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.
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