How Kind The Carers Are

How Kind The Carers Are

We have such a close-knit band of carers, and they all know Mum really well. When she talks about "Johnny-boy" they know that is her pet name for her "baby" brother; Mum might be 100, and Uncle John might be 96 1/2, but he will always be her baby brother, and "Johnny-boy" to her

Since we discovered how ill Uncle John is, and how badly his son is dealing with his affairs, it has been a source of sadness and worry to us all, trying to find out what is happening.

After Wendy got home in June, we have not been allowed to speak to Uncle John without his son giving his permission. Because of the 9 (and now 10) hour time difference, it could be tricky to get a moment when both Mum and Uncle John are awake at the same time; in the past, and when Uncle John was well and in his own home, I would normally ring him whilst Mum was having her breakfast, and Uncle John having his supper; that worked pretty well. Now that Uncle John is ill, and sleeping more, trying to snatch a moment when they are both able to talk to each other is made impossible by attempting to obtain Johnny's permission for Uncle John to take the call. I have tried everything I can think of to try to re-establish our right to speak to Uncle John, but the staff at the Nursing Home have to follow the orders given in a letter from Uncle John's son, and which is placed on Uncle John's file, which is that no-one can speak or see Uncle John without Johnny's say-so. So far, the only person who had the right to visit Uncle John in the Nursing Home, was a Social Worker from ADA Australia; she went three times, but on two occasions, Uncle John was asleep, and on one visit when she was there, and he was awake, he was obviously not confident enough to open up to someone who was a virtual stranger. The Social Worker reported they could do no more.

I got in touch with the Police, and two policemen had to ask permission to visit; on this occasion, Johnny said Yes, so they were able to talk to Uncle John, but only spoke to him on matters of how he felt about the Nursing Home.

The Nursing Home is lovely, and the staff are caring, but no-one thought to ask the $64,000 question: "Why is Uncle John's son behaving like this, and preventing contact from us, Uncle John's loving family in England?"  On 22 July, I filed a complaint to the Office of the Public Guardian, about the way Johnny was abusing his Power of Attorney; I was told the investigation is continuing, but over four months have now passed, with no definite answers. If it goes on much longer, it won't matter, because Uncle John could die. I also had a lot of sympathetic understanding from the British Vice Consul in Brisbane, and she would have been very happy to visit Uncle John, and arrange volunteers to see him as well, and take him out and about for little treats; however, when she asked permission to see Uncle John, again, his son refused.

I got in touch with Mum's MP here in the UK, and he also understood the problem, and said he would write at once to the Nursing Home. However, because we are in the middle of a general election, all the MPs are in Purdah, and he can do no more for us at the moment, and he asked the Nursing Home to respond to me directly. It comes as no surprise that, to date, we have not received any communication from the Nursing Home in Jindalee!

I have written to the Prime Minister of Australia, with a plea for him to help us move things along. I simply cannot understand why this situation is being allowed to continue, and why no-one challenges Johnny about his behaviour. I have received a reply, saying my request for help has been passed on to the State Government in Queensland; I am now just praying someone there will take this up and deal with it.

Listing all these things we have done to try and keep in contact with Uncle John, has brought me to one thing Mum kept asking about: When can she speak to her brother again?  It had also not escaped her notice that for the first time, and for this most significant birthday, she had not received a card from Uncle John.

This is where the kindness of Mum's carers came in.

One of the young ladies, Sydney, asked for some photos of Mum and the family, and she arranged for a very special birthday card to be produced with pictures from Mum's past. Taking pride of place, in the middle of the card, was a beautiful photograph of Uncle John and Mum, taken at one of our earlier trips to The Ritz, when he stayed with us one summer.

It was such a kind and thoughtful thing to do; in spite of all the problems we have, it meant Mum did have a contact of sorts with Uncle John, with a picture of the two of them displayed on a beautiful card. She was so happy to have it.

So Mum had a card with her baby brother on it,
after all!

Home Sweet Home -
truly living up to their name!

Mum's Grand Birthday Weekend

Mum's Grand Birthday Weekend

We got there!

Mum has had such a wonderful birthday weekend; apart from Tea at the Ritz on the Saturday, 26 October, we had people round on the Sunday, and more friends and neighbours visited on her actual birthday, Monday 28th October. Mum has enjoyed every minute, as have we all.

