Mum loves going for Tea at the Ritz.
It's a military operation getting Mum out for the occasion. The timing begins with the first morning call with the carers at 6.30 a.m, when the ladies get her up and washed and dressed and back in her chair, ready for me to take over for the rest of the breakfast shift.
We all pray that everything will go smoothly, with no arguments, and that Mum will co-operate with
getting her teeth brushed and then eating her cornflakes and drinking her tea. In the mornings, it normally takes about three and a half hours from start to finish, before everything is done, and by then, Mum is ready for her mid-morning nap. So are we!
At about 1.00 p.m., Mum gets up again. I make her sandwiches (I know, I know; she will have cucumber sandwiches at the Ritz!) but there would not be time for her to eat a proper meal at lunchtime - not with the wheelchair accessible taxi due a couple of hours later.
At 2.30 p..m, with the taxi ordered for 3.00 p.m., we start helping Mum to get changed and into some glad rags suitable for the occasion. If all goes well, that gives us plenty of time, but we always build in some slack in case Mum needs to go to the loo again before we leave.
With pad in place and spares packed in a bag in case of emergencies, we set off from home with one of our lovely drivers. So far, we have had three gentlemen, and all have been terrifically helpful in making sure Mum is settled comfortably and safely in her wheelchair, and secured in the back of the taxi.
In that position, Mum is sitting up higher than anyone, so she has a good view of everything on the road. As we get closer, we drive along the Embankment, and Mum notices all the landmarks and all the bridges, and the London Eye.
She has been on the London Eye a couple of times - when she was still able to walk; each time we went, we were blessed with fine weather and I ask her if she can remember going, and the wonderful views we had.
"Oh, it was lovely!"Mum enthuses. I don't know if she is just being agreeable, but I hope that some of those memories have actually stayed with her.
When we turn into Northumberland Avenue, Mum always asks how much further we have to go; if the traffic is flowing, it's not far to The Ritz.
Our taxi gently glides to a halt outside the Hotel, where the Concierge opens the gate to the inner courtyard. We really appreciate the management organising this for us, as we are then all under cover, and it means we can wheel Mum out of the taxi and into the Hotel, without having to worry about whatever the weather may be throwing at us. As we propel Mum through to the main part of the Ritz, she likes to pause and enjoy looking at all the beautiful jewellery on display in the glass cabinets.
When we are ready to be seated, one of the waiters produces a portable ramp, unrolls it over the marble stairs, and in a few seconds, Mum is wheeled up to the Palm Court.
You can see the look in Mum's eyes, as she takes everything in, in this beautiful setting - the opulent cream coloured Louis XVI style, the panelled mirrors in gilt bronze frames, the flowers, the music, and the sheer elegance of the place, is a treat for us all.
Over the years, we have smoothly slipped in to being regular partakers of tea in the Palm Court, and it is wonderful to see Mum blossom with all the attention she receives. Even though it might not be her birthday on a particular visit, she is always treated royally, and we are happy if it is Mum who receives a birthday cake; she's quite partial to a glass of champagne, too.
The Palm Manager always greets us personally, and makes sure the table is one Mum likes, and where she can see the pianist or harpist playing to entertain the guests.
Mum looks forwards for weeks to each visit. She knows exactly when we are going; for example, in 2016, her birthday on 28 October fell on a Friday. This was not a good day to get the family together, so I booked a table for the following day, on Saturday, 29 October.
In the weeks leading up to the big day, if anyone asked her (and even when they didn't!) what she was doing for her birthday, Mum would announce:
"We're going for Tea at the Ritz soon..... of course my birthday is the day before but Alex has booked up for the Saturday, because everyone can come then."
So some things sink in, and Mum has very clear and lucid understanding about them, including time scale, whom she will see, and she knows how much she is looking forward to the outing.
Whatever else Mum might remember or forget, she always remembers her visits for Tea at the Ritz, and I always think it is one of the best things we can do for Mum. She looks forwards to the occasion with such pleasure; she enjoys herself thoroughly when we are there, and then she talks about it for weeks afterwards, and is really delighted when we show her photographs that were taken on the day.
I also think these special occasions remind her of a bygone age of elegance; with the Palm Court's beautiful decor, the chandeliers, and crisp tablecloths and silverware, everything contributes to a store of happy memories. And not just for Mum; but for us, as well.
Sunday 26 March 2017
Friday 24 March 2017
Bright Spots
Mum asks constantly, "Where are the cats?"
