Making Progress (2) - Things Begin To Improve
As Mum got used to the carers - and there were some she would be really rude to, and some she would be like a lamb with - we decided to try to encourage her to stand briefly, and try transferring from the bed to the glider, and from the glider to the chair, or back to the bed. This would mean the dreaded hoisting would become redundant. We all felt Mum had good upper body strength and could use her arms to lift herself up and "twiddle" round 90 degrees or so, to land in the right place.
During the time Mum was in hospital, the Physiotherapists had also tried to encourage Mum to walk, and use various aids, but this was, at the most, once a day, for half an hour. Half an hour of intense concentration trying to walk made Mum terribly tired, and on some days, she missed the slot altogether.
Because the carers came so regularly, four times a day, and for half an hour on each visit, there were more opportunities to try new things, and more time for Mum "to have a go."
We realised that if Mum was on the bed, and managed to stand up, but then had to turn 180 degrees to sit on the glider, that was a long way round for her to go. Until she was safely ensconced on the glider, there was also an "ocean of space" on either side of her, and that frightened her.
She was convinced she would fall on the floor, so I devised a system we called "The Triangle." The bed formed one side; we brought up her arm chair very close to the bed, on the slant, for the second side, and the glider provided the third side of the triangle. This resulted in a tiny space for Mum to stand up in and, apart from sitting either on the glider, sitting on the chair, or back down on the bed, there was really nowhere else she could go. In this situation, she could feel secure that she would not land on the floor.
The carers were also on standby, to lend a supporting hand.
"Mum," I would say, "if you can just try to stand up - for a couple of seconds - then, if you feel you can't do it, you can sit back on the bed again."
"Come on, Phyllis......" the carers were right by Mum's side. "You can do it!"
"Mum - if you can just manage it the once - you'll know how easy it is, and you'll be able to do it again in future. Just think what that will mean!"
"What will it mean?" Mum looked around at me, and the carers.
"It means I'll be able to take you to the loo, whenever you want to go. It means we'll be able to get you sitting in the wheelchair, which means we'll be able to go out for a walk. It means we'll be able to order a wheelchair accessible taxi, and take you shopping!"
"I'll try, then."
And try she did. And after a while, hallelujah, Mum got the confidence to push hard down with her hands on the bed; as she pushed down, so her bottom lifted off the mattress, and she was momentarily standing. With great shouts of "Well done! Well done!" - which quickly changed to "Now, twiddle round! Twiddle round!" Mum got the hang of it, and twiddled round, plonking herself down on the glider.
That really earned her a round of applause; and everything I had said was proved true. It opened up a whole new range of possibilities for her, not least of which was the joy of knowing she could go to the loo whenever she wanted. It just showed what a bit of imagination and ingenuity could achieve.
Of course, the downside was that sometimes Mum woke up in the night and called for the glider; it was like having a baby to look after all over again. Because I'm an owl, I was usually up in the early hours, and so I'd get the glider and take Mum to the bathroom and then make sure she was comfortably settled back in bed afterwards. However, I soon realised there were other times, when Mum couldn't sleep, she called for the glider as a distraction, and for something to do. Then I had to be really firm, and remind her she was NOT in hospital; there was no team of nurses working the nightshift, and if I was going to keep active and look after her, I needed my sleep as well.
Mum could be quite stroppy; she'd snap at me, "I don't need anyone to look after me. I want to go back home, and look after myself."
There was no point arguing; I'd just leave it, and, come the morning, hope Mum would have forgotten about it. Over time, Mum's demands became less frequent; she still wore a pad in bed, and began to accept it was there to keep her dry overnight. And I began to sleep better at night, too.
Tuesday 30 January 2018
Saturday 27 January 2018
Making Progress (1)
Making Progress (1)
"'Ello, Darlin'! My name's Carol. It's good to see you!"
These were the first words a lovely carer called Carol spoke to Mum, kneeling down beside her chair, as we celebrated my birthday on 28 March 2012, with tea and cake.
Mum beamed. "It's good to see you, too," she said.
"Well, Darlin'," said Carol, "we're going to get to know each other, and we're all here to help you."
"Oh, good," said Mum - now looking a bit apprehensive. I knew what she was thinking. She had just arrived home, in an ambulance, and we were all tucking in to tea and birthday cake; and here was this woman breezily announcing she was 'here to help.'
I was equally worried. As she had been at home for only an hour or so, we hadn't yet reached the point of Mum needing the loo. At this stage, Mum was still able to say when she needed the toilet, knew when she had spent a penny, and washed her hands properly afterwards. As she couldn't walk, and needed to be hoisted in and out of bed, and onto the glider commode to be wheeled in to the bathroom, this was something that would have to be done by the carers. I wasn't trained to use the hoist; in any case, it was a 'double handed' manoeuvre. And we were allotted only four calls a day.
Carol was joined by the second carer and they chatted to Mum, putting her at her ease; after four and a half months in hospital, she accepted she needed some help. Luckily, Mum was ready to have a rest, so she agreed to let Carol and Rita help her back to bed. I think the fear of her ankle giving way on her again overrode the dislike of having someone taking her back to the bedroom, but being hoisted was something Mum absolutely loathed.
We had screams and non-co-operation, but somehow the carers calmed her down, and the process of getting Mum into bed was accomplished.
