afternoon, she was looking decidedly peaky.
"I don't feel very well," she said. "I feel awfully sick."
She certainly wasn't up to eating her dinner. I spoke to the nursing staff, and we agreed I'd stay with her for an hour or two, and see how she was feeling after that. In the end, Mum wasn't sick; we talked about this and that, and I told her how the pussy cats were getting on, and how much they were missing her. She washed her hands and face, and we talked some more, and it all took her mind off the nausea.
It was whilst I was trying to be entertaining - and distracting - that I noticed a large square plastic box sticking out of the rubbish bin. It was the empty container that only that morning had held 24 chocolates. Mum had scoffed the lot.
I asked her, "Mum - you know I left you a tray of chocolates this morning....?"
I'll never know exactly what she remembered, but suddenly she looked as though something had clicked in her mind.
"Yes," she said, "you gave me some of my favourites. I only had one or two. They were lovely."
"Mum, I think you had more than just one or two..... I think you ate the lot!"
"No, I didn't!" She was adamant.
Well, it was no good arguing. By the time I left, although she hadn't fancied any dinner, her tummy had clearly settled down, and she felt fine again.
This was another occasion when it was clear her mind was playing tricks; it also was one more sign that I couldn't rely on as fact, what Mum said she had done, or believed had happened to her. It was a lesson for me, too; in future, I would have to go on what I knew to be true and, on a practical level, not to leave out too much of anything for her to gorge on.
Mum liked a few chocolates to nibble on, and one day I left her with a large, 24 piece tray of Ferrero Roche chocolates; I thought she would dip into them occasionally, when she felt like it.
When I got back to Mum later that afternoon, she was looking decidedly peaky.
"I don't feel very well," she said. "I feel awfully sick."
She certainly wasn't up to eating her dinner. I spoke to the nursing staff, and we agreed I'd stay with her for an hour or two, and see how she was feeling after that. In the end, Mum wasn't sick; we talked about this and that, and I told her how the pussy cats were getting on, and how much they were missing her. She washed her hands and face, and we talked some more, and it all took her mind off the nausea.
It was whilst I was trying to be entertaining - and distracting - that I noticed a large square plastic box sticking out of the rubbish bin. It was the empty container that only that morning had held 24 chocolates. Mum had scoffed the lot.
I asked her, "Mum - you know I left you a tray of chocolates this morning....?"
I'll never know exactly what she remembered, but suddenly she looked as though something had clicked in her mind.
"Yes," she said, "you gave me some of my favourites. I only had one or two. They were lovely."
"Mum, I think you had more than just one or two..... I think you ate the lot!"
"No, I didn't!" She was adamant.
Well, it was no good arguing. By the time I left, although she hadn't fancied any dinner, her tummy had clearly settled down, and she felt fine again.
This was another occasion when it was clear her mind was playing tricks; it also was one more sign that I couldn't rely on as fact, what Mum said she had done, or believed had happened to her. It was a lesson for me, too; in future, I would have to go on what I knew to be true and, on a practical level, not to leave out too much of anything for her to gorge on.
Heading For Home (Part 1)
Heading For Home (Part 1)
After nearly three months, at last the day came for Mum's move to the rehab hospital, where we hoped she would receive more physiotherapy and be encouraged to regain as much mobility as possible.
I was very impressed with the hospital; more like a hotel than a medical facility, Mum was given a beautiful single room, with en suite bathroom, and flat screen television. As a child in East Africa, I wasn't brought up with television, but I do think some of the programmes are brilliant, and since she returned to England, Mum has become a t.v. enthusiast. Once settled in her room, she was in her element, following Murder She Wrote with Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher; Midsomer Murders with John Nettles and John Thaw as Morse. She watched any and all animal programmes on the go, and another favourite was Homes Under the Hammer, in which the presenters follow people who have bought houses at auction, and see how their plans for doing up the properties have turned out.
After she got divorced, Mum did a lot of that. In the 1960s, living abroad, and as a (newly) single woman, it was extremely difficult for her to obtain a mortgage, but eventually she got one, and managed to move in to a very modest house in Durban and, even though she was working full time as well, found the time to turn it into a little show place. She has always had good taste, knows what furnishings and fabrics will "go," and was quite a dab hand at painting and decorating. Slowly she worked her way through several properties, taking a year or three to refurbish them, and then selling them for a small profit, until, at last, she was able to buy the place she finally settled in. It wasn't big, but my Grandma could join her there, and they could help each other. Mum carried on working, Grandma did the shopping and helped around the house. By then, I was back in England, so they were also company for each other.
After Mum's move to rehab, life also became easier for me. The hospital was only a short drive from home, so although I was still taking in Mum's food every day, it was a matter of just a few minutes' travelling. I didn't know I was born!
I was also present when the physiotherapists visited Mum, and took her to the treatment room. Mum had been given a moon boot, which she found very uncomfortable to wear, but when she did agree to put it on, she was encouraged to hold on to parallel bars and walk a few steps.
I knew she wanted to walk, but the combination of fear about her ankle not being strong enough to bear her weight, her fear that her heart was weak, and sometimes sheer determination not to co-operate, meant progress was painfully slow. Sometimes, too, the physiotherapists would come into Mum's room very early in the morning, and breezily suggest a session in the gym. Mum's response was that it was too early (probably true for her - 8.30 a.m. was for Mum, getting up in the cold light of dawn!) and the Physiotherapists said that, if they could, they would come back later. I am sure their intentions were good, but that rarely, if ever, happened. There were some 30 patients on the ward, all needing treatment and, as the day wore on, it was clear Mum had missed her slot.
Nevertheless, it was a good place to be; and the whole atmosphere was geared to the thought of getting back home.
We had home visits from an occupational therapist who viewed the room Mum would be in; there had to be enough space for a hoist, and they would also provide a glidabout commode, which forever after has been referred to as The Glider..." (coming in to land!); it was also good that Mum's room was on the ground floor, as it would be easy for carers to wheel her into the downstairs bathroom for toiletting and washing.
Gradually, everything fell in to place. The other very important piece of furniture we needed to buy, was a good bed. There was no financial help for this; the reasoning was, you would have to have some sort of a bed anyway, so it was up to the family to provide it.
Although the OT said a single divan would be fine, we quickly realised that if Mum was going to be hoisted in and out of bed, and perhaps given bed baths, it would be to everyone's advantage if she had a bed with controls to enable it to be raised up and down. I didn't want anyone putting their back out whilst attending to Mum. After checking all the options, we bought a hospital bed, but one with wooden head and footboards, so it didn't look cold or as clinical as the metal framed beds you see in hospital wards; it also had a controller to change the positions and height electronically. Not being very keen on trying to assemble the bed ourselves, we also paid for the company to send an engineer to do it for us. He was quick, efficient, and we ended up with a bed installed safely and ready for Mum's return home.
After nearly three months, at last the day came for Mum's move to the rehab hospital, where we hoped she would receive more physiotherapy and be encouraged to regain as much mobility as possible.
I was very impressed with the hospital; more like a hotel than a medical facility, Mum was given a beautiful single room, with en suite bathroom, and flat screen television. As a child in East Africa, I wasn't brought up with television, but I do think some of the programmes are brilliant, and since she returned to England, Mum has become a t.v. enthusiast. Once settled in her room, she was in her element, following Murder She Wrote with Angela Lansbury as Jessica Fletcher; Midsomer Murders with John Nettles and John Thaw as Morse. She watched any and all animal programmes on the go, and another favourite was Homes Under the Hammer, in which the presenters follow people who have bought houses at auction, and see how their plans for doing up the properties have turned out.
After she got divorced, Mum did a lot of that. In the 1960s, living abroad, and as a (newly) single woman, it was extremely difficult for her to obtain a mortgage, but eventually she got one, and managed to move in to a very modest house in Durban and, even though she was working full time as well, found the time to turn it into a little show place. She has always had good taste, knows what furnishings and fabrics will "go," and was quite a dab hand at painting and decorating. Slowly she worked her way through several properties, taking a year or three to refurbish them, and then selling them for a small profit, until, at last, she was able to buy the place she finally settled in. It wasn't big, but my Grandma could join her there, and they could help each other. Mum carried on working, Grandma did the shopping and helped around the house. By then, I was back in England, so they were also company for each other.
After Mum's move to rehab, life also became easier for me. The hospital was only a short drive from home, so although I was still taking in Mum's food every day, it was a matter of just a few minutes' travelling. I didn't know I was born!
I was also present when the physiotherapists visited Mum, and took her to the treatment room. Mum had been given a moon boot, which she found very uncomfortable to wear, but when she did agree to put it on, she was encouraged to hold on to parallel bars and walk a few steps.
I knew she wanted to walk, but the combination of fear about her ankle not being strong enough to bear her weight, her fear that her heart was weak, and sometimes sheer determination not to co-operate, meant progress was painfully slow. Sometimes, too, the physiotherapists would come into Mum's room very early in the morning, and breezily suggest a session in the gym. Mum's response was that it was too early (probably true for her - 8.30 a.m. was for Mum, getting up in the cold light of dawn!) and the Physiotherapists said that, if they could, they would come back later. I am sure their intentions were good, but that rarely, if ever, happened. There were some 30 patients on the ward, all needing treatment and, as the day wore on, it was clear Mum had missed her slot.
Nevertheless, it was a good place to be; and the whole atmosphere was geared to the thought of getting back home.
We had home visits from an occupational therapist who viewed the room Mum would be in; there had to be enough space for a hoist, and they would also provide a glidabout commode, which forever after has been referred to as The Glider..." (coming in to land!); it was also good that Mum's room was on the ground floor, as it would be easy for carers to wheel her into the downstairs bathroom for toiletting and washing.
Gradually, everything fell in to place. The other very important piece of furniture we needed to buy, was a good bed. There was no financial help for this; the reasoning was, you would have to have some sort of a bed anyway, so it was up to the family to provide it.
Although the OT said a single divan would be fine, we quickly realised that if Mum was going to be hoisted in and out of bed, and perhaps given bed baths, it would be to everyone's advantage if she had a bed with controls to enable it to be raised up and down. I didn't want anyone putting their back out whilst attending to Mum. After checking all the options, we bought a hospital bed, but one with wooden head and footboards, so it didn't look cold or as clinical as the metal framed beds you see in hospital wards; it also had a controller to change the positions and height electronically. Not being very keen on trying to assemble the bed ourselves, we also paid for the company to send an engineer to do it for us. He was quick, efficient, and we ended up with a bed installed safely and ready for Mum's return home.
Thursday, 2 November 2017
On The Move Again
On The Move Again
Going back to the first weeks of 2012, and the last positive conversation I had with the Social Worker in the hospital when she said he had managed to find a bed for Mum in the rehab hospital, we started to make preparations for the time when Mum could come home. Once the hospital administrators knew Mum was going to be transferred (I got the feeling, anywhere else would have done!) the heat was off us. We were just relieved to have that extra time for Mum, where we hoped she would get some more physio, tailor-made to her capabilities.
It was also a time of apprehension: we were promised a "full care package" would be put in place - four calls a day, "double-handed," to cater for Mum's needs. The Social Worker said - on more than one occasion - "You won't have to do anything!" but I found it impossible to see how anyone could think Mum would live with us, but somehow exist in solitary splendour, isolated from the rest of the family, with everything done by the carers. For a start, I knew Mum would need to go to the loo more than four times a day! and if she was going to be hoisted to transfer her onto a glide-about commode, I would not be able to do that. As for someone else making her food - well, I'm very particular and I don't like anyone messing about in my kitchen.
I cook properly, from basic principles; I buy everything fresh, peel all the vegetables and prepare the dinner on the day. I don't own a microwave! and it was clear carers would never have time to make a proper meal from scratch. I was quite prepared to take on the cooking, the washing and ironing, but it was an anxious time wondering how things would work out with toiletting, etc. Well, that was another day to get to, and one of the problems to be faced in the future.
In the meantime, we all carried on with visiting Mum twice a day in the hospital, and taking in her food. With the prospect of a move in sight, Mum was pretty cheerful, and whilst she tucked into her dinner, I was able to have chats with the other patients on the ward. Some of them had visitors only rarely, and they were very lonely.
One lady had been admitted to the ward after a bad fall, and was clearly very unwell. The medical staff did their best for her, and she did improve, but it soon became a case of one step forwards, then two steps back.....
She had a niece, who was extremely fond of her aunt; unfortunately, she lived a long way away, and it was difficult for her to visit often. When I asked her permission to sit with her aunt, she was delighted I had suggested it. She also said, if we wanted to say a few prayers, her aunt would really appreciate it. Wendy joined me sometimes, and together we would tell her what we had been doing - shopping, working, and what the weather was like - any sort of gentle chat to let her know there was someone present, who was happy to spend time with her.
One evening, the nurse on duty said they had contacted her niece; we realised she was dying, and Wendy and I stood by her bed, holding her hand and saying prayers. We hoped she knew she wasn't alone, and was being thought of and prayed for. The next morning, when I went back with Mum's breakfast, there was an empty bed in the corner. Having spent so much time on the ward with Mum, we were really made aware how many people are alone, with few or no visitors when they are in hospital.
I enjoyed talking to one lady in particular - we shared a love of literature, and quoted poetry to each other. When I wasn't there, she would also listen to Mum; it soon became clear that Mum was talking a lot about her past, but turning things that had happened to her, on their head. She would praise people who had been awful to her, and talk really unkindly about others who had done so much for her. It seemed sometimes here was a complete "about-turn" in her attitude to people she knew. She would talk about my father, and anyone listening would get the impression he was a paragon; I knew differently. He had been an appalling husband, and my mother had endured years of his flagrant behaviour. I often think that perhaps his cruelty affects the way Mum thinks now, and contributes to the way she confuses good things and bad things; many memories she has from long ago are not happy ones.
This lady tried gently to warn me, how difficult things might become, when Mum was living with us. During times when we were not on the ward, she listened to Mum "going on" about us, saying how little we did for her, which clearly was the opposite of what was actually happening; she said, if Mum was in one of her derogatory moods, and I was not able to reason with her, it could be emotionally and mentally very upsetting, and I might end up feeling as though I was living in a prison, from which there would be no escape.
I've known for a long time now, that when Mum gets talking, she always comes across as being so certain of her facts, so definite about what has happened, that people listening to her will believe what she says is true - even when we know it is nonsense! I was sure the lady on the ward was right, and understood how Mum was, and that it would be frustrating knowing how positively wrong Mum could be; but I hoped I would find ways of coping with it.
I remember quoting to this lady, "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage..." and she nodded, and said, "Ah, yes, Richard Lovelace......"
She knew I was quite settled with the decision that Mum would not be transferred to a care home, but felt she had to warn me on how I should be prepared for Mum's moods to fluctuate wildly. On another day, after Mum had been letting rip about a few people, she said, very simply, "It is a very heavy cross you bear."
All I could think was that I would pray for the strength to bear it.
Going back to the first weeks of 2012, and the last positive conversation I had with the Social Worker in the hospital when she said he had managed to find a bed for Mum in the rehab hospital, we started to make preparations for the time when Mum could come home. Once the hospital administrators knew Mum was going to be transferred (I got the feeling, anywhere else would have done!) the heat was off us. We were just relieved to have that extra time for Mum, where we hoped she would get some more physio, tailor-made to her capabilities.
It was also a time of apprehension: we were promised a "full care package" would be put in place - four calls a day, "double-handed," to cater for Mum's needs. The Social Worker said - on more than one occasion - "You won't have to do anything!" but I found it impossible to see how anyone could think Mum would live with us, but somehow exist in solitary splendour, isolated from the rest of the family, with everything done by the carers. For a start, I knew Mum would need to go to the loo more than four times a day! and if she was going to be hoisted to transfer her onto a glide-about commode, I would not be able to do that. As for someone else making her food - well, I'm very particular and I don't like anyone messing about in my kitchen.
I cook properly, from basic principles; I buy everything fresh, peel all the vegetables and prepare the dinner on the day. I don't own a microwave! and it was clear carers would never have time to make a proper meal from scratch. I was quite prepared to take on the cooking, the washing and ironing, but it was an anxious time wondering how things would work out with toiletting, etc. Well, that was another day to get to, and one of the problems to be faced in the future.