You can give her a straight answer - as long as it is always that the cats are in (she gets really anxious if she thinks they are out), but a moment later, the question comes again:
"Where are the cats?"
"I've just told you, Ma - the cats are in."
"Oh. I didn't hear you."
"That's o.k. Anyway, all the pussy cats are in, and they are snug and warm and they have all been well fed."
"Ah, that's good. They're good pussy cats."
"Yes, indeed they are. So you don't need to worry about them!"
A minute or two later, the catechism begins again:
"Where are the cats?"
The questions and answers can bat back and forth like a game of badminton, until you decide to toss the question back:
"Now, Ma, what did I just tell you?"
There's a pause for a moment. Then, "Oh, you said the cats are in!"
"That's right! So now you can relax, and know they are all happy and well fed and warm."
"Oh, that's good!" And sometimes, for half an hour or so, it is.
We know and accept the short term memory loss and, if it's frustrating for us, it must be more frustrating and frightening for Mum, although she doesn't seem particularly upset when she keeps asking us about the cats, and is pretty contented by the constant reassurance.
However, there is one treat that she remains completely lucid about.
Mum loves going for Tea at the Ritz.
You can give her a straight answer - as long as it is always that the cats are in (she gets really anxious if she thinks they are out), but a moment later, the question comes again:
"Where are the cats?"
"I've just told you, Ma - the cats are in."
"Oh. I didn't hear you."
"That's o.k. Anyway, all the pussy cats are in, and they are snug and warm and they have all been well fed."
"Ah, that's good. They're good pussy cats."
"Yes, indeed they are. So you don't need to worry about them!"
A minute or two later, the catechism begins again:
"Where are the cats?"
The questions and answers can bat back and forth like a game of badminton, until you decide to toss the question back:
"Now, Ma, what did I just tell you?"
There's a pause for a moment. Then, "Oh, you said the cats are in!"
"That's right! So now you can relax, and know they are all happy and well fed and warm."
"Oh, that's good!" And sometimes, for half an hour or so, it is.
We know and accept the short term memory loss and, if it's frustrating for us, it must be more frustrating and frightening for Mum, although she doesn't seem particularly upset when she keeps asking us about the cats, and is pretty contented by the constant reassurance.
However, there is one treat that she remains completely lucid about.
Mum loves going for Tea at the Ritz.
Monday 20 March 2017
First Signs of Trouble
First Signs of Trouble
Mum was having one of her funny five minutes.
She had had lots of them before, picking an argument when she was staying with us in London, and then escalating it before announcing she had decided to leave and was "...going back to Portsmouth." On occasion, she would get her shopping trolley, (which she used instead of a suitcase, and which was never completely unpacked from her previous visits to see us), and go stomping off down the road pulling all her worldly goods (well - not quite, obviously!) behind her.
If this happened during the daytime, she would take herself off to Victoria Coach Station, and get a coach back to Portsmouth Harbour; on arrival, she would walk a couple of miles back to her flat in Southsea. Not too difficult a feat, you might imagine, except that at this stage, Mum was in her late seventies, usually in some pain and officially in need of a left hip replacement.
If she took it into her head to go off at night, however, that really put me in a quandary. I used to let her get a head start, and then get in the car and catch her up. If she'd got over her "grumps," she could be persuaded to let me drive her back to the house; if not, I was then pretty well committed to taking her back to Portsmouth straight away. I was not always amused.
On this particular occasion, she decided she could not bear to spend another moment with me in the car and demanded to be let out - otherwise she threatened to jump out of the passenger seat.
"Ma," I said, "that would be a very dangerous thing to do. Apart from hurting yourself, you could also be the cause of an accident, and hurt innocent people."
"Let me out."
"O.K. Just let me find somewhere safe to stop, and then you can get out."
Mum sat in the car, like a coiled spring, ready to leap to safety at the first opportunity.
As soon as I saw somewhere safe to stop, I did so. I parked outside a row of terraced houses, behind a car that had a sign up with "Doctor On Call" on it.
Mum flung open the passenger door, and was out of the car like a startled gazelle, and well on the way down the road. As she did this, the Doctor had come out of the house he had been visiting, and saw what happened.
"How long has your mother suffered from dementia?" he asked.
He didn't speak softly, and Mum heard what he said. She turned and shouted, "How dare you! I do not have dementia!" before carrying on, almost at a trot.
This was the first time I had heard the word dementia mentioned.