Carol, ever cheery, said "We'll see you later, Phyllis!"
Mum - settling down in her beautiful new bed, with crisp, white sheets - said, "Oh, that'll be nice....." and was soon having a gentle nap.
The carers were due to come back at 7.30, but some time before then, Mum woke up and demanded to be taken to the bathroom. It was really awful trying to explain why I couldn't do it. I had to remind Mum that if she couldn't wait, she was wearing a pad that would catch everything, and when the carers returned, they would take her to the bathroom.
To begin with, things were really hard. We had a group of good carers who came on a regular basis, but during the first two or three weeks, every call was "new," both for Mum and for us. Like a new ship on sea trials, we all had to learn how everything worked; the carers had to learn how to deal with Mum, and we also understood that although Mum's calls were officially listed at the times we'd asked for, there were many other clients to be visited. Sometimes these other people had problems which the carers had to deal with, which meant Mum's calls ran late. At long last, things settled down, and we got into a routine.
And then things began to improve.
"'Ello, Darlin'! My name's Carol. It's good to see you!"
Mum beamed. "It's good to see you, too," she said.
"Well, Darlin'," said Carol, "we're going to get to know each other, and we're all here to help you."
"Oh, good," said Mum - now looking a bit apprehensive. I knew what she was thinking. She had just arrived home, in an ambulance, and we were all tucking in to tea and birthday cake; and here was this woman breezily announcing she was 'here to help.'
I was equally worried. As she had been at home for only an hour or so, we hadn't yet reached the point of Mum needing the loo. At this stage, Mum was still able to say when she needed the toilet, knew when she had spent a penny, and washed her hands properly afterwards. As she couldn't walk, and needed to be hoisted in and out of bed, and onto the glider commode to be wheeled in to the bathroom, this was something that would have to be done by the carers. I wasn't trained to use the hoist; in any case, it was a 'double handed' manoeuvre. And we were allotted only four calls a day.
Carol was joined by the second carer and they chatted to Mum, putting her at her ease; after four and a half months in hospital, she accepted she needed some help. Luckily, Mum was ready to have a rest, so she agreed to let Carol and Rita help her back to bed. I think the fear of her ankle giving way on her again overrode the dislike of having someone taking her back to the bedroom, but being hoisted was something Mum absolutely loathed.
We had screams and non-co-operation, but somehow the carers calmed her down, and the process of getting Mum into bed was accomplished.
Carol, ever cheery, said "We'll see you later, Phyllis!"
Mum - settling down in her beautiful new bed, with crisp, white sheets - said, "Oh, that'll be nice....." and was soon having a gentle nap.
The carers were due to come back at 7.30, but some time before then, Mum woke up and demanded to be taken to the bathroom. It was really awful trying to explain why I couldn't do it. I had to remind Mum that if she couldn't wait, she was wearing a pad that would catch everything, and when the carers returned, they would take her to the bathroom.
To begin with, things were really hard. We had a group of good carers who came on a regular basis, but during the first two or three weeks, every call was "new," both for Mum and for us. Like a new ship on sea trials, we all had to learn how everything worked; the carers had to learn how to deal with Mum, and we also understood that although Mum's calls were officially listed at the times we'd asked for, there were many other clients to be visited. Sometimes these other people had problems which the carers had to deal with, which meant Mum's calls ran late. At long last, things settled down, and we got into a routine.
And then things began to improve.
Friday 26 January 2018
Sleepy Mum/Wide-Awake Mum
Sleepy Mum/Wide-Awake Mum
You can never be sure how Mum will be from one day to the next, especially with regard to her being either awake and co-operative, or fast asleep (or playing possum!) and not wanting to move.
We can usually tell if she is just being awkward (the half-closed eyes and surreptitious glances to gauge the reactions, tend to give the game away!) or if she is really tired, and it's just too darned early to get up.
In the past 48 hours, we have had two days, illustrating both extremes. On Tuesday morning, after a disturbed night, she was so fast asleep that the carers decided they would simply give her a bed bath, get Mum into clean clothes, and then leave her to snooze on. All this was achieved with Mum literally not batting an eyelid. She was sleeping so peacefully and comfortably, it would have been very unkind to force her to get up and get going. I kept checking on her, and she was fine. When the carers came back mid-morning, Mum was still asleep; again, they changed her, made sure she was comfy, and left Mum to her dreams.
Mum slept right through breakfast time; she slept right through the morning, until by 2.00 p.m., when the carers arrived for the lunch call, she had had 6 hours more sleep than she usually got. This time, Mum did rouse enough to get up; she was still very sleepy, and sat dozing in her chair whilst I prepared dinner. I could see she was finding it hard to stay awake, so straight after the meal and a nice cup of tea, we got her back into bed for a nap. At 8.00 p.m., Mum got up for tea and cake, but she wasn't keen to stay up a minute more than she had to - I reckoned she had been out of bed for a maximum of 5 hours, which was a lot less than usual. She was asleep within minutes of her head touching the pillow.
Wednesday saw things back to normal - Mum was up and chatty at breakfast, lunch and dinner; she had two naps during the day, and we had a couple of singing sessions, whilst I played the piano.