In the meantime, we all carried on with visiting Mum twice a day in the hospital, and taking in her food. With the prospect of a move in sight, Mum was pretty cheerful, and whilst she tucked into her dinner, I was able to have chats with the other patients on the ward. Some of them had visitors only rarely, and they were very lonely.
One lady had been admitted to the ward after a bad fall, and was clearly very unwell. The medical staff did their best for her, and she did improve, but it soon became a case of one step forwards, then two steps back.....
She had a niece, who was extremely fond of her aunt; unfortunately, she lived a long way away, and it was difficult for her to visit often. When I asked her permission to sit with her aunt, she was delighted I had suggested it. She also said, if we wanted to say a few prayers, her aunt would really appreciate it. Wendy joined me sometimes, and together we would tell her what we had been doing - shopping, working, and what the weather was like - any sort of gentle chat to let her know there was someone present, who was happy to spend time with her.
One evening, the nurse on duty said they had contacted her niece; we realised she was dying, and Wendy and I stood by her bed, holding her hand and saying prayers. We hoped she knew she wasn't alone, and was being thought of and prayed for. The next morning, when I went back with Mum's breakfast, there was an empty bed in the corner. Having spent so much time on the ward with Mum, we were really made aware how many people are alone, with few or no visitors when they are in hospital.
I enjoyed talking to one lady in particular - we shared a love of literature, and quoted poetry to each other. When I wasn't there, she would also listen to Mum; it soon became clear that Mum was talking a lot about her past, but turning things that had happened to her, on their head. She would praise people who had been awful to her, and talk really unkindly about others who had done so much for her. It seemed sometimes here was a complete "about-turn" in her attitude to people she knew. She would talk about my father, and anyone listening would get the impression he was a paragon; I knew differently. He had been an appalling husband, and my mother had endured years of his flagrant behaviour. I often think that perhaps his cruelty affects the way Mum thinks now, and contributes to the way she confuses good things and bad things; many memories she has from long ago are not happy ones.
This lady tried gently to warn me, how difficult things might become, when Mum was living with us. During times when we were not on the ward, she listened to Mum "going on" about us, saying how little we did for her, which clearly was the opposite of what was actually happening; she said, if Mum was in one of her derogatory moods, and I was not able to reason with her, it could be emotionally and mentally very upsetting, and I might end up feeling as though I was living in a prison, from which there would be no escape.
I've known for a long time now, that when Mum gets talking, she always comes across as being so certain of her facts, so definite about what has happened, that people listening to her will believe what she says is true - even when we know it is nonsense! I was sure the lady on the ward was right, and understood how Mum was, and that it would be frustrating knowing how positively wrong Mum could be; but I hoped I would find ways of coping with it.
I remember quoting to this lady, "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage..." and she nodded, and said, "Ah, yes, Richard Lovelace......"
She knew I was quite settled with the decision that Mum would not be transferred to a care home, but felt she had to warn me on how I should be prepared for Mum's moods to fluctuate wildly. On another day, after Mum had been letting rip about a few people, she said, very simply, "It is a very heavy cross you bear."
All I could think was that I would pray for the strength to bear it.
Wednesday, 1 November 2017
Mum Celebrates Her 98th Birthday In Style
Mum Celebrates Her 98th Birthday In Style
The table for Tea at the Ritz was booked months ago. Apart from very rare occasions, we always go on a Saturday, and of course it's not every year that one of our birthdays falls on that day. Happily, this year, October 28 was a Saturday and, as usual, I requested the 5.30 sitting - this gives us nice time during the day for Mum to get up and dressed, have breakfast, have a nap.... eat some lunch, and then get ready for the wheelchair accessible taxi arriving at 3.00.
I've just realised that although these days centre around our time partaking Tea at the Ritz, there is actually an awful lot that has to be done first! I am always positive, but I still get nervous in case something goes wrong at the last minute. With two fairly recent episodes still fresh in my mind, I am concerned in case Mum has another time when she just does not wake up from her nap... or else she could turn into a stroppy three year old - although with a trip to the Ritz in the offing, that is unlikely! However, it's not until we are safely ensconced in the taxi, all dressed up with somewhere to go and bowling along, that I can really relax.
Last Saturday went like clockwork. Mum was so excited and pleased to be going to her favourite hotel; she was awake, chatty and co-operative. She was reminding us how she was born on her mother's 3rd Wedding Anniversary, so my grandma had said Mum was like an extra anniversary present. It all went so well; for me to get ready, it's usually it's a case of "I have about 10 - 15 minutes, to complete a 6 months' dockyard job!" but on Mum's birthday I had plenty of time to do my own hair and make-up, and get dressed in my finery.
Mum did need more help than usual to get herself up from the chair and into the wheelchair, but even so, everything was accomplished in good time, and we were all on our way just after 3.00.
Because of Mum's great age and disability, when we arrive at the hotel, arrangements are made for us to drive into the courtyard; this is really helpful, and means that no matter what the weather may be doing, Mum is always warm and in the dry, and we can wheel her straight into the hotel.
We were given such a warm welcome and enjoyed a glass of champagne until it was time to be seated in the Palm Court. It all went so smoothly - within a couple of minutes, a ramp was laid over the three steps, and Mum was wheeled up to the table and settled down; we had a table looking directly at the harpist, and Mum could hear all the music being played.
I always make a special request for a plate of very plain sandwiches - just white bread and butter, with cucumber and a little salt; Mum has never tried any of the more adventurous varieties before. To my amazement, Mum sampled a couple of the more "interesting" sandwiches - actually cheddar cheese and chutney on tomato bread) and pronounced them very good! She ate really well.
About half-way through our tea, the harpist played a familiar introduction to Happy Birthday, and we all burst into song. When we had finished, the other guests in the Palm Court gave Mum a great round of applause. It was such a wonderful, heartfelt atmosphere, and to round everything off, Mum was presented with a Ritz birthday cake and a book about the Hotel. She was so delighted, and it was a pleasure to see her so animated, and responding naturally and normally. (It also made me remember: this is the same lady who, six weeks earlier, had been in hospital, with a doctor standing at her bedside, asking me about recording a DNR on her file; and then assuring me she would be treated actively, and they were "..... not putting her on an end of life pathway.... " I should think not, indeed!)
At last, Mum's birthday tea came to a close, and we prepared to leave at about 7.20 p.m. There was time for more photographs in the foyer, and then our lovely taxi driver, John, was ready to take us back home. He has driven us many times before; he is so kind and helpful and it's wonderful to be able to sit back and let someone else do the driving.
Once we were back indoors, and Mum settled back in her chair, she could talk about nothing else - how kind everyone had been, what a tasty tea she had had, and how lovely the Ritz Hotel book was, and she would enjoy reading it.
She was also ready for some more to eat! The outing had obviously whetted her appetite, so I rustled up a mug of tea and more cake. It didn't matter we were all to bed much later than usual; the clocks went back an hour at 2.00 a.m. (and no, I didn't stay up to change all the clocks!) which meant Mum got an extra hour's sleep anyway.
This afternoon in Piccadilly, there had once again been "....magic abroad in the air......" and when midnight struck, I saw our carriage turn back into a pumpkin, and glimpsed the flick of tails as the coachmen disappeared into the night; but it had been a marvellous day, and really taken us out of ourselves.
The table for Tea at the Ritz was booked months ago. Apart from very rare occasions, we always go on a Saturday, and of course it's not every year that one of our birthdays falls on that day. Happily, this year, October 28 was a Saturday and, as usual, I requested the 5.30 sitting - this gives us nice time during the day for Mum to get up and dressed, have breakfast, have a nap.... eat some lunch, and then get ready for the wheelchair accessible taxi arriving at 3.00.
I've just realised that although these days centre around our time partaking Tea at the Ritz, there is actually an awful lot that has to be done first! I am always positive, but I still get nervous in case something goes wrong at the last minute. With two fairly recent episodes still fresh in my mind, I am concerned in case Mum has another time when she just does not wake up from her nap... or else she could turn into a stroppy three year old - although with a trip to the Ritz in the offing, that is unlikely! However, it's not until we are safely ensconced in the taxi, all dressed up with somewhere to go and bowling along, that I can really relax.
Last Saturday went like clockwork. Mum was so excited and pleased to be going to her favourite hotel; she was awake, chatty and co-operative. She was reminding us how she was born on her mother's 3rd Wedding Anniversary, so my grandma had said Mum was like an extra anniversary present. It all went so well; for me to get ready, it's usually it's a case of "I have about 10 - 15 minutes, to complete a 6 months' dockyard job!" but on Mum's birthday I had plenty of time to do my own hair and make-up, and get dressed in my finery.
Mum did need more help than usual to get herself up from the chair and into the wheelchair, but even so, everything was accomplished in good time, and we were all on our way just after 3.00.
Because of Mum's great age and disability, when we arrive at the hotel, arrangements are made for us to drive into the courtyard; this is really helpful, and means that no matter what the weather may be doing, Mum is always warm and in the dry, and we can wheel her straight into the hotel.
We were given such a warm welcome and enjoyed a glass of champagne until it was time to be seated in the Palm Court. It all went so smoothly - within a couple of minutes, a ramp was laid over the three steps, and Mum was wheeled up to the table and settled down; we had a table looking directly at the harpist, and Mum could hear all the music being played.
I always make a special request for a plate of very plain sandwiches - just white bread and butter, with cucumber and a little salt; Mum has never tried any of the more adventurous varieties before. To my amazement, Mum sampled a couple of the more "interesting" sandwiches - actually cheddar cheese and chutney on tomato bread) and pronounced them very good! She ate really well.
About half-way through our tea, the harpist played a familiar introduction to Happy Birthday, and we all burst into song. When we had finished, the other guests in the Palm Court gave Mum a great round of applause. It was such a wonderful, heartfelt atmosphere, and to round everything off, Mum was presented with a Ritz birthday cake and a book about the Hotel. She was so delighted, and it was a pleasure to see her so animated, and responding naturally and normally. (It also made me remember: this is the same lady who, six weeks earlier, had been in hospital, with a doctor standing at her bedside, asking me about recording a DNR on her file; and then assuring me she would be treated actively, and they were "..... not putting her on an end of life pathway.... " I should think not, indeed!)
At last, Mum's birthday tea came to a close, and we prepared to leave at about 7.20 p.m. There was time for more photographs in the foyer, and then our lovely taxi driver, John, was ready to take us back home. He has driven us many times before; he is so kind and helpful and it's wonderful to be able to sit back and let someone else do the driving.
Once we were back indoors, and Mum settled back in her chair, she could talk about nothing else - how kind everyone had been, what a tasty tea she had had, and how lovely the Ritz Hotel book was, and she would enjoy reading it.
She was also ready for some more to eat! The outing had obviously whetted her appetite, so I rustled up a mug of tea and more cake. It didn't matter we were all to bed much later than usual; the clocks went back an hour at 2.00 a.m. (and no, I didn't stay up to change all the clocks!) which meant Mum got an extra hour's sleep anyway.
This afternoon in Piccadilly, there had once again been "....magic abroad in the air......" and when midnight struck, I saw our carriage turn back into a pumpkin, and glimpsed the flick of tails as the coachmen disappeared into the night; but it had been a marvellous day, and really taken us out of ourselves.
Thursday, 12 October 2017
Hitting the High Notes - Mum Can Sing
Hitting the High Notes
Mum can sing really well. One of my earliest memories is of her singing "Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire....." and considering we were then living in Dar-es-Salaam, Bedfordshire didn't register with me as a county in England, and because we lived in a bungalow, "Up the wooden hill" also remained a bit of a mystery to me. There were no wooden hills to climb, but I did connect the "bed" bit with that fact it was late and time to sleep.
I also remember her singing "Watching the World Go By," whilst I sat on her knee.
My Grandma was also a good singer, with a wicked sense of humour. She was born in Liverpool, but every year the family would go to London for three weeks, and see all the plays, visit the concert venues and music hall shows. This was before Grandma went deaf; in later years, when she was profoundly deaf ("As deaf as a doorpost!" she used to say - there was no beating about the bush with her!) she told me that when she was in bed at night, she could cast her mind back to those holidays in London and, in her imagination, she could hear everything again. All the music, the sweeping strings in the orchestra, every word of the songs from the stage, including those sung by the saucy Marie Lloyd - she might have been deaf, but for Grandma, the memories were as fresh as if she had heard the shows only yesterday. She "got" all the double entendres, and instilled in me an appreciation of clever, subtle lyrics.
Grandma also sang to me, songs she had learned from her father, which he'd picked up on his travels around the world in the 1880s, from America and Australia.
Now Mum is nearly 98, and she can still sing and hit the top notes. She knows so many songs from the war, all the Vera Lynn songs - We'll Meet Again, There'll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover - occasionally she will get a line mixed up, or even add her own words to a song, but it all makes sense.
Singing uses different areas of the brain; if Mum has been in one of her moods, and if we can get her started, singing can really change her mood for the better.
We have a piano in her room, and another in the lounge, so we are never far from being able to make music. After dinner, and again after supper, we have a regular sing-song. Apart from helping the dinner to go down, it's lovely to hear her in good voice; another bonus is that I get so much practice, even my piano playing has improved!
Songs are so evocative of a time and place; hearing a long-forgotten tune can bring memories flooding back.
I wrote this poem for Mum - and perhaps it will strike a chord (sorry!) for other people, too. Whatever your favourite song is, I think it is important to keep singing,
LYRICS
It's amazing how the lyrics
Of songs roll back the years
With the melodies and rhythms
That at your heartstrings tear
"Those were the days, my friend"
Never fails to take me back
To the time when all was yet to be
And the future an unknown track
And there were songs from Music Hall
I learned at my Grandma's knee
Who could have guessed they'd still be sung
By my daughter, Mum and me?
"If those lips could only speak....."
For "A bird in a gilded cage....."
Those melodramatic lyrics
Still echo down the age
And the sun shines bright
In my old Kentucky home
Where the beautiful dreamer
Once chanced to roam
In the Stephen Foster songbook
The lyrics play their part
To become entwined in our mind,
And forever in our heart.
Mum can sing really well. One of my earliest memories is of her singing "Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire....." and considering we were then living in Dar-es-Salaam, Bedfordshire didn't register with me as a county in England, and because we lived in a bungalow, "Up the wooden hill" also remained a bit of a mystery to me. There were no wooden hills to climb, but I did connect the "bed" bit with that fact it was late and time to sleep.
I also remember her singing "Watching the World Go By," whilst I sat on her knee.
My Grandma was also a good singer, with a wicked sense of humour. She was born in Liverpool, but every year the family would go to London for three weeks, and see all the plays, visit the concert venues and music hall shows. This was before Grandma went deaf; in later years, when she was profoundly deaf ("As deaf as a doorpost!" she used to say - there was no beating about the bush with her!) she told me that when she was in bed at night, she could cast her mind back to those holidays in London and, in her imagination, she could hear everything again. All the music, the sweeping strings in the orchestra, every word of the songs from the stage, including those sung by the saucy Marie Lloyd - she might have been deaf, but for Grandma, the memories were as fresh as if she had heard the shows only yesterday. She "got" all the double entendres, and instilled in me an appreciation of clever, subtle lyrics.
Grandma also sang to me, songs she had learned from her father, which he'd picked up on his travels around the world in the 1880s, from America and Australia.
Now Mum is nearly 98, and she can still sing and hit the top notes. She knows so many songs from the war, all the Vera Lynn songs - We'll Meet Again, There'll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover - occasionally she will get a line mixed up, or even add her own words to a song, but it all makes sense.
Singing uses different areas of the brain; if Mum has been in one of her moods, and if we can get her started, singing can really change her mood for the better.
We have a piano in her room, and another in the lounge, so we are never far from being able to make music. After dinner, and again after supper, we have a regular sing-song. Apart from helping the dinner to go down, it's lovely to hear her in good voice; another bonus is that I get so much practice, even my piano playing has improved!
Songs are so evocative of a time and place; hearing a long-forgotten tune can bring memories flooding back.
