The Morning After The Night Before...!

The Morning After The Night Before...!

Apart from celebrating my birthday, the 28 March was another milestone for all of us:  it marked 6 years since Mum came home from hospital to live with us.

After Mum's marathon session of staying up for my birthday -  and she had had very little rest during the day - we wondered how she would be, 24 hours later; it was indeed a rather weird Mum we had to deal with.

When the carers arrived in the morning to get her up, she was very chatty, and complimented them on the way they were looking after her.

"You look after me very well," said Mum.

"Thank you, Phyllis!"

"Oh, yes," Mum continued, "you look after me much better than they looked after you in prison!"

That was a bit of a curve ball, and we were all left scratching our heads, trying to work how Mum had imagined this scenario!

After breakfast, Mum had her usual nap and the carers returned at about 2.00 p.m., to get her up again. I began to prepare the dinner; Mum was happy and read one of her catalogues. I kept popping in and out to see her, giving progress reports how the cooking was coming along.

I took Mum cup of tea, and went back for her dinner; as I put the plate down, she was already pushing the table back, and insisting she was going to walk, and "come upstairs" for her food.

There are many times now, when Mum is quite weak, and she can barely stand up for the few seconds it takes to "twiddle round" to sit on the glider; but on this occasion, it was as though she had been imbued with a fresh sense of power and confidence. Mum reckoned she could walk, and began pushing hard down on the arms of her chair; she just about managed to get up on her feet, before she had to sit down again.

"Give me the table!" she demanded, "and I'll be able to stand up!"

"Ma," I said, "you can't use this table, because it isn't strong enough. It's only a light table, to go over your knees when you are sitting in the chair, or across the bed. It isn't stable enough for you to press on it."

"Give me my walking stick, then!"

Mum has never used a walking stick. Years ago, when she could still walk (after a fashion), she would use a very low and very small stool to help her. She would walk one step to the stool, and then half-throw, half place it, another 12 - 18 inches away, and sort of walk up to it again. Because it was so low, she was bent almost double - when he saw what she was doing, Mum's GP was concerned about the effect it was having on her back.

The upshot was, Mum always preferred to improvise, and was never willing to use any walking aid to help her - no walking sticks were ever going to be good enough, and as for Zimmer frames, as far as Mum was concerned, they were really a waste of time.

On this afternoon, with the hot plate of dinner now steaming gently on the table, I managed to persuade Mum to sit back in the chair, and get comfy. I put a nice table cover on, and plonked the dinner in front of her. My idea was, if I could distract Mum long enough from the idea of getting up and walking, we could get started on the meal, and that would become her main focus.

Mum was happy; she ate well, and we watched a couple of things she links on t.v. - Dickinson's Real Deal, and Tipping Point. Mum can cope with programmes like these, as they have short "segments" to remember - she can't settle in to watch a good drama, as she loses track of a complicated plot.

Everything followed the usual pattern, with us all joining in a singing session after dinner, until Mum wanted to lie down again, to rest her leg.

Mum got to bed at about 10.30 p.m.., and settled down happily enough, but when I looked in on her at 1.30 in the morning, before getting to bed myself, she was wide awake. She was perfectly happy, and I told her the ladies would be along later, to get her up and washed; we bid each other a very cheerful "Goodnight!"

Mum must have slept after that, because when the carers arrived the next morning (Friday, 30 March), she told them there had been a terrible storm in the night; the roof had blown off, and the rain had come in.

There had been no storm that night, and all was calm, so she must have dreamed it, or else she may have been remembering a very old occurrence. Back in 1951, we came back in England for a while, on leave from East Africa.  We stayed in Southport, lodging with a lady called Mrs Bluett; our room was at the top of the house. One night, there was a very wild storm; I remember dreaming about being in a garden, watching people watering the flowers with a watering can, when suddenly, I was the one being sprayed! I woke up with a start, to find water dripping on my face - and a large bulge in the ceiling above me.  Mum and I got up and woke Mrs Bluett, who went to investigate what had happened. The wind had blown tiles off the roof and of course the heavy rain had poured in and found its lowest point - right above my bed.  For me it was an adventure - but perhaps not so much fun for my Mum!