Thursday proved to be the complete opposite of Tuesday! Perhaps she slept so well on Wednesday night, that she was bright eyed and wide awake from the moment the carers arrived in the morning, until bedtime at 10.30 p.m. Mum had a lie down after breakfast, but didn't drop off to sleep at all; up again at lunch time, she was helpful and co-operative and chatting away. After eating, we thought, surely Mum will need to rest and re-charge the batteries? but no, not at all; she wanted to talk about her mother, and other members of the family. She was confused about some things, but by then Wendy had also arrived to stay with us awhile, and deftly fielded some of Mum's more outlandish statements. It was as though Mum was fizzing with energy - she didn't stop talking, she was also in very good singing voice, and we went through the 1940s' song book with great gusto. Mum was certainly a lot more wide awake this day than I was!
It's almost as if there is a switch in Mum's brain, with the options of Slow, Normal, or Fast Forward. It used to worry us very much if Mum was so sound asleep, she wouldn't stir when the carers arrived to get her up; now, with more experience of her foibles, if it's proving difficult to rouse her, we tend not to panic, and let Mum rest a while longer. With so many people ill at this time of year, the last thing we want is Mum taken off to hospital in an ambulance.
One thing is sure - Mum will always keep us alert and on our toes.
You can never be sure how Mum will be from one day to the next, especially with regard to her being either awake and co-operative, or fast asleep (or playing possum!) and not wanting to move.
We can usually tell if she is just being awkward (the half-closed eyes and surreptitious glances to gauge the reactions, tend to give the game away!) or if she is really tired, and it's just too darned early to get up.
In the past 48 hours, we have had two days, illustrating both extremes. On Tuesday morning, after a disturbed night, she was so fast asleep that the carers decided they would simply give her a bed bath, get Mum into clean clothes, and then leave her to snooze on. All this was achieved with Mum literally not batting an eyelid. She was sleeping so peacefully and comfortably, it would have been very unkind to force her to get up and get going. I kept checking on her, and she was fine. When the carers came back mid-morning, Mum was still asleep; again, they changed her, made sure she was comfy, and left Mum to her dreams.
Mum slept right through breakfast time; she slept right through the morning, until by 2.00 p.m., when the carers arrived for the lunch call, she had had 6 hours more sleep than she usually got. This time, Mum did rouse enough to get up; she was still very sleepy, and sat dozing in her chair whilst I prepared dinner. I could see she was finding it hard to stay awake, so straight after the meal and a nice cup of tea, we got her back into bed for a nap. At 8.00 p.m., Mum got up for tea and cake, but she wasn't keen to stay up a minute more than she had to - I reckoned she had been out of bed for a maximum of 5 hours, which was a lot less than usual. She was asleep within minutes of her head touching the pillow.
Wednesday saw things back to normal - Mum was up and chatty at breakfast, lunch and dinner; she had two naps during the day, and we had a couple of singing sessions, whilst I played the piano.
Thursday proved to be the complete opposite of Tuesday! Perhaps she slept so well on Wednesday night, that she was bright eyed and wide awake from the moment the carers arrived in the morning, until bedtime at 10.30 p.m. Mum had a lie down after breakfast, but didn't drop off to sleep at all; up again at lunch time, she was helpful and co-operative and chatting away. After eating, we thought, surely Mum will need to rest and re-charge the batteries? but no, not at all; she wanted to talk about her mother, and other members of the family. She was confused about some things, but by then Wendy had also arrived to stay with us awhile, and deftly fielded some of Mum's more outlandish statements. It was as though Mum was fizzing with energy - she didn't stop talking, she was also in very good singing voice, and we went through the 1940s' song book with great gusto. Mum was certainly a lot more wide awake this day than I was!
It's almost as if there is a switch in Mum's brain, with the options of Slow, Normal, or Fast Forward. It used to worry us very much if Mum was so sound asleep, she wouldn't stir when the carers arrived to get her up; now, with more experience of her foibles, if it's proving difficult to rouse her, we tend not to panic, and let Mum rest a while longer. With so many people ill at this time of year, the last thing we want is Mum taken off to hospital in an ambulance.
Monday 22 January 2018
I Love To Iron.....
I Love To Iron
It's nearly 2.00 a.m., and it's as well I like ironing - I do an awful lot of it. Mum generates a great deal of washing, and if it had feelings, the poor washing machine would be groaning under the work load. It runs just about every day - sometimes twice - and, apart from the sheets, I iron everything that comes out of it.
I think where a lot of people make a mistake, is that they use a very heavy iron. My iron is one I have used for years, and is quite light, but if I had to use a great lump of metal that weighed a metaphorical ton every time I had to lift it, I am sure I would be less enthusiastic about the job.
As it is, I try to get myself organised at a time when Mum is in bed, and things are quiet; I can have a cup of tea and a chocolate bar to hand and maybe something on the t.v.as well - although that isn't a priority, as I am happy just dashing away with the smoothing iron, with my thoughts running through my head. It is a great time for inspiration. Then I sit down (why do most people stand up to iron?) and get started.
I love the smell of freshly washed clothes, released as the hot iron glides over the material; it's also a therapeutic job, smoothing out the creases of life as the clothes come off the ironing board looking pristine again.