I wrote this poem for Mum - and perhaps it will strike a chord (sorry!) for other people, too. Whatever your favourite song is, I think it is important to keep singing,
LYRICS
It's amazing how the lyrics
Of songs roll back the years
With the melodies and rhythms
That at your heartstrings tear
"Those were the days, my friend"
Never fails to take me back
To the time when all was yet to be
And the future an unknown track
And there were songs from Music Hall
I learned at my Grandma's knee
Who could have guessed they'd still be sung
By my daughter, Mum and me?
"If those lips could only speak....."
For "A bird in a gilded cage....."
Those melodramatic lyrics
Still echo down the age
And the sun shines bright
In my old Kentucky home
Where the beautiful dreamer
Once chanced to roam
In the Stephen Foster songbook
The lyrics play their part
To become entwined in our mind,
And forever in our heart.
Thursday, 28 September 2017
Mum Gives Us Another Fright (Part 2)
Mum Gives Us Another Fright (Part 2)
Mum stayed in hospital for another 24 hours. We were back with lunch and supper on the Sunday, and I was with Mum to hold her hand whilst another doctor inserted the cannula, ready for the blood transfusion. Mum hated it, but once it was in, and bandaged to hold everything in place, it was more bearable.
We left Mum at about 9.30 p.m. - still the unit of blood had not arrived, but everyone was so exhausted, we had to entrust her to the care of the nursing staff. In the end, we found out they had done a really good job.
The next morning, the lady in the bed opposite told me Mum had become very upset when the transfusion started, and the staff had been worried she would try to disconnect the line; there could have been "blood on the carpet," and not much going into Mum. A member of staff sat with her for four hours, until the transfusion was complete.
When I arrived to give Mum her breakfast, the cannula had been removed, and she was feeling much happier. The doctor came round and said they results from the latest blood test showed her iron levels were up enough for her to be discharged to the GP's care; they would prescribe oral iron medication for her to take at home. The pharmacist came up to see me; I explained the difficulty Mum has swallowing pills, and he could provide us with ferrous fumarate syrup.
We got home at about 6.00 p.m. on the Monday night. Mum had dinner, and got back to bed, and then slept for about 14 hours. This time we weren't worried; we reckoned she had been awake most of Sunday night through to Monday morning, and had had virtually no sleep for the rest of the day; she had also had a three and a half hour wait in the discharge lounge for an ambulance to bring her home. She slept peacefully and soundly. She missed breakfast on Tuesday morning, but when she got up at lunch time, she was quite rejuvenated, and back to her old self - including, on occasions, alternating between Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde. It was such a relief to have her home again, we were all happy to put up with her moods and her foibles.
Wednesday, 27 September 2017
Mum Gives Us Another Fright (Part 1)
Mum Gives Us Another Fright (Part 1)
Saturday evening, 16 September.
Mum had been up, bright and early - had breakfast, had her usual morning nap, and up again at lunch time. I made her dinner - her favourite, cauliflower cheese ("With pepper?!" Mum always asks. "Of course - with pepper!" I reply). We had a little sing afterwards, and then Mum felt ready to rest her leg (as she puts it) and have another lie down. The carers came back at 7.30 to get her up for supper, but Mum was fast asleep, so we decided it would be best to let her sleep on for another hour or so - and I said, we'd get her up later on.
Well, later on came and went; the carers returned at 10.30 p.m. for what is normally the bed call, and still Mum was fast asleep; she would not - could not? - wake up. By now, we were all concerned, and the carers rang for an ambulance. This arrived swiftly; Mum was stretchered to the ambulance, and presently we set off for the hospital. It was like a re-run of the 15 July; we got to A& E, Mum woke up and once again, the doctors ran all the tests on Mum. This time, however, they were concerned about the results of the ECG, and the troponin blood test result was giving cause for concern. One doctor said, "For the moment, we'll treat it like a heart attack."
This really struck a chill of fear into us. I'd already been asked by the ambulance crew about a "Do Not Resuscitate" decision and, from the time when my husband died from a massive heart attack, I know precisely how violent the attempts to get someone back to life can be. I just prayed we hadn't reached that stage, but knew I'd have to think about it.
More tests were carried out, including X-ray and further blood tests. One member of the family was with Mum all the time - we couldn't leave her alone, and in any case, she wasn't capable of telling the doctors how she was feeling.
In the end, two of us went a total of 25 hours without sleep. It was really shattering but, at the time, you just keep going somehow, and let your body start asking questions about what you're doing to it, later!
At last the second Troponin blood test result arrived; it showed Mum hadn't had a heart attack, but the other worrying thing was that her iron levels were dangerously low. She was admitted to a ward called the Medical Receiving Unit, and at last we could all take turns getting a couple of hours sleep.
I got back to the ward early on the Sunday morning; a young male nurse was feeding Mum corn flakes, and they were both doing pretty well - it was good to see Mum wasn't being left to her own devices! I was happy to take over, and I also made sure Mum took her pills - that had been a step too far for the nurse; and I was also there when the doctor came on his rounds.
Because Mum's iron levels were so low, she needed a blood transfusion; the doctor said they would start off with one unit, delivered very slowly over four hours, and then check her iron levels; if necessary, they would continue with an infusion of iron, but it was a case of seeing how we got on.
With the doctor on one side of the bed, and me on the other, with Mum lying in between us, he then asked me about putting a Do Not Resuscitate instruction on Mum's file. I do understand that with someone of Mum's age, teams may be reluctant to do everything they can, to recover someone from a heart attack; but I did not want to rush Mum into expiring faster than she might do otherwise!
I said, "I understand my mother hasn't had a heart attack? and I certainly want you to do everything you can to help her!"
"Oh, yes," the doctor agreed, "we aren't putting her on an end of life pathway....."!!
I was horrified. "I should hope not!" I protested, "We're all going for Tea at the Ritz on Mum's birthday next month!"
Quickly he backtracked. "Oh, no, we are actively treating her......"
That's what worries me about these instructions on patients' files. You might say "yes" to one thing in a particular circumstance, but you do not want someone else in authority taking it upon themselves to make life and death decisions on behalf of your loved ones.
After the doctor had left, Mum looked at me, clearly upset. She said, "Is this the hospital where they do you in?"
"No, it is not!" I said firmly. "It's the hospital where you're going to get the best treatment - and then you're coming home."
So the moral of this particular little episode is: Hospital staff should always remember patients may seem deaf, daft or demented, but they can still take in what is being said about them at their bedside. And it can cause a lot of distress.
Saturday evening, 16 September.
Mum had been up, bright and early - had breakfast, had her usual morning nap, and up again at lunch time. I made her dinner - her favourite, cauliflower cheese ("With pepper?!" Mum always asks. "Of course - with pepper!" I reply). We had a little sing afterwards, and then Mum felt ready to rest her leg (as she puts it) and have another lie down. The carers came back at 7.30 to get her up for supper, but Mum was fast asleep, so we decided it would be best to let her sleep on for another hour or so - and I said, we'd get her up later on.
Well, later on came and went; the carers returned at 10.30 p.m. for what is normally the bed call, and still Mum was fast asleep; she would not - could not? - wake up. By now, we were all concerned, and the carers rang for an ambulance. This arrived swiftly; Mum was stretchered to the ambulance, and presently we set off for the hospital. It was like a re-run of the 15 July; we got to A& E, Mum woke up and once again, the doctors ran all the tests on Mum. This time, however, they were concerned about the results of the ECG, and the troponin blood test result was giving cause for concern. One doctor said, "For the moment, we'll treat it like a heart attack."
This really struck a chill of fear into us. I'd already been asked by the ambulance crew about a "Do Not Resuscitate" decision and, from the time when my husband died from a massive heart attack, I know precisely how violent the attempts to get someone back to life can be. I just prayed we hadn't reached that stage, but knew I'd have to think about it.
More tests were carried out, including X-ray and further blood tests. One member of the family was with Mum all the time - we couldn't leave her alone, and in any case, she wasn't capable of telling the doctors how she was feeling.
In the end, two of us went a total of 25 hours without sleep. It was really shattering but, at the time, you just keep going somehow, and let your body start asking questions about what you're doing to it, later!
At last the second Troponin blood test result arrived; it showed Mum hadn't had a heart attack, but the other worrying thing was that her iron levels were dangerously low. She was admitted to a ward called the Medical Receiving Unit, and at last we could all take turns getting a couple of hours sleep.
I got back to the ward early on the Sunday morning; a young male nurse was feeding Mum corn flakes, and they were both doing pretty well - it was good to see Mum wasn't being left to her own devices! I was happy to take over, and I also made sure Mum took her pills - that had been a step too far for the nurse; and I was also there when the doctor came on his rounds.
Because Mum's iron levels were so low, she needed a blood transfusion; the doctor said they would start off with one unit, delivered very slowly over four hours, and then check her iron levels; if necessary, they would continue with an infusion of iron, but it was a case of seeing how we got on.
With the doctor on one side of the bed, and me on the other, with Mum lying in between us, he then asked me about putting a Do Not Resuscitate instruction on Mum's file. I do understand that with someone of Mum's age, teams may be reluctant to do everything they can, to recover someone from a heart attack; but I did not want to rush Mum into expiring faster than she might do otherwise!
I said, "I understand my mother hasn't had a heart attack? and I certainly want you to do everything you can to help her!"
"Oh, yes," the doctor agreed, "we aren't putting her on an end of life pathway....."!!
I was horrified. "I should hope not!" I protested, "We're all going for Tea at the Ritz on Mum's birthday next month!"
Quickly he backtracked. "Oh, no, we are actively treating her......"
That's what worries me about these instructions on patients' files. You might say "yes" to one thing in a particular circumstance, but you do not want someone else in authority taking it upon themselves to make life and death decisions on behalf of your loved ones.
After the doctor had left, Mum looked at me, clearly upset. She said, "Is this the hospital where they do you in?"
"No, it is not!" I said firmly. "It's the hospital where you're going to get the best treatment - and then you're coming home."
So the moral of this particular little episode is: Hospital staff should always remember patients may seem deaf, daft or demented, but they can still take in what is being said about them at their bedside. And it can cause a lot of distress.
Saturday, 16 September 2017
...And Something More About My Grandma - The Last Of The Old Victorians
.....And something more about my Grandma - The Last Of The Old Victorians
My Grandma was born in 1893; for me, she was a wonderful link with the past.
Her father, Wilson Silver Thompson, was born in 1860, in Ulverston. He was in love with a young woman called Jessie and wanted to marry her, but they had a falling out, with the result that to get over his broken heart, my Great-grandfather went off to sea for several years, in steam-assisted ships.
He reached Brisbane, and wanted to settle in Australia, but then came the news that his mother was very ill, so immediately he started the journey back to England. He got home in time, and before she died, his mother introduced him to Elizabeth Fraser; the legend has it that she put Elizabeth's and Wilson's hands together in hers, and said, "It would make me very happy."
Wilson and Elizabeth were married for 10 years, and had four children: three girls and a son, Henry. Sadly, he died in infancy, but Maud, Alice and Win all survived, and lived long lives. My Grandma said she had been told that when her mother found out she was expecting another baby, her reaction was always, "My arms will be full again...." so I think she must have been a very loving lady.
When my Grandma was 6, her mother died of erysipelas, leaving her father a relatively young widower, with three young daughters to look after. His next course of action was to remarry - and he chose his first love, Jessie.
It was Jessie who decided that she did not want to bring up three children from her husband's first marriage; he could keep one. Wilson told Jessie she could choose which daughter would stay at home with them, and her logic was impeccable. Maud, being the eldest, could remember her Mother; that could prove awkward. Win, the youngest, was still quite the baby, and was probably too much trouble; my Grandma, Alice, at 6, was old enough to do more for herself and, most importantly, she could not remember her Mother. Maybe it was the shock of Elizabeth dying so young, but whatever the reason, my Grandma was always sad that she had no personal memories of her mother.
Maud and Win were sent to live with a maiden aunt and uncle - Elizabeth Fraser's brother and sister. From all accounts, their home life was spartan and, even allowing for the way of life at the time, the sisters were not allowed much freedom.
On the other hand, my Grandma did not have a happy childhood either, living at home with her father and stepmother. Jessie resented her husband's previous life with Elizabeth, and my Grandma was not well treated by her - she was physically beaten for misdemeanours, and heavily bruised on many occasions. As she got older, her father discovered what was happening, things improved; but life was still hard for a little girl.
Maud and Win never married. I know many young women never found a husband after the First World War, but I fear Maud and Win put much of that misfortune down to the fact that they had not been allowed to remain at home with their father. My Grandma was the only one to get married -otherwise I would not be writing this blog! She also had three children: Austen, who was born in 1917; my Mum, Phyllis, born in 1919, and my Uncle John, who was born in 1923.
In 1938, still only 20, Austin died of pneumonia, and in 1943, my Grandfather had an accident at work. He fell hit his head; he was conscious, and taken to hospital for observation, but in those days, not many investigations were carried out/ There was internal bleeding, and he died a few days later.
My Mum had married my father in 1941; in 1943, he was a prisoner of war in Germany, so it was just my Grandma, my Mum and Uncle John who stuck together as a family, and carried on.
The war ended in 1945; I was born in 1946, and then followed bitterly cold winters in 1946 and 1947. My father was offered a job out in East Africa, and so it was decided that the best idea would be to go abroad, escape the weather and rationing, and get some sunshine in our bones.
Despite all that life had thrown at her, my Grandma was determined to make the best of everything; her glass was always half-full. When her son John also decided to take up a Government job abroad, Grandma was game to go with him. She started a whole new career as a governess, teaching children at home until they were old enough to be shipped off back to boarding school in the UK.
She was ready for anything. She was a truly inspirational lady.
And this is a poem I wrote as a tribute to her:
The Last Of The Old Victorians
The last of the old Victorians.....
With her, they broke the mould;
Advanced in years she may have been,
But she was never old!
Adventurous to the last degree,
Intrepid as she flew
In jumbo jets and steam railway sets,
But fear she never knew.
She said, "When you reach my age,
You know the worst may never be."
She did not rise to meet disaster,
But accepted stoically
Everything that life threw at her;
And though at times she cried
When memories engulfed her,
Usually she just smiled.
She was the one who went abroad,
Adventurous to the core;
Who learned to smoke at 52,
And shocked the family bore
By her outspoken truthfulness;
She never held it back,
But said what she thought - it came out pat -
Perhaps she lacked a little tact!
But you could always turn to her;
She was always on your side,
Encouraging, suggesting,
"Take that helter-skelter ride!"
The last of the old Victorians.....
With her, they broke the mould;
Advanced in years she may have been,
But she was never old!
My Grandma was born in 1893; for me, she was a wonderful link with the past.
Her father, Wilson Silver Thompson, was born in 1860, in Ulverston. He was in love with a young woman called Jessie and wanted to marry her, but they had a falling out, with the result that to get over his broken heart, my Great-grandfather went off to sea for several years, in steam-assisted ships.
He reached Brisbane, and wanted to settle in Australia, but then came the news that his mother was very ill, so immediately he started the journey back to England. He got home in time, and before she died, his mother introduced him to Elizabeth Fraser; the legend has it that she put Elizabeth's and Wilson's hands together in hers, and said, "It would make me very happy."
Wilson and Elizabeth were married for 10 years, and had four children: three girls and a son, Henry. Sadly, he died in infancy, but Maud, Alice and Win all survived, and lived long lives. My Grandma said she had been told that when her mother found out she was expecting another baby, her reaction was always, "My arms will be full again...." so I think she must have been a very loving lady.
When my Grandma was 6, her mother died of erysipelas, leaving her father a relatively young widower, with three young daughters to look after. His next course of action was to remarry - and he chose his first love, Jessie.
It was Jessie who decided that she did not want to bring up three children from her husband's first marriage; he could keep one. Wilson told Jessie she could choose which daughter would stay at home with them, and her logic was impeccable. Maud, being the eldest, could remember her Mother; that could prove awkward. Win, the youngest, was still quite the baby, and was probably too much trouble; my Grandma, Alice, at 6, was old enough to do more for herself and, most importantly, she could not remember her Mother. Maybe it was the shock of Elizabeth dying so young, but whatever the reason, my Grandma was always sad that she had no personal memories of her mother.