The Doctor shrugged, smiled and reassured me. "Don't worry," he said. "Wait a bit and the follow her. She will probably have forgotten all about it in 10 minutes or so."
As indeed she did. I started up the engine and drove down the road.
"Shall we drive the rest of the way home?" I asked.
"Oh, that's a good idea!"said Mum. "It will be easier on my leg."
It seemed she had got the aggravation out of her system, and the rest of the day was good.
Mum was having one of her funny five minutes.
She had had lots of them before, picking an argument when she was staying with us in London, and then escalating it before announcing she had decided to leave and was "...going back to Portsmouth." On occasion, she would get her shopping trolley, (which she used instead of a suitcase, and which was never completely unpacked from her previous visits to see us), and go stomping off down the road pulling all her worldly goods (well - not quite, obviously!) behind her.
If this happened during the daytime, she would take herself off to Victoria Coach Station, and get a coach back to Portsmouth Harbour; on arrival, she would walk a couple of miles back to her flat in Southsea. Not too difficult a feat, you might imagine, except that at this stage, Mum was in her late seventies, usually in some pain and officially in need of a left hip replacement.
If she took it into her head to go off at night, however, that really put me in a quandary. I used to let her get a head start, and then get in the car and catch her up. If she'd got over her "grumps," she could be persuaded to let me drive her back to the house; if not, I was then pretty well committed to taking her back to Portsmouth straight away. I was not always amused.
On this particular occasion, she decided she could not bear to spend another moment with me in the car and demanded to be let out - otherwise she threatened to jump out of the passenger seat.
"Ma," I said, "that would be a very dangerous thing to do. Apart from hurting yourself, you could also be the cause of an accident, and hurt innocent people."
"Let me out."
"O.K. Just let me find somewhere safe to stop, and then you can get out."
Mum sat in the car, like a coiled spring, ready to leap to safety at the first opportunity.
As soon as I saw somewhere safe to stop, I did so. I parked outside a row of terraced houses, behind a car that had a sign up with "Doctor On Call" on it.
Mum flung open the passenger door, and was out of the car like a startled gazelle, and well on the way down the road. As she did this, the Doctor had come out of the house he had been visiting, and saw what happened.
"How long has your mother suffered from dementia?" he asked.
He didn't speak softly, and Mum heard what he said. She turned and shouted, "How dare you! I do not have dementia!" before carrying on, almost at a trot.
This was the first time I had heard the word dementia mentioned.
The Doctor shrugged, smiled and reassured me. "Don't worry," he said. "Wait a bit and the follow her. She will probably have forgotten all about it in 10 minutes or so."
As indeed she did. I started up the engine and drove down the road.
"Shall we drive the rest of the way home?" I asked.
"Oh, that's a good idea!"said Mum. "It will be easier on my leg."
It seemed she had got the aggravation out of her system, and the rest of the day was good.
Sunday 19 March 2017
A Lunchtime Call
A Lunchtime Call
After breaking her ankle in November, 2011, Mum (Phyllis) has been living at home with us since 28 March 2012. This is a record of how we have been getting on - muddling along through thick and thin, and coping as well as we can with Mum's physical problems, as well as with her dementia.
A little light-hearted exchange at the beginning of a lunchtime call went like this:
One of the lovely young carers arrives and goes into Mum's room.
Carer (says brightly)
Hello Phyllis!
Mum is awake, and turns to look at her.
Mum
Are you dead?
Carer giggles
I don't think so, Phyllis!
Mum
Are you alive, then?
Carer
Yes, I think I'm definitely alive
Mum
Oh, well, you can be more alive when you're dead!
The carer and Alexandra both get a fit of the giggles. You can't argue with that!
After breaking her ankle in November, 2011, Mum (Phyllis) has been living at home with us since 28 March 2012. This is a record of how we have been getting on - muddling along through thick and thin, and coping as well as we can with Mum's physical problems, as well as with her dementia.
A little light-hearted exchange at the beginning of a lunchtime call went like this:
One of the lovely young carers arrives and goes into Mum's room.
Carer (says brightly)
Hello Phyllis!
Mum is awake, and turns to look at her.
Mum
Are you dead?
Carer giggles
I don't think so, Phyllis!
Mum
Are you alive, then?
Carer
Yes, I think I'm definitely alive
Mum
Oh, well, you can be more alive when you're dead!
The carer and Alexandra both get a fit of the giggles. You can't argue with that!
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