Ironing also gives me a chance to check the clothes are properly dry; I always let them air off for a while afterwards, and handling each garment means I can see if anything needs mending. A few stitches put in early save a lot of bother later on - and I'm from the era when you tried to preserve things to go on for longer. If I have a favourite dress, I want to make sure it is still wearable for as long as possible - and as long as it still fits! I have clothes with many happy memories attached to them - I have the dress I wore the first time I sang on the City Hall stage in Durban, and some outfits remind me of the places I've been in when I wore them. I've also got a couple of "lucky" dresses - things always seem to go well, when I put then on! - and I'll keep them in good nick for as long as I can.
I have had some very strange looks when I mention I can mend and darn beautifully - the feeling/attitude seems to be, "Why would you bother, when you can buy another one?" but I am not in favour of the "buy 'em cheap, throw 'em away" approach.
Another reason why I love to iron and sew, is because Mum and my Grandma taught me how to do it. Mum made all my ballet dresses (I have a photo of me, aged five, wearing one of the tutus she created for me), and Grandma made my smocked dresses and little pinafores (pinnies), to wear over my good clothes. She taught me to hem, and I can still turn a hem by hand quicker than most people. Grandma could also knit, but for me, that was another story. I did learn, and I can do it, but my tension always went haywire - I was not consistent! That creative skill I left to her. As a child, I was never short of hand-knitted socks, and after my daughter Wendy was born, for years she was furnished with a regular supply of fine wool socks, beautifully warm, and infinitely superior to mass produced hosiery.
My late husband, Bob, played the violin; in the 1930s, as a lad in Glossop, he had private lessons with Mr Jones, whose wife loved to iron, too. Whilst her husband taught pupils at home, she would be busy doing the ironing in a corner of their lounge, and this inspired me to write the following poem, written in Bob's voice:
MUSIC LESSONS
When I was a lad, my mother paid
for weekly lessons on the violin.
At half a crown - two and six a time -
That was a lot of money, then.
And sometimes I'd buck at the practice
and my mother going on and on,
nagging me to play my scales - saying,
"One day, you'll be pleased I did, son....."
So every Tuesday, round at Mr Jones'
he'd lead me through some difficult work -
encouraging, guiding, sometimes scathing
when it was obvious I wanted to shirk.
And I also remember, in the lounge,
How Mrs Jones stood, ironing.
The smell of fresh-washed clothes filled the room
as I struggled with double stopping.
And thirty years on, my wife loves to iron -
she presses everything in sight;
she sits with a cup of tea, or something stronger,
and I bring out my violin.
And as the iron hisses on clean damp clothes,
The old familiar welcome smell
hangs over the music, like accidentals,
that I remember well.
It's nearly 2.00 a.m., and it's as well I like ironing - I do an awful lot of it. Mum generates a great deal of washing, and if it had feelings, the poor washing machine would be groaning under the work load. It runs just about every day - sometimes twice - and, apart from the sheets, I iron everything that comes out of it.
I think where a lot of people make a mistake, is that they use a very heavy iron. My iron is one I have used for years, and is quite light, but if I had to use a great lump of metal that weighed a metaphorical ton every time I had to lift it, I am sure I would be less enthusiastic about the job.
As it is, I try to get myself organised at a time when Mum is in bed, and things are quiet; I can have a cup of tea and a chocolate bar to hand and maybe something on the t.v.as well - although that isn't a priority, as I am happy just dashing away with the smoothing iron, with my thoughts running through my head. It is a great time for inspiration. Then I sit down (why do most people stand up to iron?) and get started.
I love the smell of freshly washed clothes, released as the hot iron glides over the material; it's also a therapeutic job, smoothing out the creases of life as the clothes come off the ironing board looking pristine again.
Ironing also gives me a chance to check the clothes are properly dry; I always let them air off for a while afterwards, and handling each garment means I can see if anything needs mending. A few stitches put in early save a lot of bother later on - and I'm from the era when you tried to preserve things to go on for longer. If I have a favourite dress, I want to make sure it is still wearable for as long as possible - and as long as it still fits! I have clothes with many happy memories attached to them - I have the dress I wore the first time I sang on the City Hall stage in Durban, and some outfits remind me of the places I've been in when I wore them. I've also got a couple of "lucky" dresses - things always seem to go well, when I put then on! - and I'll keep them in good nick for as long as I can.
I have had some very strange looks when I mention I can mend and darn beautifully - the feeling/attitude seems to be, "Why would you bother, when you can buy another one?" but I am not in favour of the "buy 'em cheap, throw 'em away" approach.
Another reason why I love to iron and sew, is because Mum and my Grandma taught me how to do it. Mum made all my ballet dresses (I have a photo of me, aged five, wearing one of the tutus she created for me), and Grandma made my smocked dresses and little pinafores (pinnies), to wear over my good clothes. She taught me to hem, and I can still turn a hem by hand quicker than most people. Grandma could also knit, but for me, that was another story. I did learn, and I can do it, but my tension always went haywire - I was not consistent! That creative skill I left to her. As a child, I was never short of hand-knitted socks, and after my daughter Wendy was born, for years she was furnished with a regular supply of fine wool socks, beautifully warm, and infinitely superior to mass produced hosiery.
My late husband, Bob, played the violin; in the 1930s, as a lad in Glossop, he had private lessons with Mr Jones, whose wife loved to iron, too. Whilst her husband taught pupils at home, she would be busy doing the ironing in a corner of their lounge, and this inspired me to write the following poem, written in Bob's voice:
MUSIC LESSONS
When I was a lad, my mother paid
for weekly lessons on the violin.