Maud and Win were sent to live with a maiden aunt and uncle - Elizabeth Fraser's brother and sister. From all accounts, their home life was spartan and, even allowing for the way of life at the time, the sisters were not allowed much freedom.
On the other hand, my Grandma did not have a happy childhood either, living at home with her father and stepmother. Jessie resented her husband's previous life with Elizabeth, and my Grandma was not well treated by her - she was physically beaten for misdemeanours, and heavily bruised on many occasions. As she got older, her father discovered what was happening, things improved; but life was still hard for a little girl.
Maud and Win never married. I know many young women never found a husband after the First World War, but I fear Maud and Win put much of that misfortune down to the fact that they had not been allowed to remain at home with their father. My Grandma was the only one to get married -otherwise I would not be writing this blog! She also had three children: Austen, who was born in 1917; my Mum, Phyllis, born in 1919, and my Uncle John, who was born in 1923.
In 1938, still only 20, Austin died of pneumonia, and in 1943, my Grandfather had an accident at work. He fell hit his head; he was conscious, and taken to hospital for observation, but in those days, not many investigations were carried out/ There was internal bleeding, and he died a few days later.
My Mum had married my father in 1941; in 1943, he was a prisoner of war in Germany, so it was just my Grandma, my Mum and Uncle John who stuck together as a family, and carried on.
The war ended in 1945; I was born in 1946, and then followed bitterly cold winters in 1946 and 1947. My father was offered a job out in East Africa, and so it was decided that the best idea would be to go abroad, escape the weather and rationing, and get some sunshine in our bones.
Despite all that life had thrown at her, my Grandma was determined to make the best of everything; her glass was always half-full. When her son John also decided to take up a Government job abroad, Grandma was game to go with him. She started a whole new career as a governess, teaching children at home until they were old enough to be shipped off back to boarding school in the UK.
She was ready for anything. She was a truly inspirational lady.
And this is a poem I wrote as a tribute to her:
The Last Of The Old Victorians
The last of the old Victorians.....
With her, they broke the mould;
Advanced in years she may have been,
But she was never old!
Adventurous to the last degree,
Intrepid as she flew
In jumbo jets and steam railway sets,
But fear she never knew.
She said, "When you reach my age,
You know the worst may never be."
She did not rise to meet disaster,
But accepted stoically
Everything that life threw at her;
And though at times she cried
When memories engulfed her,
Usually she just smiled.
She was the one who went abroad,
Adventurous to the core;
Who learned to smoke at 52,
And shocked the family bore
By her outspoken truthfulness;
She never held it back,
But said what she thought - it came out pat -
Perhaps she lacked a little tact!
But you could always turn to her;
She was always on your side,
Encouraging, suggesting,
"Take that helter-skelter ride!"
The last of the old Victorians.....
With her, they broke the mould;
Advanced in years she may have been,
But she was never old!
Friday, 8 September 2017
A Prayer
A Prayer
As Mum's moods and dreams are still in my mind, it got me thinking about my own future, and I do hope and pray that as I get older, I shall be like my Uncle John (Mum's brother), and my Grandma (Mum's mother). My Grandma lived until she was nearly 92, and died after a fall and breaking her hip. This was in 1985; she was living abroad, and I remember when Wendy and I went out to visit her, one of the nurses in the hospital where she was recovering from an operation to fit and Richards Pin and Plate, said to me:
"You don't see you Grandmother as a geriatric, do you?"
Was I indignant? I was! I remember snapping back, "She's my Grandma. She may be old, but she's not geriatric!"
The nurse sighed and retreated. Obviously, I was not seeing things clearly. On the other hand, maybe the nurse wasn't looking at Grandma properly. Grandma might have been laid up after the fall, but she was still full of fun. She was an incorrigible flirt, too. She had a very charming, young (well, 40-ish) physiotherapist who came every day to get her up and walking with a zimmer frame, and he really encouraged her to get going.
Some days were harder than others, but, my word, Grandma did try to persevere. She stood up in the frame one day, and looked him straight in the eye.
"If I get walking again," she said, "would you go dancing with me?"
Looking straight back at her, he said, "When you get walking again, I'll take you dancing!"
No-one tried harder than Grandma, or was more encouragable.
Uncle John is a real chip off Grandma's block - he's now 94, but with the same naughty sense of humour, a willingness to learn new things - every day is an opportunity, every day is a gift. Wendy goes out to Brisbane every year to spend a holiday with him; like his Mum, he is fun.
My Prayer
I pray that if, when I am old,
And inhabit a world of my own,
It will be a happy place;
Filled with fond memories and
Flowers, picked on sunny days, that
Warm my heart with the sudden awakened
Dreams, that spring
From the hint of old perfumes;
And not a world filled
With sad demons of regret,
Real or imaginary; or
Of old wounds, left unhealed,
To grow and fester in
A confused state of recollection.
If my thoughts be misplaced,
Let them hide and tease,
Dancing in gentle shadows,
Where the sun dapples on soft grass
Beneath a sturdy tree, where
I can lean back against its
Rough bark and dream, contentedly;
And where the world becomes
My world again; and I am who I am,
And where and what I want to be.
As Mum's moods and dreams are still in my mind, it got me thinking about my own future, and I do hope and pray that as I get older, I shall be like my Uncle John (Mum's brother), and my Grandma (Mum's mother). My Grandma lived until she was nearly 92, and died after a fall and breaking her hip. This was in 1985; she was living abroad, and I remember when Wendy and I went out to visit her, one of the nurses in the hospital where she was recovering from an operation to fit and Richards Pin and Plate, said to me:
"You don't see you Grandmother as a geriatric, do you?"
Was I indignant? I was! I remember snapping back, "She's my Grandma. She may be old, but she's not geriatric!"
The nurse sighed and retreated. Obviously, I was not seeing things clearly. On the other hand, maybe the nurse wasn't looking at Grandma properly. Grandma might have been laid up after the fall, but she was still full of fun. She was an incorrigible flirt, too. She had a very charming, young (well, 40-ish) physiotherapist who came every day to get her up and walking with a zimmer frame, and he really encouraged her to get going.
Some days were harder than others, but, my word, Grandma did try to persevere. She stood up in the frame one day, and looked him straight in the eye.
"If I get walking again," she said, "would you go dancing with me?"
Looking straight back at her, he said, "When you get walking again, I'll take you dancing!"
No-one tried harder than Grandma, or was more encouragable.
Uncle John is a real chip off Grandma's block - he's now 94, but with the same naughty sense of humour, a willingness to learn new things - every day is an opportunity, every day is a gift. Wendy goes out to Brisbane every year to spend a holiday with him; like his Mum, he is fun.
My Prayer
I pray that if, when I am old,
And inhabit a world of my own,
It will be a happy place;
Filled with fond memories and
Flowers, picked on sunny days, that
Warm my heart with the sudden awakened
Dreams, that spring
From the hint of old perfumes;
And not a world filled
With sad demons of regret,
Real or imaginary; or
Of old wounds, left unhealed,
To grow and fester in
A confused state of recollection.
If my thoughts be misplaced,
Let them hide and tease,
Dancing in gentle shadows,
Where the sun dapples on soft grass
Beneath a sturdy tree, where
I can lean back against its
Rough bark and dream, contentedly;
And where the world becomes
My world again; and I am who I am,
And where and what I want to be.
Thursday, 7 September 2017
Messages From The Other Side
Messages From The Other Side
Mum has always been a bit "fey" - she gets feelings about things, and tries to interpret them - not always correctly! I am also not averse to listening to a "still small voice," which I trust will guide me wisely and safely through difficult times.
Since she has has lived at home with us, there have been occasions when she is convinced there are - or have been - other people in the room, when we know no-one else has been in. It often happens during the day, when she is awake, sitting in the chair and reading a paper, and she will announce, "My Mother's here." We gently remind Mum that, although her Mother's - my Grandma's - spirit may well have been near her, her Mother died in 1985; she is buried in Liverpool;.
Sometimes Mum accepts a simple explanation; at other times, she is adamant she has seen her Mother, and has talked to her. On other occasions, she says, "Oh, well, it was my other mother!"
Mum only had my Grandma as her mother, but it may be she gets confused with her Mother's childhood. My Great-grandfather was married to a lady called Elizabeth Fraser; they had three girls - Maud, born in 1891, Alice (my Grandma) born in 1893, and Win, born in1896. Sadly, after ten years of marriage, Elizabeth Fraser died, and a year later, my Great-grandfather married Jessie Stephenson. So in one way, my Grandma did indeed have two mothers; and by all accounts, her step-mother was not the kindest of women.
Sometimes Mum also has dreams which can be distressing; if I can hear she is in the middle of a night terror, I will go to her, and stay until she calms down and is happy to get back to sleep again.
This inspired the following poem:
Messages From The Other Side
My mother hears voices
Of people long gone
They whisper in her ear
Things that have passed
Or are yet to come
Strange people swirl
In the rooms of her mind
As fearful thoughts
Filled with menace
Take hold and grip
Until gentle words lead her
To a kinder pace
Where benign visitors combine
To sooth and calm
She trusts them to keep her safe
They tell of lottery numbers
And how "the big one"
Will come up and be hers
It brings her joy
And she lives in constant hope
Mum has always been a bit "fey" - she gets feelings about things, and tries to interpret them - not always correctly! I am also not averse to listening to a "still small voice," which I trust will guide me wisely and safely through difficult times.
Since she has has lived at home with us, there have been occasions when she is convinced there are - or have been - other people in the room, when we know no-one else has been in. It often happens during the day, when she is awake, sitting in the chair and reading a paper, and she will announce, "My Mother's here." We gently remind Mum that, although her Mother's - my Grandma's - spirit may well have been near her, her Mother died in 1985; she is buried in Liverpool;.
Sometimes Mum accepts a simple explanation; at other times, she is adamant she has seen her Mother, and has talked to her. On other occasions, she says, "Oh, well, it was my other mother!"
Mum only had my Grandma as her mother, but it may be she gets confused with her Mother's childhood. My Great-grandfather was married to a lady called Elizabeth Fraser; they had three girls - Maud, born in 1891, Alice (my Grandma) born in 1893, and Win, born in1896. Sadly, after ten years of marriage, Elizabeth Fraser died, and a year later, my Great-grandfather married Jessie Stephenson. So in one way, my Grandma did indeed have two mothers; and by all accounts, her step-mother was not the kindest of women.
Sometimes Mum also has dreams which can be distressing; if I can hear she is in the middle of a night terror, I will go to her, and stay until she calms down and is happy to get back to sleep again.
This inspired the following poem:
Messages From The Other Side
My mother hears voices
Of people long gone
They whisper in her ear
Things that have passed
Or are yet to come
Strange people swirl
In the rooms of her mind
As fearful thoughts
Filled with menace
Take hold and grip
Until gentle words lead her
To a kinder pace
Where benign visitors combine
To sooth and calm
She trusts them to keep her safe
They tell of lottery numbers
And how "the big one"
Will come up and be hers
It brings her joy
And she lives in constant hope
Sunday, 27 August 2017
Having Run-Ins With Authority (2)
Having Run-Ins with Authority (2)
As the days of the New Year passed by, talks with the health-care professionals as to where Mum would go next, became a great deal more pressing. We kept being told that we must make a decision: was Mum coming home to live with us, or were we going to put her into a care home?
I knew it would impossible for us to take Mum home in her current state - she needed more time, in a rehabilitation setting, with more help that was not available in her current situation. We knew that there must be options, but they would have to be found, recommended and fought for; Mum wasn't fit enough to come straight home, and we were not going to be bamboozled into rushing into something that could turn out to be a disaster.
During this time, we took advice from very helpful people in the Patients Advisory Liaison Service (PALS), and one of the orthopaedic surgeons gave me another good piece of advice. He said, "I know you want to have your Mum living with you; and from her follow-up appointments, I can see why you are worried about her being discharged straight from hospital to home." He then told me, "You must say, if she comes home now, you cannot guarantee her safety....."
That turned out to be a gem. One morning, whilst I was with Mum, helping her to brush her teeth and giving her breakfast with full cream milk, the Ward Manager came over to see me.
"I have to tell you," she said, "we have arranged a full meeting this morning, regarding your Mother's future care. All the health professionals who have dealt with your Mother will be present, to discuss what we are going to do."
It was very much on a "take it or leave it" attitude. We had no choice in the matter; the meeting would go ahead in a couple of hours, whether the rest of the family could be there or not.
I quickly rang round, and rallied everyone - in the end, three of us were ranged against a panel of health care professionals who definitely considered they knew better than anyone, what should happen to Mum.
I am not that good at coping in situations like these. Hours later, there are always things I remember I should have said, and things I wish I had thought about at the time, and had omitted to put forward. Happily, one member of the family is able to sit calmly and quietly during meetings, not saying very much at all, just listening, taking everything in; later, like a tiger, he pounces, leaving the opponent with not much choice but to agree to all he suggests.
The meeting commenced. Reports flowed back and forth and the main objective was to move Mum on - in the circumstances, it was felt, a care home would be best. We were adamant this was not our wish, but before coming home to live with us, we felt Mum needed to spend some time in a "half-way" situation. We had heard about a particular hospital, where patients could stay for a maximum of six weeks, and which concentrated on helping them to achieve their full potential; this would also give us the time we needed to get things organised at home.
The young social worker who was present made a great show of rustling her folders, files and paper work; she piped up that it was impossible to find a bed in this hospital; in addition, it was in a different area, and there would be no funding available..... There was a general nodding of heads; clearly the panel felt that that would be that, we would accept what the Social Worker said, and go away.
This was the moment when our family struck back; they had reckoned without the tiger. Very quietly, so everyone had to pay attention and listen, he looked straight at the Social Worker and said, "Well, then, you are going have to try and achieve what we are asking. This is the week you are going to have to earn your salary.....!"
After that, the meeting broke up very quickly. If some of the people present had been able to harrumph at the suggestion of Mum moving to rehab, they most certainly would have done; we hardly merited a "Goodbye" from anyone. I saw Mum on the ward, and promised I would be back later, as usual, with her dinner. Mum of course remained in blissful ignorance about the meeting that had just taken place, where strangers, who knew little about her, and nothing of her past history, had been trying to organise her life - and ours! - for her. I went home, the rest of the family went to their work; we felt we had already done a full day's work! It had been quite a morning, and we awaited developments with trepidation.
Over the next few days, every time I went on the ward, I sensed a certain froidure in the air emanating from the Ward Managers; this persisted until a week or so after the meeting, when the Social Worker returned for a visit to Mum, with a progress report.
She was positively beaming. "I have some good news!" she said, "I've managed to get your mother a bed in the rehab hospital! They are organising an admission date, and will let us know soon, exactly when it is."
"That's an excellent result," I said. I let go of the feeling that if we hadn't been prepared to stand up and fight for what we knew was best for Mum, no-one in authority would have made the effort!
As the days of the New Year passed by, talks with the health-care professionals as to where Mum would go next, became a great deal more pressing. We kept being told that we must make a decision: was Mum coming home to live with us, or were we going to put her into a care home?
I knew it would impossible for us to take Mum home in her current state - she needed more time, in a rehabilitation setting, with more help that was not available in her current situation. We knew that there must be options, but they would have to be found, recommended and fought for; Mum wasn't fit enough to come straight home, and we were not going to be bamboozled into rushing into something that could turn out to be a disaster.
During this time, we took advice from very helpful people in the Patients Advisory Liaison Service (PALS), and one of the orthopaedic surgeons gave me another good piece of advice. He said, "I know you want to have your Mum living with you; and from her follow-up appointments, I can see why you are worried about her being discharged straight from hospital to home." He then told me, "You must say, if she comes home now, you cannot guarantee her safety....."
That turned out to be a gem. One morning, whilst I was with Mum, helping her to brush her teeth and giving her breakfast with full cream milk, the Ward Manager came over to see me.
"I have to tell you," she said, "we have arranged a full meeting this morning, regarding your Mother's future care. All the health professionals who have dealt with your Mother will be present, to discuss what we are going to do."
It was very much on a "take it or leave it" attitude. We had no choice in the matter; the meeting would go ahead in a couple of hours, whether the rest of the family could be there or not.
I quickly rang round, and rallied everyone - in the end, three of us were ranged against a panel of health care professionals who definitely considered they knew better than anyone, what should happen to Mum.