I've Been To A Marvellous Party.....

I've Been To A Marvellous Party....... (28 March 2018)

With apologies to Noel Coward:

I've been to a marvellous party
'Though I didn't go out the front door
All my loved ones were here
To give me a cheer....
I couldn't have liked it more!

I always think clocking up another year is something to celebrate, and I will always look forward to my birthday.  I know for some people, it's an ominous day, and they dread it; I try to think about all I've managed to achieve in the past year, and what I hope to do in this next one!

Because looking after Mum takes up such a lot time every day, and because she is getting a bit frailer as time goes on, it's hard to make plans; but I continue to look ahead and make arrangements, with hope and faith that they will come to fruition.

There was a time, when we would go off to the Ritz 5 times a year, celebrating various birthdays and special occasions,  but now I have to limit our visits, as I can't risk taking Mum out in the winter - for example on Al's birthday in January, or in March, to celebrate mine.

As a result of us not being able to go out, the party has had to come to me on my birthday - and today has been a wonderful day.  Yes, I have had to do the usual things for Mum - preparing breakfast, dinner and supper, and making sure she eats and drinks properly - but I have had help and superb support, and the day has just flown.  I have had phone calls, cards, e-mails, beautiful gifts - and the best thing of all is to know the people I love are all wishing me well and making my birthday one to remember.

Mum has been in great form - she didn't get to bed until nearly midnight; I stayed up a while longer, and went in to see her at about 1.30 a.m.  She was very sleepy, but awake enough to talk to me.

I asked her, 'Are you warm enough, Ma?"

"Oh, yes!" she said, snuggling down again, "I'm very warm!"

A great ending to a great day.

Tough Times In Tanganyika (Tanzania)

Tough Times In Tanganyika (Tanzania)

I've had to think long and hard before deciding to write something about our life abroad.  I know the winter of 1946/47 was a very harsh one; for many people, the prospect of working in the Colonies was exciting and full of possibilities. I imagine when the offer of jobs overseas came up, the thought of hot weather, sunshine and the promise of an "easy life," was very persuasive. We sailed from England in 1948, and my earliest memories are of my childhood in East Africa.

For those for whom their home life was happy, East Africa was a very good place to be; for the others, it was anything but. There were functions and parties, and regular "sundowners," cocktail parties that started at sunset, and could carry on for hours. We had moonflowers, which when ready to blossom, opened very swiftly, and gave the perfect excuse for a party. This is a poem I wrote about it.

MOONFLOWER PARTY

It was any excuse for a party -
Although this was better than most;
As the creamy white petals unfolded
"Moonflower!" was raised as the toast.

The African twilight was swiftly done -
From daylight to darkness, the last rays of the sun
Settled, gently aflame the manicured lawn
For twelve hours of secrets before the new dawn.

House boys in kanzus - well trained to a man
Hovered discretely, laden trays in their hand,
With canapés, sausages and how everyone screamed
At the risqué remarks made by sweet seventeen!

With cocktails, sundowners and orange and lime,
The empties collected - worth two cents a time;
The cuckolded husbands and cheated wives
Stayed laughing and drinking, within an inch of their lives.

And in the hubbub, with the noise at its height
The guests ebbed and flowed into the night;
Into conservatories, hidden by leaves
With naught to be seen but the glimpse of a sleeve.

And shyly, unseen, its petals unfurled
Open to all who could see in its world;
Whilst the harsh, raucous party polluted its space,
To the moon, the moonflower, lifted its face.

Before Mum came to live with us in 2012, and whilst she was still in hospital, I spent so much time on the ward with her, I got to know some of the other patients well.  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, and became concerned about about some of the things Mum was saying; she felt Mum was clearly deeply disturbed about things that had occurred in her past.  Mum talked a lot about the time when we lived abroad, but then later would contradict what she had said. This lady realised Mum was 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 there 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 and abusive behaviour.  When we lived in East Africa, at that time "anything went," and my father took full advantage of the female opportunities offered to him.  If my mother dared to protest, he would beat her; typically abusive, he would then tell her it was her fault, and he would also accuse her of being mad, for daring to complain.