At half a crown - two and six a time -
That was a lot of money, then.
And sometimes I'd buck at the practice
and my mother going on and on,
nagging me to play my scales - saying,
"One day, you'll be pleased I did, son....."
So every Tuesday, round at Mr Jones'
he'd lead me through some difficult work -
encouraging, guiding, sometimes scathing
when it was obvious I wanted to shirk.
And I also remember, in the lounge,
How Mrs Jones stood, ironing.
The smell of fresh-washed clothes filled the room
as I struggled with double stopping.
And thirty years on, my wife loves to iron -
she presses everything in sight;
she sits with a cup of tea, or something stronger,
and I bring out my violin.
And as the iron hisses on clean damp clothes,
The old familiar welcome smell
hangs over the music, like accidentals,
that I remember well.
Friday 19 January 2018
The Blue Lamp
The Blue Lamp
ACT 1
The question came, as it were, "out of the blue:"
Mum (slightly querulous):
Where's my blue lamp?
Alex (thinking hard):
What blue lamp do you mean, Ma?
Mum:
My blue lamp.
Alex (having just remembered there are a matching pair of blue lamps, upstairs. Mum has used one as a bedside light, but the bulb needs replacing):
Oh, I know the one. I'll get it for you.
Alex exits, runs upstairs and picks up the other lamp with a serviceable bulb.
Alex (back in Mum's room, presents the lamp with a flourish):
There you are!
Mum looks at the lamp:
That's not it!
Alex:
Yes it is - it's the one you were using, but it got dropped, and the bulb went. It's working, now.
Mum:
No, that's not the lamp I want. I want the lamp my dad made for me.
Alex (thinking even harder):
But, Mum, your dad died in 1943. He must have made it for you a very long time ago.
Mum:
Yes, he did.
Alex:
But, Mum, since then, you've lived in East Africa for nearly 40 years, you travelled backwards and forwards to England many times..... Where do you think the lamp could be?
Mum:
I don't know. (She pauses, then insists): YOU had it!
Alex is in a quandary. She has been told that you should always agree with people who have dementia, but no-one has come up with advice to cope with this scenario. She presumes the lamp must have existed, but even if it survived being packed and unpacked for all those journeys out abroad and back home again, she has no memory of ever seeing a blue lamp.
Alex:
Can you remind me what it looks like?
Mum:
It's blue.
Alex:
O.K. I'm trying to think where it could be. You know we have tidied up a lot......
Mum:
My dad made it for me. If you've lost it.......!
Alex:
No, no, I'm sure it's not lost. It's just that we put some things in the shed whilst we were tidying up. It's all safe - I've just got to go and look through the things we wrapped up, so it might take a while.
Mum:
I want to have my lamp back.
Alex (placatingly):
Look, I've got to go and get the dinner on. Let me do that first, get the carrots and the potatoes peeled, and then I'll go and have a look for it. Is that alright?
Mum (reluctantly):
Yes, alright. But I want my blue lamp.
Alex:
I know. I'll look for it later.
ACT 2
Happily for Alex, by the time the dinner was cooking, Mum's memories of the blue lamp had "gone off the boil," and she didn't ask for it again that day. By the time the subject of the blue lamp came up again, the idea of the time-delay locked safe in the lounge had been decided upon. This was a great device; having worked in a bank, Mum was aware of security measures, and it postponed having to find non-existent treasures/papers/documents etc., for her. Suggesting the time delay won us a welcome reprieve, and a reasonable chance that Mum's memories would be diverted, and focus on something else.
ACT 1
The question came, as it were, "out of the blue:"
Mum (slightly querulous):
Where's my blue lamp?
Alex (thinking hard):
What blue lamp do you mean, Ma?
Mum:
My blue lamp.
Alex (having just remembered there are a matching pair of blue lamps, upstairs. Mum has used one as a bedside light, but the bulb needs replacing):
Oh, I know the one. I'll get it for you.
Alex exits, runs upstairs and picks up the other lamp with a serviceable bulb.
Alex (back in Mum's room, presents the lamp with a flourish):
There you are!
Mum looks at the lamp:
That's not it!
Alex:
Yes it is - it's the one you were using, but it got dropped, and the bulb went. It's working, now.
Mum:
No, that's not the lamp I want. I want the lamp my dad made for me.
Alex (thinking even harder):
But, Mum, your dad died in 1943. He must have made it for you a very long time ago.
Mum:
Yes, he did.
Alex:
But, Mum, since then, you've lived in East Africa for nearly 40 years, you travelled backwards and forwards to England many times..... Where do you think the lamp could be?
Mum:
I don't know. (She pauses, then insists): YOU had it!
Alex is in a quandary. She has been told that you should always agree with people who have dementia, but no-one has come up with advice to cope with this scenario. She presumes the lamp must have existed, but even if it survived being packed and unpacked for all those journeys out abroad and back home again, she has no memory of ever seeing a blue lamp.
Alex:
Can you remind me what it looks like?
Mum:
It's blue.
Alex:
O.K. I'm trying to think where it could be. You know we have tidied up a lot......
Mum:
My dad made it for me. If you've lost it.......!
Alex:
No, no, I'm sure it's not lost. It's just that we put some things in the shed whilst we were tidying up. It's all safe - I've just got to go and look through the things we wrapped up, so it might take a while.