I am not that good at coping in situations like these. Hours later, there are always things I remember I should have said, and things I wish I had thought about at the time, and had omitted to put forward. Happily, one member of the family is able to sit calmly and quietly during meetings, not saying very much at all, just listening, taking everything in; later, like a tiger, he pounces, leaving the opponent with not much choice but to agree to all he suggests.
The meeting commenced. Reports flowed back and forth and the main objective was to move Mum on - in the circumstances, it was felt, a care home would be best. We were adamant this was not our wish, but before coming home to live with us, we felt Mum needed to spend some time in a "half-way" situation. We had heard about a particular hospital, where patients could stay for a maximum of six weeks, and which concentrated on helping them to achieve their full potential; this would also give us the time we needed to get things organised at home.
The young social worker who was present made a great show of rustling her folders, files and paper work; she piped up that it was impossible to find a bed in this hospital; in addition, it was in a different area, and there would be no funding available..... There was a general nodding of heads; clearly the panel felt that that would be that, we would accept what the Social Worker said, and go away.
This was the moment when our family struck back; they had reckoned without the tiger. Very quietly, so everyone had to pay attention and listen, he looked straight at the Social Worker and said, "Well, then, you are going have to try and achieve what we are asking. This is the week you are going to have to earn your salary.....!"
After that, the meeting broke up very quickly. If some of the people present had been able to harrumph at the suggestion of Mum moving to rehab, they most certainly would have done; we hardly merited a "Goodbye" from anyone. I saw Mum on the ward, and promised I would be back later, as usual, with her dinner. Mum of course remained in blissful ignorance about the meeting that had just taken place, where strangers, who knew little about her, and nothing of her past history, had been trying to organise her life - and ours! - for her. I went home, the rest of the family went to their work; we felt we had already done a full day's work! It had been quite a morning, and we awaited developments with trepidation.
Over the next few days, every time I went on the ward, I sensed a certain froidure in the air emanating from the Ward Managers; this persisted until a week or so after the meeting, when the Social Worker returned for a visit to Mum, with a progress report.
She was positively beaming. "I have some good news!" she said, "I've managed to get your mother a bed in the rehab hospital! They are organising an admission date, and will let us know soon, exactly when it is."
"That's an excellent result," I said. I let go of the feeling that if we hadn't been prepared to stand up and fight for what we knew was best for Mum, no-one in authority would have made the effort!
Tuesday, 8 August 2017
Having A Run-In With Authority (1)
Having A Run-In With Authority (1)
With Christmas behind us, and the New Year also duly celebrated with Mum in hospital, 2012 was clearly going to present some major obstacles to be overcome.
We realised Mum could not go back to her old home - there were too many stairs and it was too far away for it to be practical for one of us to be there with her all the time.
Equally, because of work commitments, it was going to take longer than I guess anyone wanted, to achieve a smooth move; we were not going to be rushed.
Physiotherapy continued, but because of Mum's fear and reluctance to make an effort, progress was slow. She was fitted with a moon boot, but found it very painful to wear. Her left hip had stopped hurting her so much, but her right knee could still cause her gyp, and she kept saying that at 92, she couldn't do so much; however, after all these protests, on another day she would suddenly be convinced she would soon be able to get back to walking five miles a day!
Mum certainly used to be a great walker. Before her accident, she would often walk from her maisonette in Southsea to the hospital - and that really was a long way! I'm not sure if she just wanted to save the bus fare, or simply enjoyed a day in the fresh air. She would take rests on the way, get talking to people and then tell me she had got their address, and wanted me to write to them. (As I've mentioned before, this is how my Christmas card list got longer and longer, every year!)
I kept encouraging her to believe that if she could only conquer her initial fears, she would indeed be up and walking again. I was careful not to be too specific or ambitious about distances, but I reckoned the more we could convince her to try and have confidence to weight bear, the greater the chance we would have of success.
Although progress was slow, she did seem to be getting the idea; that is, until one morning, whilst I was with Mum after helping her to finish her breakfast, the Doctor came on the ward round, closely followed by his entourage of Ward Manager and senior nursing staff.
He arrived at Mum's bed; she did her usual "Good morning! And where are you from?" routine - Mum always asks where people come from. He hardly looked at her, and just kept his eyes down, reading through her notes. (This of course was before the "Hello, my name is......." campaign that took off in 2013, and encourages health care professionals to introduce themselves properly to patients). At last he spoke to her, and asked her how she was feeling.
"I'm fine, thank you," said Mum, very brightly and hopefully, "and I'm looking forward to getting out of hospital, and walking again."
The Doctor perused Mum's notes for another moment or two, and then delivered his prognosis:
"You will never walk again." He was almost smiling as he said it, and as his words sank in, I saw the look on Mum's face. She was so crushed, and I thought, "How can you say that to someone?"
Without stopping to think, I came out with, "How dare you say that? Only God decides what will happen to us, and whether my mother will walk or not. Who do you think you are? God?"
It was a fortunate that Mum's bed was the last one in the six-bed room on the round. The Ward Manager's face was a picture: shock, horror, disbelief that this crazy woman had dared to confront the Doctor with such a rebuke. The nursing staff swiftly closed ranks around the Doctor and hustled him off to the next room, without so much as a backward glance at me, or at Mum, who was still looking stricken.
She said, "I will walk, won't I?"
"Of course you will," I assured her. I could not know at that time whether that would be true or not, but what on earth is the point of causing distress to a lady of 92? Hope springs eternal, and should not be extinguished.
Years later, when Mum was attending an appointment at another hospital, we came across this Doctor again. He was charm personified, and I thought perhaps he had decided to change his manner, and the way he interacted with patients; then I realised he had not recognised Mum, and had not got a clue who I was. Just as well, really!
With Christmas behind us, and the New Year also duly celebrated with Mum in hospital, 2012 was clearly going to present some major obstacles to be overcome.
We realised Mum could not go back to her old home - there were too many stairs and it was too far away for it to be practical for one of us to be there with her all the time.
Equally, because of work commitments, it was going to take longer than I guess anyone wanted, to achieve a smooth move; we were not going to be rushed.
Physiotherapy continued, but because of Mum's fear and reluctance to make an effort, progress was slow. She was fitted with a moon boot, but found it very painful to wear. Her left hip had stopped hurting her so much, but her right knee could still cause her gyp, and she kept saying that at 92, she couldn't do so much; however, after all these protests, on another day she would suddenly be convinced she would soon be able to get back to walking five miles a day!
Mum certainly used to be a great walker. Before her accident, she would often walk from her maisonette in Southsea to the hospital - and that really was a long way! I'm not sure if she just wanted to save the bus fare, or simply enjoyed a day in the fresh air. She would take rests on the way, get talking to people and then tell me she had got their address, and wanted me to write to them. (As I've mentioned before, this is how my Christmas card list got longer and longer, every year!)
I kept encouraging her to believe that if she could only conquer her initial fears, she would indeed be up and walking again. I was careful not to be too specific or ambitious about distances, but I reckoned the more we could convince her to try and have confidence to weight bear, the greater the chance we would have of success.
Although progress was slow, she did seem to be getting the idea; that is, until one morning, whilst I was with Mum after helping her to finish her breakfast, the Doctor came on the ward round, closely followed by his entourage of Ward Manager and senior nursing staff.
He arrived at Mum's bed; she did her usual "Good morning! And where are you from?" routine - Mum always asks where people come from. He hardly looked at her, and just kept his eyes down, reading through her notes. (This of course was before the "Hello, my name is......." campaign that took off in 2013, and encourages health care professionals to introduce themselves properly to patients). At last he spoke to her, and asked her how she was feeling.
"I'm fine, thank you," said Mum, very brightly and hopefully, "and I'm looking forward to getting out of hospital, and walking again."
The Doctor perused Mum's notes for another moment or two, and then delivered his prognosis:
"You will never walk again." He was almost smiling as he said it, and as his words sank in, I saw the look on Mum's face. She was so crushed, and I thought, "How can you say that to someone?"
Without stopping to think, I came out with, "How dare you say that? Only God decides what will happen to us, and whether my mother will walk or not. Who do you think you are? God?"
It was a fortunate that Mum's bed was the last one in the six-bed room on the round. The Ward Manager's face was a picture: shock, horror, disbelief that this crazy woman had dared to confront the Doctor with such a rebuke. The nursing staff swiftly closed ranks around the Doctor and hustled him off to the next room, without so much as a backward glance at me, or at Mum, who was still looking stricken.
She said, "I will walk, won't I?"
"Of course you will," I assured her. I could not know at that time whether that would be true or not, but what on earth is the point of causing distress to a lady of 92? Hope springs eternal, and should not be extinguished.
Years later, when Mum was attending an appointment at another hospital, we came across this Doctor again. He was charm personified, and I thought perhaps he had decided to change his manner, and the way he interacted with patients; then I realised he had not recognised Mum, and had not got a clue who I was. Just as well, really!
Wednesday, 26 July 2017
A Hospital Christmas
A Hospital Christmas
I have always enjoyed Christmas. I know some people say the actual day doesn't live up to the anticipation, but I don't know about that; there is a lot to do, but if you get organised, and start nice and early, everything can be accomplished in good time, and I usually have a fairly relaxed day with the family.
One of the things I also love to do, is write letters. Because we lived in so many places, over the years I have "collected" friends - some have stayed closer than others, of course, but I have always enjoyed the challenge of keeping up with folks, and I am regarded by some people as a sort of "hub" - "Tell Alexandra what we've been up to, " they say," and ask her to write to all the other people that we know, with our news."
And these are just the people I have got to know over the years!
Mum, on the other hand, does not write letters. However, when she meets people, and gets friendly and chatting, over the fullness of time, she will say, "Oh, do give my daughter your address; she loves writing, and will keep in touch with you."
Needless to say, my list is now an extremely long one. Apart from Christmas, if possible I make contact with people a few times a year - Easter, and maybe in the summer as well. If I have been pressed for time, then Christmas is a wonderful season for catching up, and making amends for being a tardy correspondent. With the advent of e-mail, which is cheap - and quick! - I have been known to use it; but I still prefer a letter, or a card, chosen with care, dropping on the mat. Something that one has touched, and written on, always means more to me than a print out from the computer.
As Mum had been in hospital since 4 November, Christmas 2011 was proving to be a challenge. We visited Mum twice a day without fail, to take food to her and keep her cheerful. We never missed a single day (not for us the lines from Gilbert and Sullivan's aria for the Captain of HMS Pinafore.... "What, never?" "No, Never!" "What Never?" "Well, hardly ever!"), and the time had just flown.
I thought, if I could take in steaming dishes for dinner, then instead of just sitting with Mum and watching her eat, I could also bring Christmas cards and writing paper with me. That year I wrote all the Christmas cards and most of the letters, sitting with Mum. The nurses thought I was most industrious, but in fact it was quite a pleasure; it gave me a chance to talk to Mum about the people I was writing to and, at that stage, she could remember nearly everybody, and where they had featured in her life.
In the event, all the cards, letters and parcels were sent off in good time.
On Christmas Day, I prepared the dinner for all the family; we ended up eating later in the day, but first we were at the hospital for Mum, with turkey, roast potatoes and all the vegetables she was fond of. I personally do not like brussels sprouts! but Mum and the rest of the family are keen on them, and it was quite easy to keep us all happy.
The Ward Manager had given us permission to bring in some instruments to provide musical entertainment for the patients, and it went down extremely well. We all donned Santa hats, wound tinsel in our hair and around our shoulders, and started off at the top of the central aisle of the ward, working our way down past all the bays. I play the piano, but as a big instrument like that was clearly unavailable (a bit reminiscent of "..... I took my harp to a party - but nobody asked me to play!") we made do with acoustic guitars. We all sing; Wendy has a beautiful voice and can sing any descant you can think of. I love performing with Wendy; I stick to the melody and she adds the embellishments!
Patients and nurses joined in the carols, and we also performed some songs from the shows, a bit of country and western and threw in some music hall numbers for good measure.
Every patient on the ward had been given gifts from the hospital, which I thought was a lovely touch; not everyone had visitors, but no-one was left out. We also took a bumper box of crackers with us, and anyone who wanted to, or who could, shared a snap and a hat and a little novelty.
I have read that in earlier years, patients in hospital at Christmas would be treated to visits from consultants and senior medical staff, who would provide Christmas dinners and generally spend a lot of time on the wards. I guess everything changes! but for us, this Christmas was fun, and certainly different from the ones we had celebrated up to then.
I have always enjoyed Christmas. I know some people say the actual day doesn't live up to the anticipation, but I don't know about that; there is a lot to do, but if you get organised, and start nice and early, everything can be accomplished in good time, and I usually have a fairly relaxed day with the family.
One of the things I also love to do, is write letters. Because we lived in so many places, over the years I have "collected" friends - some have stayed closer than others, of course, but I have always enjoyed the challenge of keeping up with folks, and I am regarded by some people as a sort of "hub" - "Tell Alexandra what we've been up to, " they say," and ask her to write to all the other people that we know, with our news."
And these are just the people I have got to know over the years!
Mum, on the other hand, does not write letters. However, when she meets people, and gets friendly and chatting, over the fullness of time, she will say, "Oh, do give my daughter your address; she loves writing, and will keep in touch with you."
Needless to say, my list is now an extremely long one. Apart from Christmas, if possible I make contact with people a few times a year - Easter, and maybe in the summer as well. If I have been pressed for time, then Christmas is a wonderful season for catching up, and making amends for being a tardy correspondent. With the advent of e-mail, which is cheap - and quick! - I have been known to use it; but I still prefer a letter, or a card, chosen with care, dropping on the mat. Something that one has touched, and written on, always means more to me than a print out from the computer.
As Mum had been in hospital since 4 November, Christmas 2011 was proving to be a challenge. We visited Mum twice a day without fail, to take food to her and keep her cheerful. We never missed a single day (not for us the lines from Gilbert and Sullivan's aria for the Captain of HMS Pinafore.... "What, never?" "No, Never!" "What Never?" "Well, hardly ever!"), and the time had just flown.
I thought, if I could take in steaming dishes for dinner, then instead of just sitting with Mum and watching her eat, I could also bring Christmas cards and writing paper with me. That year I wrote all the Christmas cards and most of the letters, sitting with Mum. The nurses thought I was most industrious, but in fact it was quite a pleasure; it gave me a chance to talk to Mum about the people I was writing to and, at that stage, she could remember nearly everybody, and where they had featured in her life.
In the event, all the cards, letters and parcels were sent off in good time.
On Christmas Day, I prepared the dinner for all the family; we ended up eating later in the day, but first we were at the hospital for Mum, with turkey, roast potatoes and all the vegetables she was fond of. I personally do not like brussels sprouts! but Mum and the rest of the family are keen on them, and it was quite easy to keep us all happy.
The Ward Manager had given us permission to bring in some instruments to provide musical entertainment for the patients, and it went down extremely well. We all donned Santa hats, wound tinsel in our hair and around our shoulders, and started off at the top of the central aisle of the ward, working our way down past all the bays. I play the piano, but as a big instrument like that was clearly unavailable (a bit reminiscent of "..... I took my harp to a party - but nobody asked me to play!") we made do with acoustic guitars. We all sing; Wendy has a beautiful voice and can sing any descant you can think of. I love performing with Wendy; I stick to the melody and she adds the embellishments!
Patients and nurses joined in the carols, and we also performed some songs from the shows, a bit of country and western and threw in some music hall numbers for good measure.
Every patient on the ward had been given gifts from the hospital, which I thought was a lovely touch; not everyone had visitors, but no-one was left out. We also took a bumper box of crackers with us, and anyone who wanted to, or who could, shared a snap and a hat and a little novelty.
I have read that in earlier years, patients in hospital at Christmas would be treated to visits from consultants and senior medical staff, who would provide Christmas dinners and generally spend a lot of time on the wards. I guess everything changes! but for us, this Christmas was fun, and certainly different from the ones we had celebrated up to then.
Wednesday, 19 July 2017
Mum Gives Us A Fright
Mum Gives Us A Fright
We'd made plans for Saturday, 15 July, when one of us could have a turn down at the Epping Ongar Railway. It does take some organising, as there always has to be someone with Mum, but we really look forward to having a few hours chuffing along with steam trains. I am not called a Railway Cat for nothing!
