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.
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!
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