Mum:
I want to have my lamp back.
Alex (placatingly):
Look, I've got to go and get the dinner on. Let me do that first, get the carrots and the potatoes peeled, and then I'll go and have a look for it. Is that alright?
Mum (reluctantly):
Yes, alright. But I want my blue lamp.
Alex:
I know. I'll look for it later.
ACT 2
Happily for Alex, by the time the dinner was cooking, Mum's memories of the blue lamp had "gone off the boil," and she didn't ask for it again that day. By the time the subject of the blue lamp came up again, the idea of the time-delay locked safe in the lounge had been decided upon. This was a great device; having worked in a bank, Mum was aware of security measures, and it postponed having to find non-existent treasures/papers/documents etc., for her. Suggesting the time delay won us a welcome reprieve, and a reasonable chance that Mum's memories would be diverted, and focus on something else.
Tuesday 16 January 2018
Christmas Celebrations
Christmas Celebrations
Although the days and weeks preceding the festive season just flew past, after accepting some things would not get done before December 25 - including sending out cards in time for them to arrive before Christmas - we had a very happy, very peaceful time.
We decided to cook the "big dinner" on Christmas Eve, which would mean we could all have a more relaxed and meaningful Christmas day; I do enjoy cooking, but trying to get everything done with all the trimmings, and looking after Mum at the same time, can be a bit of a tall order. Even though everyone pitches in and does their bit to help, I have on occasion ended up feeling too tired to enjoy the food I've cooked with love and care. It was a good idea to spread the load over 2 days.
On Christmas Eve, we sat down to a delicious roast turkey; my speciality roast potatoes (par-boiled, then roasted in butter, turned frequently) which turn out delicately crispy on the outside, and soft and flavoursome on the inside; carrots, peas, swede, turnips were also on the menu, as well as (the dreaded) brussels sprouts. Everyone but me is really quite keen on sprouts - I will eat them as part of the Christmas dinner, but have to admit I could manage without them! Grandson Al reckons I tend to overcook them: he said, "Just don't 'nuke' them, Grandma....." So I didn't. And I remembered Yorkshire puddings.
On Christmas Day, Mum's carers arrived as usual, and she was soon up and washed and dressed; she knew what day it was, and that Wendy and Al would be back later, to share everything with us.
I rang Uncle John, Mum's brother in Brisbane; he was so happy to hear from us. It always touches me how sad it is that on special days of celebration, he is on his own. He puts a brave face on it, but we know he is lonely. Every year, we ask ourselves the same question: how can his son, my cousin, be not interested in visiting his dad - not even at Christmas? We can't understand it. Uncle John is such a bright man, full of zip - he can hold a conversation on any subject you like, and is so interesting to talk to. When we lived in East Africa, Uncle John was always like a dad to me, so he has a special place in my heart. Wendy goes out to see him every year; she has booked a flight in February, and Uncle John is so looking forward to seeing her.
When Wendy was a baby, my Grandma (Mum's mother) hand knitted every pair of socks Wendy ever wore. Now, on Christmas Day, we have our own family tradition of using one of these socks for every member of the family, filling them with apples, oranges and chocolate bars. Mum remembers this, too, and she often talks about her mother, sometimes believing she is still alive. Of course we talk about my Grandma very often, and she is always with us in our thoughts; our yearly stocking filling is also a wonderful reminder of an amazing lady who made such a positive impact on everyone she met.
The dining table looked beautiful, decorated with a Christmas cloth and napkins; I did my usual origami act, folding them into sailing ships, and with sparkly crackers in place, it was very festive. Mum sat at the head of the table, and we were such a jolly group, tucking into dinner. I made roast potatoes as before, and varied veg, but it was really good not to be dealing with cooking the turkey as well! I think this is the way to go next year, too.
After dinner, we repaired to the lounge to exchange gifts; a really happy, family time. We took photos of each other, and Mum was amazing, staying up for so many more hours than she usually does, and enjoying every moment. One of her presents was a soft cloth Santa hat in red, with a length of white faux fur around the edge, a white pom pom at the tip, and "Merry Christmas" embroidered on the front; she wore it for the rest of the day, and kept it on when she went to bed! It was one of the best presents she had.
On Boxing Day, Mum was extremely tired; she certainly did not want to get up with the carers' first call in the morning. She was sleeping so peacefully, and we decided to let her carry on until she woke up naturally. It meant missing breakfast, but when the carers returned at lunch time, Mum was once again wide awake and definitely ready to get up and get ready for lunch. Sometimes we have to be flexible!
The days between Christmas and New Year passed by in the same gentle pattern, with entertainment provided with piano playing and singing carols and Music Hall songs.
At New Year, for the first time in many a long year, I did not stay up to welcome 2018. I enjoy listening to the countdown to midnight, and watching the fireworks, but I am afraid it was just not on this year! We have slid gently into the New Year with hope and faith that it will prove to be a happy and healthy one for us all.
Although the days and weeks preceding the festive season just flew past, after accepting some things would not get done before December 25 - including sending out cards in time for them to arrive before Christmas - we had a very happy, very peaceful time.
We decided to cook the "big dinner" on Christmas Eve, which would mean we could all have a more relaxed and meaningful Christmas day; I do enjoy cooking, but trying to get everything done with all the trimmings, and looking after Mum at the same time, can be a bit of a tall order. Even though everyone pitches in and does their bit to help, I have on occasion ended up feeling too tired to enjoy the food I've cooked with love and care. It was a good idea to spread the load over 2 days.