Saturday dawned. Two carers, Vicky and Danielle, arrived at about 7.00 a.m. as usual, to get Mum up, washed and dressed, and sitting in the chair, all ready for me to come along and help her to brush her teeth (Mum doesn't like anyone touching her face or her teeth), and make a nice mug of tea and corn flakes for breakfast.
Saturday proved more complicated. After about half an hour, I was asked to come and help. In spite of being called, encouraged and cajoled, Mum was not waking up; she just lay in bed, and even when the carers tried putting their arms around Mum to help her to sit up, it was having no effect; she simply lay back on the bed and slept on. Even my stentorian powers of a trained voice bellowing, "Come on, Mum, it's time to get up now!" had no effect.
The carers were very concerned, because they could hear a trace of a raspy sound as Mum breathed, and it was agreed they would ring the emergency service. I was very impressed with the calm, swift way they dealt with everything. Vicky rang 999 and explained that Mum was totally unresponsive to them; she was asked to check Mum's breathing and report on the frequency. Within a few minutes, two paramedics arrived by car, and started to carry out tests on Mum; they were swiftly followed by two more paramedics in an ambulance, so she was getting the best attention.
Soon Mum was carried out to the ambulance; I said I would go with her, and waited whilst the paramedics carried out some more tests. They also got a line into Mum, in case she needed any medication intravenously, and at last we were ready to go. Mum was tightly strapped in on the stretcher, which was just as well, as we set off at a great lick, flying over the speed control humps on the way.
Even for reasonably healthy people, the journey was very bumpy. Clinging on to my seat for dear life, I came out with:
"This is really uncomfortable! I'll bet you hate the humps when you have patients with spinal injuries!"
The paramedic sitting with us in the back of the ambulance turned to me said,
"Oh, of course, you won't know, will you? We're blue lighted all the way to the hospital! And, yes, we do hate the humps. Especially when you have an old vehicle like this one.....!"
It was a blessed relief when the ambulance swung into the bay at the A&E Department. Mum was still showing no signs of stirring, so we were clearly headed for the right place, as she was wheeled into the "resus" area.
There were so many things going through my mind at that moment. I answered all the questions about her general health and medication, and the doctors got on with running multiple tests on Mum. Within a very short time, she had had an ECG, an X-ray, and enough phials of blood to satisfy the thirstiest vampire. I was reminded of that wonderful line in The Blood Donor, one of the old Tony Hancock radio programmes from the 1950s and 60s, where Hancock asks indignantly, "A pint? Have you gone raving mad?..... Why, that's very nearly an armful!"
During all this activity, Mum started to stir, and woke up. It was such a relief; she became quite chatty and asked the doctors and nurses attending to her who they were and where they came from - when two of them said, "Italy," Mum was delighted, and went on to tell them we'd been there too, and how much we had liked it. Mum was quite lucid, and answered various questions, telling them her date of birth and where she was born. She couldn't understand how she had come to be in hospital, though, and I explained how worried we had been, when she wouldn't wake up.
It was decided to do a CT scan of Mum's head, and in the meantime, we were moved out of the Re-sus area, and taken to a bay in the Majors area of A&E. You could not fault the care Mum was given, or the speed of its delivery.
At this point, I needed to get home for something to eat and drink. Another member of the family arrived, with toothpaste and toothbrush for Mum, so we managed to freshen her up and get her teeth cleaned, and then I could go home for an hour or so.
Whilst I was away, Mum had the CT scan, after which she became very sleepy once more; in the end, she slept in A&E for a further 2 hours. Whilst Mum snoozed on, the results came back from the lab. There was no obvious reason why Mum had been so unresponsive earlier; the blood tests were fine, the X-ray was clear, the ECG showed nothing unusual and the CT scan gave no cause for concern either.
I was ready to return to the hospital, when I got a call to say Mum was being discharged, and there would be a letter going to her GP, requesting further monitoring tests. I went back to A&E and ordered a wheelchair taxi, and Mum was back home by 1.00 p.m. - just the right time for lunch, of course, except that we hadn't had breakfast yet!
With everything that had happened in the morning, all the other calls for carers to come in had been cancelled; now that we were back home so much earlier than we had thought possible, I rang Vicky at Home Sweet Home Care, to ask if there was any chance at all of someone coming in to help get Mum washed and dressed, and bless them, within half an hour, another carer called Debbie arrived, whom Mum knows well, and she carried out the complete morning call routine. Home Sweet Home really live up to their name, and Mum is never looked at as just "a slot to be filled on the rota..."
And so we carried on as usual. We had breakfast at lunch time; Mum had her afternoon nap as she always does, and then we had tea and cake at supper time. At all events, we had a totally different Saturday to the one planned - a case of "The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley!"
Whatever the cause, at the moment we don't have an answer - and we don't like mysteries!
There were so many things going through my mind at that moment. I answered all the questions about her general health and medication, and the doctors got on with running multiple tests on Mum. Within a very short time, she had had an ECG, an X-ray, and enough phials of blood to satisfy the thirstiest vampire. I was reminded of that wonderful line in The Blood Donor, one of the old Tony Hancock radio programmes from the 1950s and 60s, where Hancock asks indignantly, "A pint? Have you gone raving mad?..... Why, that's very nearly an armful!"
During all this activity, Mum started to stir, and woke up. It was such a relief; she became quite chatty and asked the doctors and nurses attending to her who they were and where they came from - when two of them said, "Italy," Mum was delighted, and went on to tell them we'd been there too, and how much we had liked it. Mum was quite lucid, and answered various questions, telling them her date of birth and where she was born. She couldn't understand how she had come to be in hospital, though, and I explained how worried we had been, when she wouldn't wake up.
It was decided to do a CT scan of Mum's head, and in the meantime, we were moved out of the Re-sus area, and taken to a bay in the Majors area of A&E. You could not fault the care Mum was given, or the speed of its delivery.
At this point, I needed to get home for something to eat and drink. Another member of the family arrived, with toothpaste and toothbrush for Mum, so we managed to freshen her up and get her teeth cleaned, and then I could go home for an hour or so.
Whilst I was away, Mum had the CT scan, after which she became very sleepy once more; in the end, she slept in A&E for a further 2 hours. Whilst Mum snoozed on, the results came back from the lab. There was no obvious reason why Mum had been so unresponsive earlier; the blood tests were fine, the X-ray was clear, the ECG showed nothing unusual and the CT scan gave no cause for concern either.
I was ready to return to the hospital, when I got a call to say Mum was being discharged, and there would be a letter going to her GP, requesting further monitoring tests. I went back to A&E and ordered a wheelchair taxi, and Mum was back home by 1.00 p.m. - just the right time for lunch, of course, except that we hadn't had breakfast yet!
With everything that had happened in the morning, all the other calls for carers to come in had been cancelled; now that we were back home so much earlier than we had thought possible, I rang Vicky at Home Sweet Home Care, to ask if there was any chance at all of someone coming in to help get Mum washed and dressed, and bless them, within half an hour, another carer called Debbie arrived, whom Mum knows well, and she carried out the complete morning call routine. Home Sweet Home really live up to their name, and Mum is never looked at as just "a slot to be filled on the rota..."
And so we carried on as usual. We had breakfast at lunch time; Mum had her afternoon nap as she always does, and then we had tea and cake at supper time. At all events, we had a totally different Saturday to the one planned - a case of "The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley!"
Although she seemed a little bit dozier than she normally is, it isn't that unusual for Mum to have "I'm tired" days, and we are still no wiser as to why she was totally unresponsive to all blandishments in the morning. Maybe her brain had switched off in some way?
Whatever the cause, at the moment we don't have an answer - and we don't like mysteries!
Monday, 10 July 2017
It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It......
It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It.......
In spite of having dementia, Mum can learn new things.
It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It.....
My daughter Wendy has a pussy cat, called Artemis. Mum knows nothing about Greek mythology, and there is no way she would learn or remember that name, so I had to think of a way to help her. A simplified version of the name would do so, along with some miming, I set about trying to get the name to stay in her memory. I hit on the idea of pretending to hold a palette, and mimed mixing paints and then making extravagant brush strokes in the air.
Mum enjoyed this as a game; we have played charades in the past.
Alex: "What am I doing?"
Mum: "Oh, you're drawing!"
Alex: "Right! And what do you call people who make drawings?"
Mum: "Artists!"
Alex: "That's it! And that is what Wendy's pussy cat is called - Artist."
And so Artemis became Artist in Mum's head; and that was close enough.
When Mum is drinking her tea, we help her to finish it by suggesting she has one mouthful in turn for all the pussycats. As I've mentioned before, we do "rounds," mentioning all the cats in turn; occasionally, Mum forgets the name "Artist."
If you then say, "Have a drink for Wendy's pussy cat - what is she called?" Mum may or may not come out with the right name - it is a bit hit and miss, and can sometimes elicit all sorts of strange, totally unrelated names: "Liverpool....." "....Australia...." "......Morrisons..." (Where did that come from?!)
If, however, you phrase it with a bit of a lilt, and emphasis on certain words:
"Let's have one for Wendy and Al's pussy cat; what's her name?" Mum will invariably say, "Artist!"
Great praise all round for her good memory, and another mouthful of tea goes down.
Sunday, 2 July 2017
Mum's Matchmaking
Mum's Matchmaking
My Uncle John is Mum's brother, and he lives in Brisbane. Since his wife (Aunt Marguerite) died in 2003, he has been very lonely; he has no grandchildren. He manages very well, still drives and looks after himself in a retirement unit, but he would love to have a nice lady friend, to enjoy outings with, take out for lunch and maybe go to the cinema with occasionally.
Mum is aware of his situation, and tries her best to get him matched up with any lady that comes into her life.
Scene: Mum is being taken to the bathroom by a young carer.
Mum:
My brother's looking for a wife, you know....
Carer:
Is he?
Mum
Oh, yes. Since his wife died, he's very lonely. He hasn't got anyone.
Carer
That's a shame
Mum
You'd be a nice wife for him. He'd like you, and you'd have a lovely life with John.
Carer
But I'm afraid I'm married already.
Mum
Oh, that doesn't matter!
Alex (who has been listening to this exchange, and decides to rescue the carer)
Mum, this young lady is a bit young for Uncle John, you know.
Mum
Why?
Alex
Well, he's 94 now......
Mum (pausing to think for a moment)
Well, I know he's fond of Wendy, and she goes out to see him all the time....... He could marry Wendy.
Alex
Mum, Wendy does love Uncle John, like a grand-daughter would, but she is his great niece! She's a close relative, and in any case, she is 50 years younger than Uncle John.
Mum (looking at Alex - and a light bulb moment happens)
Oh, I see..... Well, he can marry you, then!
Young carer and Alex collapse into laughter. Mum still thinks she has had a brilliant idea!
My Uncle John is Mum's brother, and he lives in Brisbane. Since his wife (Aunt Marguerite) died in 2003, he has been very lonely; he has no grandchildren. He manages very well, still drives and looks after himself in a retirement unit, but he would love to have a nice lady friend, to enjoy outings with, take out for lunch and maybe go to the cinema with occasionally.
Mum is aware of his situation, and tries her best to get him matched up with any lady that comes into her life.
Scene: Mum is being taken to the bathroom by a young carer.
Mum:
My brother's looking for a wife, you know....
Carer:
Is he?
Mum
Oh, yes. Since his wife died, he's very lonely. He hasn't got anyone.
Carer
That's a shame
Mum
You'd be a nice wife for him. He'd like you, and you'd have a lovely life with John.
Carer
But I'm afraid I'm married already.
Mum
Oh, that doesn't matter!
Alex (who has been listening to this exchange, and decides to rescue the carer)
Mum, this young lady is a bit young for Uncle John, you know.
Mum
Why?
Alex
Well, he's 94 now......
Mum (pausing to think for a moment)
Well, I know he's fond of Wendy, and she goes out to see him all the time....... He could marry Wendy.
Alex
Mum, Wendy does love Uncle John, like a grand-daughter would, but she is his great niece! She's a close relative, and in any case, she is 50 years younger than Uncle John.
Mum (looking at Alex - and a light bulb moment happens)
Oh, I see..... Well, he can marry you, then!
Young carer and Alex collapse into laughter. Mum still thinks she has had a brilliant idea!
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
Yet More Hospital Life - Part 5 - The Ups and Downs of Life - or, Instruments of Torture: Hoists and Banana Boards
Yet More Hospital Life - Part 5 - The Ups and Downs of Life - or, Instruments of Torture: Hoists and Banana Boards
I've already said, how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life, and we soon got accustomed to the longer journey between home and hospital, and made allowances for the more frequent traffic delays en route. Mum also got used being in hospital, and using bedpans instead of going to the bathroom.
Days turned into a week, and then two and three; Mum was terribly nervous of trying anything new, in case it jarred her ankle. She was also still in pain with her right knee, and so not very co-operative with the physiotherapists.
One morning, one of the bright, young physios brought along a beautifully smooth, shiny board. The shape and colour of a banana, Mum was told this would help her to get out of bed, and spend some time sitting in the chair.
Mum looked suspiciously at the board, and then at the PT. "How I am going to do that?" she asked.
"Don't worry!" the physiotherapist assured her, "I'll help you....."
With that, she lowered the side of the hospital bed, and managed to slide one end of the banana board underneath Mum's behind.
"Right!" she said, enthusiastically. "All you have to do now is relax, tilt yourself onto the board, let yourself go, and slide down off the bed, and on to the chair!"
I could see Mum getting tense. She didn't believe any of it; she was anxious she would go with such a rush and end up landing in the chair with a bump. There was also nothing to hold on to during the "ride." Even with the bed lowered, there was still a substantial difference in height from the bed to the chair seat.
The physiotherapist was not one to give up easily. "Come on," she said, "think how nice it will be, if you can sit in the chair for a while, instead of lying in bed all day!"
"Just a minute," said Mum, employing delaying tactics. "If this will get me from the bed onto the chair, how will I get back up into bed again?"
She had a point. It was one thing going from the higher bed to the lower chair; clearly, the banana board would not work in reverse.
"Oh, we'll get you back into bed!" The physio was reassuring. "That won't be a problem."
Well, even I could see travelling by banana board was likely to make any patient feel out of control, and I thought it was reminiscent of slides in a salt mine near Berchtesgaden in Germany.
Nearly fifty years ago, I worked in Berchtesgaden as a fashion consultant for a company called Arwa, that made pantihose (tights in the UK), stockings and various sorts of fashionable hosiery. During my time with Arwa, I worked jolly hard, especially if there was an exhibition coming up and we had a new collection to prepare, with new colours and styles; but I did have time off, and one weekend found me taking a tour of the salt mine, not far out of the town. It was fun - and I was young and reasonably adventurous, although not especially keen on heights! Some way into the tour, we were presented with the opportunity of taking a slide to get to a lower level in the mine. The slide was about 40 meters long, and formed by two long lengths of hardwood, I think probably oak, with a groove in the middle. It was worn completely smooth by the thousands of miners - and now tourists - using it over the years to get from an upper level in the mine to a lower one. We were told not to try to brake ourselves by putting a foot down on the way to the bottom; and with this instruction ringing in my ears, I climbed "aboard" the slide. With a few people in front, and a few more behind me, there was no turning back now! - and I reclined in the groove. Given a gentle push by the guide, we skimmed down to the lower level. The only trouble was, as we got going, the rate of travel speeded up, and for someone not used to it, the slide was a nerve-racking experience.
A bit further on in the tour, another slide loomed: "This is a baby slide!" the guide laughed. Yes, it was shorter, and I thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound!" and had another go.
If you had to ride the slides every day, I am sure you would get accustomed to them; but Mum, at 92, had an altogether different view of the banana board.
In the end, she tried it - once. As the physio got her positioned further onto the board, and she started to slide, Mum gave an ear-piercing scream as her weight propelled her downhill into the chair. Mum sat there shaking, and I covered her up with a rug and told her she had done very well. That was the last time she agreed to slide on the board; getting her back into bed was another issue altogether.