As a child, I was expected to be "seen but not heard." I had eyes to see and ears to hear, and a heart to pound with fear, and I could not understand why we had to stay anywhere near someone so cruel.  I entertained fantasies of escaping in the dead of night, and finding a safe haven, but in those days women's shelters didn't exist and I know now, how difficult it must have been for anyone in that kind of situation, to do anything about it. Women had no rights as such; Mum was "the Engineer's wife," and was friends with "the Doctor's wife," whilst I was the Engineer's daughter, and played with the Doctor's daughter.

Mum believed in marriage as a sacrament, but I was fearful that in our family, "'Til death us do part" might well come true, sooner rather than later. In those days, I believe many women reckoned if they had a husband who came home at night, gave them money for housekeeping, and didn't ill-treat them, they were jolly fortunate, and should be grateful. Even in the UK, I don't think things were much better.  One year, when we were back in England on leave, Mum had to have a wisdom tooth extracted, under general anaesthetic. It wasn't Mum who signed the consent form, but my father who had to give his permission for her to undergo the procedure.

My mother always made excuses for him: how he had been a prisoner of war, and that must have upset him. In her mind, there was always a reason for his behaviour, and why she would forgive him and continue living with him, but I knew other men - fathers of my school friends, who had also been prisoners of war, both in Germany and under the Japanese - and it had not turned them into abusive partners.

My daughter, Wendy, who in this matter sometimes comes across as though she has swallowed a medical dictionary, firmly believes he displayed the classic symptoms of someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Such people will treat their wife/long term original partner appallingly, and go off to find validation of how wonderful they are, with someone else, "finding a new source of narcissistic supply;" after a while, when this new relationship, or "supply" begins to pall, or the new partner realises all is not well, they will return home, and carry on as before. Until it all happens again.

I'm sure my Mum was not the only woman to exist in a bad marriage, but it was extremely difficult to escape from it.

I wonder sometimes if the ill-treatment meted out by my father has hastened and exacerbated the start and progress of Mum's dementia. I am sure it could not have helped and now, with some of her memories being those from so very long ago, she can become very angry and unhappy, and it makes it difficult for us to reassure her that everything is different now, and all is well.  Sometimes she repeats things my father said to her, all those years ago - hurtful, twisted words, and it is always very painful to hear his "script" emanating from my mother's mouth. We have to try and distract her and bring her thoughts back into happier experiences.

I think the past informs the present and the present influences the future; I can't change the past, but I can try and keep the present as happy and full of nice things to look forward to, as possible.  I know Mum can learn new things (it just takes longer!)  and I keep hoping that gradually she will begin to dwell on these happier times.

A Topsy-Turvey Week

A Topsy-Turvey Week

On Tuesday, 20 February, because I was due to lead another session of a poetry group called The Redbridge Rhymesters, I was up very bright and early, getting a head start on the day. All the poets are over 55, and are very imaginative and creative people; because we were going to be joined by children from a local primary school, it was sure to be an exciting workshop. The children have taken part before, and it is wonderful to have an intergenerational meeting of minds; it also gives everyone a chance to learn how people from different eras and places can be encouraged to share their knowledge through reminiscing about past experiences, and preserve it through the medium of poetry.

So, I was up with the lark. I had everything ready for Mum; toothpaste and toothbrush for her teeth, cornflakes in the bowl for breakfast, and the four pills she takes every morning; but then came a problem.

The carers arrived, to get Mum up and washed, but Mum was determinedly fast asleep, and it was one of those times when they could not wake her up. They decided to give her a bed bath, get her all fresh and changed into clean clothes, and see how she was, later on.  During all this, Mum did not rouse, and I considered whether I should actually be away for the morning.

We never leave Mum on her own; one member of the family is with her at all times, and everything was organised for me to be away from home for a few hours, but I was still in two minds about it.

The carers were clear: "It's something you love doing. Your Mum is not going to be on her own, so go and enjoy it."

With that in mind, I set off, and it was a wonderful time, with poems on the theme of Food - some serious, some thoughtful, some funny! It was good to have a complete change of scene.