On Christmas Eve, we sat down to a delicious roast turkey; my speciality roast potatoes (par-boiled, then roasted in butter, turned frequently) which turn out delicately crispy on the outside, and soft and flavoursome on the inside; carrots, peas, swede, turnips were also on the menu, as well as (the dreaded) brussels sprouts. Everyone but me is really quite keen on sprouts - I will eat them as part of the Christmas dinner, but have to admit I could manage without them! Grandson Al reckons I tend to overcook them: he said, "Just don't 'nuke' them, Grandma....." So I didn't. And I remembered Yorkshire puddings.
On Christmas Day, Mum's carers arrived as usual, and she was soon up and washed and dressed; she knew what day it was, and that Wendy and Al would be back later, to share everything with us.
I rang Uncle John, Mum's brother in Brisbane; he was so happy to hear from us. It always touches me how sad it is that on special days of celebration, he is on his own. He puts a brave face on it, but we know he is lonely. Every year, we ask ourselves the same question: how can his son, my cousin, be not interested in visiting his dad - not even at Christmas? We can't understand it. Uncle John is such a bright man, full of zip - he can hold a conversation on any subject you like, and is so interesting to talk to. When we lived in East Africa, Uncle John was always like a dad to me, so he has a special place in my heart. Wendy goes out to see him every year; she has booked a flight in February, and Uncle John is so looking forward to seeing her.
When Wendy was a baby, my Grandma (Mum's mother) hand knitted every pair of socks Wendy ever wore. Now, on Christmas Day, we have our own family tradition of using one of these socks for every member of the family, filling them with apples, oranges and chocolate bars. Mum remembers this, too, and she often talks about her mother, sometimes believing she is still alive. Of course we talk about my Grandma very often, and she is always with us in our thoughts; our yearly stocking filling is also a wonderful reminder of an amazing lady who made such a positive impact on everyone she met.
The dining table looked beautiful, decorated with a Christmas cloth and napkins; I did my usual origami act, folding them into sailing ships, and with sparkly crackers in place, it was very festive. Mum sat at the head of the table, and we were such a jolly group, tucking into dinner. I made roast potatoes as before, and varied veg, but it was really good not to be dealing with cooking the turkey as well! I think this is the way to go next year, too.
After dinner, we repaired to the lounge to exchange gifts; a really happy, family time. We took photos of each other, and Mum was amazing, staying up for so many more hours than she usually does, and enjoying every moment. One of her presents was a soft cloth Santa hat in red, with a length of white faux fur around the edge, a white pom pom at the tip, and "Merry Christmas" embroidered on the front; she wore it for the rest of the day, and kept it on when she went to bed! It was one of the best presents she had.
On Boxing Day, Mum was extremely tired; she certainly did not want to get up with the carers' first call in the morning. She was sleeping so peacefully, and we decided to let her carry on until she woke up naturally. It meant missing breakfast, but when the carers returned at lunch time, Mum was once again wide awake and definitely ready to get up and get ready for lunch. Sometimes we have to be flexible!
The days between Christmas and New Year passed by in the same gentle pattern, with entertainment provided with piano playing and singing carols and Music Hall songs.
At New Year, for the first time in many a long year, I did not stay up to welcome 2018. I enjoy listening to the countdown to midnight, and watching the fireworks, but I am afraid it was just not on this year! We have slid gently into the New Year with hope and faith that it will prove to be a happy and healthy one for us all.
Friday 12 January 2018
A Couple Of (Very) Brief Conversations With The Carers...
A Couple Of (Very) Brief Conversations With The Carers.....
Monday, 8 January 2018.
Scene: Early morning
The carers come in - two lovely ladies. They open the curtains and greet Mum cheerfully.
Carer Sue: Good morning, Phyllis!
Mum (awake.....and obviously has been pondering matters of mortality...): We've all got to die sometime
Sue (determinedly positive): I hope it's not today!
Mum was left to mull this over......
Tuesday, 9 January 2018
Scene: The carers come in at lunch time, to get Mum up after her morning nap.
Sue takes Mum on the glider to the bathroom, to spend a penny. After giving Mum some time in privacy, she goes back, and asks:
Have you been to the toilet yet?
Mum: I can't spend a penny yet. But if you take me into the garden, I can go on the lawn!
The mystery of the brown patches on the grass is now solved!!
Monday, 8 January 2018.
Scene: Early morning
The carers come in - two lovely ladies. They open the curtains and greet Mum cheerfully.
Carer Sue: Good morning, Phyllis!
Mum (awake.....and obviously has been pondering matters of mortality...): We've all got to die sometime
Sue (determinedly positive): I hope it's not today!
Mum was left to mull this over......
Tuesday, 9 January 2018
Scene: The carers come in at lunch time, to get Mum up after her morning nap.
Sue takes Mum on the glider to the bathroom, to spend a penny. After giving Mum some time in privacy, she goes back, and asks:
Have you been to the toilet yet?
Mum: I can't spend a penny yet. But if you take me into the garden, I can go on the lawn!
The mystery of the brown patches on the grass is now solved!!