Mum sat in the armchair for hours. The material covering the seat was obviously something that could be cleaned and disinfected, so it felt cold and hard, and was not very comfortable. I got a rug for Mum and covered her knees, someone else found a foot stool, and there she stayed.
At least it made a change for Mum, to be sitting up in a chair whilst she ate the dinner I brought her; I made every encouraging remark I could think of, pointing out it was much better than being propped up in bed!
However, soon the time came when Mum had to get back into bed; and that involved using a hoist. Hoists are operated by two people, and I know nurses, carers, and everyone involved in their use, have to be well trained, but I do wonder if, before they are let loose on patients, they are also required to experience being hoisted themselves. If not, they should be. Even with the most helpful and reassuring operators around you, it's scary being fitted into a sling and then hooked up to the "crane," lifted out of a chair and swung over to the bed. Being told to sit still and not move was not helpful; Mum wriggled and jiggled and tried to hang on to something, but there really wasn't anything to hang on to.
It might have taken only a few minutes, but in terms of stress and fear, it felt like a long time before Mum was safely deposited back on the bed.
I've already said, how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life, and we soon got accustomed to the longer journey between home and hospital, and made allowances for the more frequent traffic delays en route. Mum also got used being in hospital, and using bedpans instead of going to the bathroom.
Days turned into a week, and then two and three; Mum was terribly nervous of trying anything new, in case it jarred her ankle. She was also still in pain with her right knee, and so not very co-operative with the physiotherapists.
One morning, one of the bright, young physios brought along a beautifully smooth, shiny board. The shape and colour of a banana, Mum was told this would help her to get out of bed, and spend some time sitting in the chair.
Mum looked suspiciously at the board, and then at the PT. "How I am going to do that?" she asked.
"Don't worry!" the physiotherapist assured her, "I'll help you....."
With that, she lowered the side of the hospital bed, and managed to slide one end of the banana board underneath Mum's behind.
"Right!" she said, enthusiastically. "All you have to do now is relax, tilt yourself onto the board, let yourself go, and slide down off the bed, and on to the chair!"
I could see Mum getting tense. She didn't believe any of it; she was anxious she would go with such a rush and end up landing in the chair with a bump. There was also nothing to hold on to during the "ride." Even with the bed lowered, there was still a substantial difference in height from the bed to the chair seat.
The physiotherapist was not one to give up easily. "Come on," she said, "think how nice it will be, if you can sit in the chair for a while, instead of lying in bed all day!"
"Just a minute," said Mum, employing delaying tactics. "If this will get me from the bed onto the chair, how will I get back up into bed again?"
She had a point. It was one thing going from the higher bed to the lower chair; clearly, the banana board would not work in reverse.
"Oh, we'll get you back into bed!" The physio was reassuring. "That won't be a problem."
Well, even I could see travelling by banana board was likely to make any patient feel out of control, and I thought it was reminiscent of slides in a salt mine near Berchtesgaden in Germany.
Nearly fifty years ago, I worked in Berchtesgaden as a fashion consultant for a company called Arwa, that made pantihose (tights in the UK), stockings and various sorts of fashionable hosiery. During my time with Arwa, I worked jolly hard, especially if there was an exhibition coming up and we had a new collection to prepare, with new colours and styles; but I did have time off, and one weekend found me taking a tour of the salt mine, not far out of the town. It was fun - and I was young and reasonably adventurous, although not especially keen on heights! Some way into the tour, we were presented with the opportunity of taking a slide to get to a lower level in the mine. The slide was about 40 meters long, and formed by two long lengths of hardwood, I think probably oak, with a groove in the middle. It was worn completely smooth by the thousands of miners - and now tourists - using it over the years to get from an upper level in the mine to a lower one. We were told not to try to brake ourselves by putting a foot down on the way to the bottom; and with this instruction ringing in my ears, I climbed "aboard" the slide. With a few people in front, and a few more behind me, there was no turning back now! - and I reclined in the groove. Given a gentle push by the guide, we skimmed down to the lower level. The only trouble was, as we got going, the rate of travel speeded up, and for someone not used to it, the slide was a nerve-racking experience.
A bit further on in the tour, another slide loomed: "This is a baby slide!" the guide laughed. Yes, it was shorter, and I thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound!" and had another go.
If you had to ride the slides every day, I am sure you would get accustomed to them; but Mum, at 92, had an altogether different view of the banana board.
In the end, she tried it - once. As the physio got her positioned further onto the board, and she started to slide, Mum gave an ear-piercing scream as her weight propelled her downhill into the chair. Mum sat there shaking, and I covered her up with a rug and told her she had done very well. That was the last time she agreed to slide on the board; getting her back into bed was another issue altogether.
Mum sat in the armchair for hours. The material covering the seat was obviously something that could be cleaned and disinfected, so it felt cold and hard, and was not very comfortable. I got a rug for Mum and covered her knees, someone else found a foot stool, and there she stayed.
At least it made a change for Mum, to be sitting up in a chair whilst she ate the dinner I brought her; I made every encouraging remark I could think of, pointing out it was much better than being propped up in bed!
However, soon the time came when Mum had to get back into bed; and that involved using a hoist. Hoists are operated by two people, and I know nurses, carers, and everyone involved in their use, have to be well trained, but I do wonder if, before they are let loose on patients, they are also required to experience being hoisted themselves. If not, they should be. Even with the most helpful and reassuring operators around you, it's scary being fitted into a sling and then hooked up to the "crane," lifted out of a chair and swung over to the bed. Being told to sit still and not move was not helpful; Mum wriggled and jiggled and tried to hang on to something, but there really wasn't anything to hang on to.
It might have taken only a few minutes, but in terms of stress and fear, it felt like a long time before Mum was safely deposited back on the bed.
Sunday, 11 June 2017
After the Break (Part 4) - More Hospital Life
After the Break (Part 4) - More Hospital Life
Catering
It took a while to get used to travelling the extra distance to the hospital Mum had been moved to; there was some resistance to our twice daily visits, and bringing in her food.
Armed with the permission I'd been granted by the first hospital, and taking into account Mum's age, the extended visits were sanctioned. I remember signing a disclaimer about providing Mum's meals, but eventually we could carry on as before.
By this time, it was getting on towards the end of November. The weather was getting worse; in rush hour traffic, with wind and rain, the journey could take an hour. Even so, our meals for Mum were still warm on arrival, and she would eat everything I had prepared for her. The food provided by the hospital catering did not have anything that Mum would eat; it was, as she put it, "All mucked about," with gravy often poured over the food; the sandwiches were also not to Mum's liking, as they included all sorts of "extras," such a spices and mayonnaise - none of which Mum touches. (I have to admit, I'm like this, too. I like plain bread and butter, and maybe a tomato, or a cucumber, as a filling. The moment "a little bit of this, and a little bit of that..." are added, the whole thing has been ruined for me. Mum and I are not, and never have been, what you could call adventurous with food!)
On one evening, I had made a large pan of Lancashire hot pot; wrapped up in the hot box, when I arrived on the ward, it was still piping hot, and smelled delicious. The aroma had the effect of the replicating the old Bisto kids' advert; as I walked down the main aisle of the ward, to Mum's bay, people looked up and, if they were mobile, followed me. They asked what I'd got in the hot box, and I explained it was Mum's dinner.
I know it's not easy catering for large numbers of people on a daily basis, on a limited budget; what I also know, is that it is not difficult to make nutritious, delicious food quite cheaply; and the simpler the dish, the more people there are who are likely to enjoy it. Not everyone is into nouvelle cuisine and, talking to people around Mum's age, they are not overly fond of spicy food, either.
Mum also likes bananas; I often left one by her bedside, to have as a snack when she felt like it. One day, the lady in the next bed called me over.
She said, "Your Mum's lucky, having you bring in the food she likes. I've just been given this orange....."
She held it out for me; it was frozen, a solid ball of ice.
She asked, "How am I supposed to eat that?"
"And where on earth has it been stored?!" I wondered.
"I think I'd better be careful I don't drop it on my foot....."
Well, we had to laugh - but I fear other patients were quite envious of Mum and her custom-made menus. When you're in hospital, you need to eat properly, to keep up your strength and help you get well enough to be discharged.
The nursing staff were, on the whole, very good. They were all rushed off their feet, but somehow they kept smiling, kept going, and kept the patients cared for. There were a couple that were outstanding - one was a lady from the Philippines, who was always patient, always smiling, and who had enough time to talk to everyone, yet still got everything done; the other was a male nurse from Liverpool, who made sure patients who needed help with eating and drinking, got food and fluids into them. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, and could keep tabs on anyone who might be in danger of trying to walk to the bathroom on their own, when they should wait for help. He knew the street where Mum was born in Liverpool, and he would take time to reminisce with her. It was lovely to know that when I left the hospital for a few hours, Mum was in pretty good hands.
Friday, 9 June 2017
"I'm Dead." (Or: "There's No Point Getting Up.....")
"I'm Dead." (Or: "There's No Point Getting Up.....")
Scene: Mum's Bedroom
Time: One o'clock in the afternoon
A Carer arrives to get Mum up, after her morning nap.
Carer:
Hello Phyllis! It's time to get up
Mum
Can't you see I'm dead?
Carer (brightly):
Come on, it's time to get up now
Mum stays quiet.
Carer
Alex is going to come in to help you get up.....
Mum
I'm dead
Alex enters
Come on, Mum, it's time to get up and go to the loo. Then I'll make your lovely dinner.
Mum, still grumbling, reluctantly sits up, and allows herself to be helped on to the glider.
The Carer wheels Mum to the bathroom.
Alex
There you are, Mum. Tell us when you're ready and then we'll take you to wash your hands.
Mum (looking belligerently at Alex and the Carer)
You're going to have a big shock, because I'm dead!
Needless to say, Mum was very much alive for dinner; she ate the lot, and finished off the meal with 3 After Eight mints and a cup of tea. At least she wasn't going to be dead hungry.
Scene: Mum's Bedroom
Time: One o'clock in the afternoon
A Carer arrives to get Mum up, after her morning nap.
Carer:
Hello Phyllis! It's time to get up
Mum
Can't you see I'm dead?
Carer (brightly):
Come on, it's time to get up now
Mum stays quiet.
Carer
Alex is going to come in to help you get up.....
Mum
I'm dead
Alex enters
Come on, Mum, it's time to get up and go to the loo. Then I'll make your lovely dinner.
Mum, still grumbling, reluctantly sits up, and allows herself to be helped on to the glider.
The Carer wheels Mum to the bathroom.
Alex
There you are, Mum. Tell us when you're ready and then we'll take you to wash your hands.
Mum (looking belligerently at Alex and the Carer)
You're going to have a big shock, because I'm dead!
Needless to say, Mum was very much alive for dinner; she ate the lot, and finished off the meal with 3 After Eight mints and a cup of tea. At least she wasn't going to be dead hungry.
Friday, 2 June 2017
A Poetic Interlude
A Poetic Interlude
I had a dear friend, whom I had known since I first came back to England in the early 1970s. When she developed dementia, her family moved her into a care home, near to where they lived, and I had not seen her for a while. When I visited her, I was shocked at the deterioration of her senses, her mind, her memory. She still had the outward appearance of my friend, but did she know who I was? and, more importantly, where was she?
I was inspired to write this poem......
Where Is My Friend?
Where is my friend? Hidden
Beneath the tortuous pathways
Of a confused mind.
Where is the steely Matron? - Full of wit
And flashes of wicked inspiration?
She's hiding now, in this frail frame of mind;
Just sitting there, crumpled in her chair.
(It doesn't even look comfortable).
She leans forward, conspiratorially. Oh, yes,
She has all the right vocabulary.
All the right words, from the time when
Her thoughts were razor-sharp, cutting edge.
She says, "I have....." (and now she's counting,
Counting slowly, deliberately, a child again,
Using all her fingers and toes....)
Triumphantly, the answer comes:
"I have eight sons, you know!"
I hear her call me - call me by another name.
She announces loudly to a passing nurse:
"Of course it's her!" She's insistent.
Then puzzlement flits across her face,
Coupled with a sudden, frightening
Uncertainty - so painful to see.
Is she thinking, "Where is my friend?"
Like me?
I had a dear friend, whom I had known since I first came back to England in the early 1970s. When she developed dementia, her family moved her into a care home, near to where they lived, and I had not seen her for a while. When I visited her, I was shocked at the deterioration of her senses, her mind, her memory. She still had the outward appearance of my friend, but did she know who I was? and, more importantly, where was she?
I was inspired to write this poem......
Where Is My Friend?
Where is my friend? Hidden
Beneath the tortuous pathways
Of a confused mind.
Where is the steely Matron? - Full of wit
And flashes of wicked inspiration?
She's hiding now, in this frail frame of mind;
Just sitting there, crumpled in her chair.
(It doesn't even look comfortable).
She leans forward, conspiratorially. Oh, yes,
She has all the right vocabulary.
All the right words, from the time when
Her thoughts were razor-sharp, cutting edge.
She says, "I have....." (and now she's counting,
Counting slowly, deliberately, a child again,
Using all her fingers and toes....)
Triumphantly, the answer comes:
"I have eight sons, you know!"
I hear her call me - call me by another name.
She announces loudly to a passing nurse:
"Of course it's her!" She's insistent.
Then puzzlement flits across her face,
Coupled with a sudden, frightening
Uncertainty - so painful to see.
Is she thinking, "Where is my friend?"
Like me?
Tuesday, 30 May 2017
After Surgery
After Surgery
With much trepidation and reluctance, Mum signed the consent form for surgery on her ankle,
Things then moved quickly; the operation was scheduled for the next day. As Mum was convinced she wouldn't survive, we all rallied round to cheer her up and give her some positive thoughts. Great grandson Al was very good news; more than anyone, he kept her happy, and managed to distract her for much of the time.
It is a horribly anxious time when someone you love is taken to theatre for an operation; Mum might not have been facing major heart surgery, but even so.......
After she had been wheeled off to the theatre, we sat by Mum's bed on the ward, and waited. After an hour or more, I asked a nurse if we could find out how things were going; she told me I could go down to the theatre reception area, and they would update me.
Happily, the news was good. They said Mum was doing just fine; the epidural had been effective, and she had been awake during the procedure. It would still be a little while before she was back on the ward, but at least she was on her way.
After that, it seemed time passed more quickly, and soon Mum was back in bed on the ward - complaining volubly about the freezing spray she had had to endure on her back, before the operation began. The doctor who accompanied her back to the ward squeezed her hand and said, "I know how cold it is....but it really was necessary, and you coped very well!"
It was clear Mum just needed to rest, and sleep. She was safely tucked up in bed, and that gave the rest of the family the chance to get home and relax, and catch up on some sleep as well. Being nervous, anxious, worried ..... it is an exhausting state to be in.
Early the next morning, I was back at the hospital; Mum was awake and quite chipper. The nursing staff said she had had a good night, and had had a bed bath, so I was able to help Mum to wash her face and clean her teeth, and get her started on eating her cornflakes.
During the course of the morning, the surgeon arrived on his rounds. After being so against letting him operate, now Mum was all smiles and extremely flirty! and thanked him profusely for taking such good care of her.
Out of Mum's earshot, he explained the full extent of what they had been able to do. He had inserted a metal plate and half a dozen screws on one side of Mum's left ankle, to hold everything together - looking at the X-rays, I saw a distinct resemblance to a bit of Meccano kit!
He said that although everything had gone well, Mum's bones were like cheese, and very crumbly, and she would need a lot of physiotherapy to help get her up and about again.
Even if Mum's ability to walk was going to be restricted in the future, at least I felt we were making some progress, and I knew we would all encourage her to follow a physiotherapy programme.
Mum stayed in hospital for a few more days; one of us continued to go twice a day, continuing the routine of an early morning visit, to make sure she ate her breakfast and took her medication, and a second visit in the early evening, to bring her dinner. There was certainly nothing wrong with Mum's appetite!
One evening, after I had got back from the hospital, and had just begun to think it was time I got to bed, there was a phone call from the Sister on the ward. Mum was fine, but they were moving her to another hospital, five miles further away.
"We'll do everything for Phyllis," the woman said, "you don't need to worry about anything."
By now it was about 11.30 at night.