I hoped Mum had woken up for her breakfast but, as I walked back to the car, my mobile rang, with the news that when the carers had arrived for the next call, Mum had still been fast asleep. They decided to call an ambulance and get Mum checked up in hospital. Mum wasn't on her own and had company for the journey; I said I would go straight to the hospital as well.

I got to A&E and found Mum - or rather, I heard her first, in a bay down the corridor, screaming as the nurse tried to get a cannula into a vein on her left arm. The cannula went in a little way, but it was painful, and Mum promptly pulled it out! so they tried to find a suitable vein on her right arm. This time they managed to get three phials of blood, but Mum wouldn't tolerate the cannula being left in.

It was same story as we have had before. After being so fast asleep, as soon as she was in the ambulance and on the way to hospital, Mum woke up.

Whilst she was in A&E, other tests were carried out: an ECG proved normal, the blood tests came back O.K., and I was very pleased to learn her iron level had also gone up to 10.6 - a big improvement on the September 2017 results. (Mum has always said, she doesn't like spinach, but "Popeye's Cabbage" must be having some sort of positive effect!)

A nurse went through a questionnaire with Mum, to test for dementia, and I was pleasantly surprised at how well she did.  She could still count backwards (this time from only 20!) and knew her age and date of birth, and who was head of the Monarchy - some of these questions never change! It was clear her short term memory was very poor, because she could not remember answers to questions she asked the nurses, and kept asking them the same thing, over and over again.

The doctor was very thorough, and said it was possible Mum could be suffering from a urine infection - they hadn't been able to get a sample but, to be on the safe side, he would prescribe antibiotics for her. He also pointed out that hospitals are not always the best places for elderly folk like Mum, to be in; there are so many illnesses being treated, and it's easy for vulnerable people to pick up infections. He suggested that in future, if Mum was having a sleepy day, but appeared well in all other respects, it might be better to allow her wake up naturally, when she has had enough sleep. .

Everything went very quickly then; I got the prescription for more amoxicillin and transport was ordered to take Mum home. She got back at 7.00 p.m., by which time I had also collected the medicine, and got the dinner on.

With Mum settled back in her chair, she tucked into her usual hearty dinner, followed by After 8 mints, and rounded off by a sing song round the piano.

It was not quite the reasonably gentle day I had hoped for, but it was good to know Mum had been checked over and pronounced fit to go home. That was (very) "Tired Tuesday."

The next couple of days, Wednesday and Thursday were fairly normal for Mum, with regular naps in between meals; and then we got to Friday and Saturday, and found Mum in a completely different, extremely energetic mood.

She was so full of whizz and zip, she hardly slept at all during the day; she was chatty, ready for her meals, ate well (and quite quickly), and sang with great gusto afterwards. We watched some of the competitors at the Winter Olympics, on t.v. - she especially enjoyed the skating, with the music and glamourous costumes, and was following it all.

Because I tend to go to bed late (or early, depending on which way you look at it - usually at about 2.00 a.m.) I check on Mum two or three times before I turn in.  On the Saturday night, she was quietly awake, when I looked in on her.

"What time is it?" Mum asked.

"It's 1.30 in the morning, Ma," I said. "I'm just off to bed now."

Mum said, "Good night, have a good night....."   a lovely, normal remark.

"Night-night to you, too," I said, and went off to bed.

After 48 or more hours of very little sleep, it didn't come as too much of a surprise when, on Sunday morning, Mum was once again fast asleep when the carers arrived to get her up. They decided to leave her where she was, gave her a bed bath and changed her clothes. To give her a chance to catch up on some sleep, we cancelled the mid-morning call, and by lunch time, she was ready to get up and sit in her chair.

Mum was awake for a while, and enjoyed her dinner, but after that she began to flag. She wanted to go back to bed for another nap, and that is what she did. When the carers returned to get her up for supper, she was sleeping so gently, we left her warm and comfy to snooze on.

It was a Topsy-Turvey week, veering from very sleepy indeed to hyper-activity, and we are still learning to go with the flow.