Tuesday 9 January 2018
New Year Resolutions
New Year Resolutions
I have decided my first resolution for 2018 is to be more consistent in writing this blog1
At home, just going from day to day, there is always a lot to do. Without exception, there are things that have to be done every day; Mum has to be got up by the carers, and they wash and dress her. We then take over, washing Mum's face and hands, and helping her to brush her teeth - those she has left, anyway! Then we make Mum's breakfast, lunch and tea. This involves one of us always being present, to prepare the food, and then make sure Mum eats and drinks properly. In itself, this isn't a problem; we try to consider mealtimes as positive times of day, and make them as enjoyable as possible. When Mum is happy and in a good mood, it really makes it so easy; we can chat - even if it a bit repetitive - watch children's television, or I'll read items out of the newspaper that might interest her.
Sometimes, I'll do some mending; that's when Mum usually says, "Oh, I can do that for you!" and I reply, "Oh that's lovely - I'll bring in a needle and some thread for you!"
"I can't see to thread the needle," says Mum.
"Don't worry about that - I'll thread it for you."
A couple of minutes later, she will have forgotten about it, and so we carry on as before.
Spending so many hours a day with Mum one on one is fine, but it leaves little time for other things that also need doing; the washing, ironing, shopping and - for me - writing. All the days seem to blend into one, and that's how the days, weeks and months fly by. There are times when I am so tired at the end of the day, I just cannot keep going for any longer, and need to sleep; the idea of settling down for a while to do something creative flies out of the window and, as we all know, creativity is not a patient beast. If I can't just find that short time to give rein to my ideas when they are fresh in my head, by the morning, like the days, they have flown.
Since well before Christmas (a couple of months before, in fact), there was so much else going on - (not least having to make sure the "infinity" DNR instruction was lifted from Mum's medical records, which, thank goodness. was resolved - and also arranging Mum's birthday trip to the Ritz, and then writing enough Christmas cards to keep the Royal Mail going for another year) - that writing posts for the blog fell by the wayside.
It wasn't the only thing I fell behind with, either. I am still adrift with dozens of Christmas cards - all written, with envelopes stamped but, alas, without the letters I like to enclose with them.
I realise we need days that are 25 hours long, and weeks of 8 days each! and so Wendy came up with the brilliant idea that, for this year, as it is still part of the Christmas-Epiphany season, we shall aim for Candlemas - 2 February - to send out the rest of our Christmas cards. Even if it is later than usual, they will all be sent; I think (and hope!) everyone will understand it wasn't from lack of will they may not have heard from me in December, but the New Year will bring my good wishes, and resolution to do better in future!
Taking a cue from old school reports, that might have contained remarks like: "Must try harder!" and "Could do better!" - I shall! I shall!!
I have decided my first resolution for 2018 is to be more consistent in writing this blog1
At home, just going from day to day, there is always a lot to do. Without exception, there are things that have to be done every day; Mum has to be got up by the carers, and they wash and dress her. We then take over, washing Mum's face and hands, and helping her to brush her teeth - those she has left, anyway! Then we make Mum's breakfast, lunch and tea. This involves one of us always being present, to prepare the food, and then make sure Mum eats and drinks properly. In itself, this isn't a problem; we try to consider mealtimes as positive times of day, and make them as enjoyable as possible. When Mum is happy and in a good mood, it really makes it so easy; we can chat - even if it a bit repetitive - watch children's television, or I'll read items out of the newspaper that might interest her.
Sometimes, I'll do some mending; that's when Mum usually says, "Oh, I can do that for you!" and I reply, "Oh that's lovely - I'll bring in a needle and some thread for you!"
"I can't see to thread the needle," says Mum.
"Don't worry about that - I'll thread it for you."
A couple of minutes later, she will have forgotten about it, and so we carry on as before.
Spending so many hours a day with Mum one on one is fine, but it leaves little time for other things that also need doing; the washing, ironing, shopping and - for me - writing. All the days seem to blend into one, and that's how the days, weeks and months fly by. There are times when I am so tired at the end of the day, I just cannot keep going for any longer, and need to sleep; the idea of settling down for a while to do something creative flies out of the window and, as we all know, creativity is not a patient beast. If I can't just find that short time to give rein to my ideas when they are fresh in my head, by the morning, like the days, they have flown.
Since well before Christmas (a couple of months before, in fact), there was so much else going on - (not least having to make sure the "infinity" DNR instruction was lifted from Mum's medical records, which, thank goodness. was resolved - and also arranging Mum's birthday trip to the Ritz, and then writing enough Christmas cards to keep the Royal Mail going for another year) - that writing posts for the blog fell by the wayside.
It wasn't the only thing I fell behind with, either. I am still adrift with dozens of Christmas cards - all written, with envelopes stamped but, alas, without the letters I like to enclose with them.
I realise we need days that are 25 hours long, and weeks of 8 days each! and so Wendy came up with the brilliant idea that, for this year, as it is still part of the Christmas-Epiphany season, we shall aim for Candlemas - 2 February - to send out the rest of our Christmas cards. Even if it is later than usual, they will all be sent; I think (and hope!) everyone will understand it wasn't from lack of will they may not have heard from me in December, but the New Year will bring my good wishes, and resolution to do better in future!
Taking a cue from old school reports, that might have contained remarks like: "Must try harder!" and "Could do better!" - I shall! I shall!!
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