"Just a minute," I said. "My Mum is 92 - it's very late at night, it's November, and it's very cold. Of course I shall go round and make sure she is alright, and settled on the new ward."
After another exchange or two, when I was told it was completely unnecessary for me to go, I finally managed to end the call - and end the idea of getting a good night's sleep, after a long day!
It was really hard to get ready to go out again, but it proved to be just as well that I did go to the new hospital.
When I arrived, I had to find out which ward Mum had been sent to; I was determined to check on her, and I would not take "no" for answer. I said I just wanted to reassure Mum that all was well; that she knew that I knew where she was; and that I would be back, first thing in the morning.
With much humming and ha-ing, I was finally allowed on the ward to see Mum. She was sitting in bed, wide awake, very upset, and shivering with cold. She also did not know if her personal items had come with her.
I was mightily unimpressed. I told one of the nurses, "My Mum has lived abroad for most of her life, in hot countries. She is not used to being moved out of doors in the middle of the night, when it is so cold, here in England. She needs extra blankets, and, whilst you're at it, have you got a hot water bottle for her?"
I didn't care if I ruffled feathers; my main concern was Mum, and she was so pleased to see me, and hear me asking for help and extra bedding. Presently, more blankets were provided, and I got Mum well wrapped up, snug and warm, and settled her down for the night. She was very happy when I found her personal bits and pieces in the locker by her bed. I promised her I would be back in the morning, as usual.
Then, at last, I could go home and get some rest.
With much trepidation and reluctance, Mum signed the consent form for surgery on her ankle,
Things then moved quickly; the operation was scheduled for the next day. As Mum was convinced she wouldn't survive, we all rallied round to cheer her up and give her some positive thoughts. Great grandson Al was very good news; more than anyone, he kept her happy, and managed to distract her for much of the time.
It is a horribly anxious time when someone you love is taken to theatre for an operation; Mum might not have been facing major heart surgery, but even so.......
After she had been wheeled off to the theatre, we sat by Mum's bed on the ward, and waited. After an hour or more, I asked a nurse if we could find out how things were going; she told me I could go down to the theatre reception area, and they would update me.
Happily, the news was good. They said Mum was doing just fine; the epidural had been effective, and she had been awake during the procedure. It would still be a little while before she was back on the ward, but at least she was on her way.
After that, it seemed time passed more quickly, and soon Mum was back in bed on the ward - complaining volubly about the freezing spray she had had to endure on her back, before the operation began. The doctor who accompanied her back to the ward squeezed her hand and said, "I know how cold it is....but it really was necessary, and you coped very well!"
It was clear Mum just needed to rest, and sleep. She was safely tucked up in bed, and that gave the rest of the family the chance to get home and relax, and catch up on some sleep as well. Being nervous, anxious, worried ..... it is an exhausting state to be in.
Early the next morning, I was back at the hospital; Mum was awake and quite chipper. The nursing staff said she had had a good night, and had had a bed bath, so I was able to help Mum to wash her face and clean her teeth, and get her started on eating her cornflakes.
During the course of the morning, the surgeon arrived on his rounds. After being so against letting him operate, now Mum was all smiles and extremely flirty! and thanked him profusely for taking such good care of her.
Out of Mum's earshot, he explained the full extent of what they had been able to do. He had inserted a metal plate and half a dozen screws on one side of Mum's left ankle, to hold everything together - looking at the X-rays, I saw a distinct resemblance to a bit of Meccano kit!
He said that although everything had gone well, Mum's bones were like cheese, and very crumbly, and she would need a lot of physiotherapy to help get her up and about again.
Even if Mum's ability to walk was going to be restricted in the future, at least I felt we were making some progress, and I knew we would all encourage her to follow a physiotherapy programme.
Mum stayed in hospital for a few more days; one of us continued to go twice a day, continuing the routine of an early morning visit, to make sure she ate her breakfast and took her medication, and a second visit in the early evening, to bring her dinner. There was certainly nothing wrong with Mum's appetite!
One evening, after I had got back from the hospital, and had just begun to think it was time I got to bed, there was a phone call from the Sister on the ward. Mum was fine, but they were moving her to another hospital, five miles further away.
"We'll do everything for Phyllis," the woman said, "you don't need to worry about anything."
By now it was about 11.30 at night.
"Just a minute," I said. "My Mum is 92 - it's very late at night, it's November, and it's very cold. Of course I shall go round and make sure she is alright, and settled on the new ward."
After another exchange or two, when I was told it was completely unnecessary for me to go, I finally managed to end the call - and end the idea of getting a good night's sleep, after a long day!
It was really hard to get ready to go out again, but it proved to be just as well that I did go to the new hospital.
When I arrived, I had to find out which ward Mum had been sent to; I was determined to check on her, and I would not take "no" for answer. I said I just wanted to reassure Mum that all was well; that she knew that I knew where she was; and that I would be back, first thing in the morning.
With much humming and ha-ing, I was finally allowed on the ward to see Mum. She was sitting in bed, wide awake, very upset, and shivering with cold. She also did not know if her personal items had come with her.
I was mightily unimpressed. I told one of the nurses, "My Mum has lived abroad for most of her life, in hot countries. She is not used to being moved out of doors in the middle of the night, when it is so cold, here in England. She needs extra blankets, and, whilst you're at it, have you got a hot water bottle for her?"
I didn't care if I ruffled feathers; my main concern was Mum, and she was so pleased to see me, and hear me asking for help and extra bedding. Presently, more blankets were provided, and I got Mum well wrapped up, snug and warm, and settled her down for the night. She was very happy when I found her personal bits and pieces in the locker by her bed. I promised her I would be back in the morning, as usual.
Then, at last, I could go home and get some rest.
Monday, 22 May 2017
After the Break (Part 3 - Surgical Decision)
After the Break (Part 3 - Surgical Decision)
Mum had been in hospital a few days, and had further checks and x-rays; it became clear her broken ankle wasn't going to heal without surgery.
A charming young orthopaedic surgeon came to explain the problem to Mum, but we could tell she wasn't really taking anything in. All she could hear was "operation" and "anaesthetic," and she was terrified.
The consultant was incredibly patient. Over and over again, he explained what they would need to do; he said they would try an epidural, rather than general anaesthesia, so she would be awake during the operation. She was visited by the anaesthetist, a jovial chap, who told her even if she did have to have to be asleep, modern anaesthetics are so good, and out of the system so quickly after an operation, they were much safer than the ones used when Mum was young, and she should really have the confidence to go ahead.
Somewhere in her head, I think Mum realised all along that there was no option but to sign the consent form, and get on with it; the longer she left it, the more difficult things would get. At last, after more cajoling from the surgeon, and reassurance from all the staff on the ward, Mum got hold of a pen, and, with a flourish, signed the form.
"That's it!" she cried, throwing the biro down. "I know that will be the last of me! I feel it in my bones, and I'm psychic!"
Following that outburst, Mum calmed down a bit; and then the staff ran a battery of tests on Mum which, amazingly for her age, came back as pretty good!
When Mum was a child, she had rheumatic fever, and we knew this had affected her heart. She had been diagnosed with a roughening on the mitral valve, and had always been told to ".......be very careful.... no exertion.....take care of your heart."
When Mum was a child, she had rheumatic fever, and we knew this had affected her heart. She had been diagnosed with a roughening on the mitral valve, and had always been told to ".......be very careful.... no exertion.....take care of your heart."
I think that all her life, Mum has been scared about the problems with her heart; yet looking back, you have to think, what a life she has had - and is still having! She grew up; got married; had a baby. Went out to East Africa; had a great career as an accountant. Travelled back and forth on many occasions between Africa and the UK by ship (in those years - the 40s, 50s and 60s - it was the only way to travel!) and then in the 70s and 80s, by air. When my Grandma died in Durban in 1985, and Mum came back to live in England permanently, she got herself another job in London, and carried on working until she was over 70! Not bad for someone who had been told to "...... take it easy, and be careful. "
Tuesday, 16 May 2017
After the Break (Part 2 - Hospital Life)
After the Break (Part 2 - Hospital Life)
As I had promised Mum on the evening she was admitted on the ward, I was back at the hospital very early the next morning.
Because of her age, I was allowed in to see her. The nurses said Mum hadn't had a bad night, but neither had she had much sleep, and it was clear she was not going to co-operate until I arrived.
Mum doesn't like having her face touched, and would not allow anyone to help her to brush her teeth - she may not have many left, but she does like to attend to them herself! and she does not have false teeth. Fortunately, I had brought toothpaste and her toothbrush with me, so I said I would help her. With her broken ankle, obviously Mum couldn't get to the bathroom, so I had brought a beaker with water, and a dish to rinse into, which meant that even though she was lying in bed, she could manage everything herself.
It is surprising how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life - one governed by hospital visits, getting into a new routine, as well as coming up against bureaucracy, and having to find ways round it, to make sure the person you love is going to get the best possible attention and treatment.
Mum has always been a pernickety eater; in this respect, Mum and I are alike. We are not at all adventurous in a restaurant, and like very plain food, with nothing added. We like to see and know exactly what we are getting. I think this probably stems from when we lived in East Africa, and some of the food could be a bit suspect. I remember on one occasion being served fish for dinner at an exclusive venue; it lay on the plate, smothered in a very pungent sauce. Even with the smell of the herbs, or whatever was in the dressing, I was still wary, and scraped everything off - my father was angry, and kept telling me to stop being ridiculous and get on and eat it, but I persevered, until the fish was completed exposed; and it was clearly "off!" Great apologies from the manager of the restaurant followed, but by then I was also "off" pretty well anything else he tried to tempt me with, and ended up with some mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. That suited me just fine.
Mum also found the food in hospital left a lot to be desired, and she wouldn't eat it. I didn't expect the meals to be as good as good home cooking, and I was also concerned about the cleanliness of the crockery. I have no idea how the washing up was achieved, but when we were offered tea in cups that had not one, but several stale tannin rings still inside them, it was clear they had missed being cleaned properly. I was very concerned about this lack of attention to detail.
There were other problems, too. Mum cannot swallow pills easily, and takes them on a spoon with her cornflakes. This may not be the ideal way to take one's medication, but at least everything goes down in the end! The nurses were putting Mum's pills in a little plastic pot, and expecting her to take them like that; the pills sat on the bedside table all day, and no amount of persuasion would get Mum to swallow them.
This could not go on. I had a discussion with the senior ward manager, and got permission to bring Mum's food in for her, and so began a routine where I would visit Mum twice a day. When I arrived first thing in the morning, Mum had been washed and was sitting up in bed; I then helped her to do her face and teeth. After that, I served her cornflakes, with lots of full cream milk, which she loves. (At this time, it was considered skimmed, or at the most, semi-skimmed, milk was all that people should use; I took the view that at 92, if Mum fancied full cream milk, she could have it!) As the cornflakes went down, so did her medication; she happily swallowed everything. It really was not difficult, and I think the staff were reasonably happy to know there was at least one patient on the ward being given "special" attention.
For a snack at lunch time, I made either ginger jam or strawberry jam sandwiches;these were left at Mum's bedside for her to enjoy when she wanted something to eat. After breakfast, and whilst Mum had a morning nap, I went back home, to catch up a bit on things I had to do.
At about 5.30, I began cooking Mum's evening meal; as soon as it was ready, I would quickly dish up. Carrots, peas - whatever vegetables Mum fancied - potatoes and perhaps fish, or a dish of cauliflower cheese - all beautifully separate on the plate, and steaming hot. A swift wrap of foil, and then the plate snugly fitted into a hot box we had made, and I was in the car and off, back to the hospital.
Even allowing for the drive, and finding parking, and getting up to the ward, by the time I uncovered the plate for Mum, the food was still piping hot, and she tucked in. When you have an ordeal to face, you need to keep your strength up, and I could not bear to think of Mum not eating properly.
What I didn't know on the morning of 5 November, was that this routine would go on for another four and a half months! For the whole of the time Mum was in hospital, at least one member of the family visited her twice a day, every single day. It was not a case of, "Well, it was nearly every day...." or "We only missed going on a couple of days...." Someone was there, without fail, to help with her washing, her medication and her food.
As I had promised Mum on the evening she was admitted on the ward, I was back at the hospital very early the next morning.
Because of her age, I was allowed in to see her. The nurses said Mum hadn't had a bad night, but neither had she had much sleep, and it was clear she was not going to co-operate until I arrived.
Mum doesn't like having her face touched, and would not allow anyone to help her to brush her teeth - she may not have many left, but she does like to attend to them herself! and she does not have false teeth. Fortunately, I had brought toothpaste and her toothbrush with me, so I said I would help her. With her broken ankle, obviously Mum couldn't get to the bathroom, so I had brought a beaker with water, and a dish to rinse into, which meant that even though she was lying in bed, she could manage everything herself.
It is surprising how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life - one governed by hospital visits, getting into a new routine, as well as coming up against bureaucracy, and having to find ways round it, to make sure the person you love is going to get the best possible attention and treatment.
Mum has always been a pernickety eater; in this respect, Mum and I are alike. We are not at all adventurous in a restaurant, and like very plain food, with nothing added. We like to see and know exactly what we are getting. I think this probably stems from when we lived in East Africa, and some of the food could be a bit suspect. I remember on one occasion being served fish for dinner at an exclusive venue; it lay on the plate, smothered in a very pungent sauce. Even with the smell of the herbs, or whatever was in the dressing, I was still wary, and scraped everything off - my father was angry, and kept telling me to stop being ridiculous and get on and eat it, but I persevered, until the fish was completed exposed; and it was clearly "off!" Great apologies from the manager of the restaurant followed, but by then I was also "off" pretty well anything else he tried to tempt me with, and ended up with some mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. That suited me just fine.
Mum also found the food in hospital left a lot to be desired, and she wouldn't eat it. I didn't expect the meals to be as good as good home cooking, and I was also concerned about the cleanliness of the crockery. I have no idea how the washing up was achieved, but when we were offered tea in cups that had not one, but several stale tannin rings still inside them, it was clear they had missed being cleaned properly. I was very concerned about this lack of attention to detail.
There were other problems, too. Mum cannot swallow pills easily, and takes them on a spoon with her cornflakes. This may not be the ideal way to take one's medication, but at least everything goes down in the end! The nurses were putting Mum's pills in a little plastic pot, and expecting her to take them like that; the pills sat on the bedside table all day, and no amount of persuasion would get Mum to swallow them.
This could not go on. I had a discussion with the senior ward manager, and got permission to bring Mum's food in for her, and so began a routine where I would visit Mum twice a day. When I arrived first thing in the morning, Mum had been washed and was sitting up in bed; I then helped her to do her face and teeth. After that, I served her cornflakes, with lots of full cream milk, which she loves. (At this time, it was considered skimmed, or at the most, semi-skimmed, milk was all that people should use; I took the view that at 92, if Mum fancied full cream milk, she could have it!) As the cornflakes went down, so did her medication; she happily swallowed everything. It really was not difficult, and I think the staff were reasonably happy to know there was at least one patient on the ward being given "special" attention.
For a snack at lunch time, I made either ginger jam or strawberry jam sandwiches;these were left at Mum's bedside for her to enjoy when she wanted something to eat. After breakfast, and whilst Mum had a morning nap, I went back home, to catch up a bit on things I had to do.
At about 5.30, I began cooking Mum's evening meal; as soon as it was ready, I would quickly dish up. Carrots, peas - whatever vegetables Mum fancied - potatoes and perhaps fish, or a dish of cauliflower cheese - all beautifully separate on the plate, and steaming hot. A swift wrap of foil, and then the plate snugly fitted into a hot box we had made, and I was in the car and off, back to the hospital.
Even allowing for the drive, and finding parking, and getting up to the ward, by the time I uncovered the plate for Mum, the food was still piping hot, and she tucked in. When you have an ordeal to face, you need to keep your strength up, and I could not bear to think of Mum not eating properly.
What I didn't know on the morning of 5 November, was that this routine would go on for another four and a half months! For the whole of the time Mum was in hospital, at least one member of the family visited her twice a day, every single day. It was not a case of, "Well, it was nearly every day...." or "We only missed going on a couple of days...." Someone was there, without fail, to help with her washing, her medication and her food.
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