Whilst we were enjoying Tea at the Ritz, and after we had all sung Happy Birthday, the waiter brought her large birthday cake to the table, and I stood up and read Mum the poem I had written especially for her. As I finished, all the other guests in the Palm Court also rose to give Mum a spontaneous round of applause.

Mum was thrilled to bits; with her birthday card from the Queen on the table, Mum said she felt like a queen herself, and we were certainly treated right royally.

This is the poem I read for Mum:

BIRTHDAY POEM

  

It’s not every day we celebrate

A great centenary year

And now that you’re one hundred

It’s time to raise a cheer

For so many things that you have done

You’ve travelled far and wide

To Africa in all its ways

With Grandma by your side.

You’ve worked in jobs demanding much

But the pinnacle of your career

Was to land a top post in Treasury

A male-dominated sphere!

There have been seismic changes

But you’ve coped with every one

And risen up to do your best

And come out well and strong. 

We’re a family small, but large on love

You’re our universal glue,

Helping and encouraging us

To stay steadfast and true.

So we can celebrate with love

And congratulatory cheer

This special gathering at the Ritz

Now that your birthday’s here.

Alexandra Wilde

Birthday Girl Mum!

A creamy, dreamy birthday cake

A memorable day

Requesting A Birthday Card From The Queen

Requesting A Birthday Card From The Queen

I think most people who know me, will be aware I much prefer to write letters, rather than use e-mail. It's not so much that I am a technophobe, I just prefer that personal "touch" - literally handling a sheet of paper or a card, writing the letter or message, addressing the envelope, and then posting it to the recipient. I once wrote a poem about this:

A Valentine Verse

We may all be ultra-modern

With mobiles, voice and text;

But with all of these devices,

We can be sorely vexed.

We need a touch of mystery

And of one thing I am sure:

Nothing beats the gentle plop

Of post, landing on the floor.

I'm waiting for that special card,

Picked with love and care,

From that one darling other,

Whose life I want to share.

So, to the Royal Mail, this plea

Is made with all my heart:

On St. Valentine's, can you please

Play your major part?

It might be called "snail mail" by some

But for romance, it's best:

You cannot tuck an e-mail

Up close against your chest!

but I have to confess that, as long as everything works properly, e-mail is quick! If I have someone to guide me, and reassure me I am doing everything correctly, I'm happy to have a go with ordering things on-line.

So it was, I decided to apply to the Anniversaries Office on-line, and request a birthday card for Mum, from Her Majesty: and it really was simple. There was also a phone number to call if I wanted a helping hand, but I didn't need to use it, and everything went through very smoothly.

There was also an option to request the card up to arrive up to five days before the big day - this is in case a party has been arranged - so I asked for it to be delivered on 25 October, so that we would have it in good time, and take it with us to The Ritz.

There followed reassuring e-mails from the Anniversaries Office, confirming everything was in hand. I told Mum that we had heard from Buckingham Palace, and she should soon be receiving a birthday card from the Queen; Mum was thrilled to bits!

The days soon passed, until on Friday, 25 October, our favourite Postman rang the doorbell, and stood there ready to hand us Mum's Royal birthday card, by Special Delivery, guaranteed by 1 p.m. He had a huge smile on his face - all the postmen and ladies recognise these missives from the Palace - and said, "I think someone has a big birthday coming up!"

The card was inside in a royal blue envelope, with EIIR on it, and "To be Delivered on 25/10" written on the top: a truly Royal Mail item!

A week or two earlier, we had also received a couple of phone calls from the Department of Work and Pensions, to check Mum would indeed be celebrating her birthday on 28 October, and I did wonder if they were also making sure Mum was actually still with us...!  However, at the same time as our Postman delivered the card from the Queen, he had another envelope to give to Mum, also by Special Delivery, guaranteed by 1 p.m. It contained a "telegram" from Dr Therese Coffey MP, Secretary of State for Work and Pensions. That was an unexpected bonus, and Mum was pleased to receive it as well.

I remember telegrams from the past - I think one of the last telegrams I ever received was more than 50 years ago, so my memory might be a little hazy, but as I recall in the 70s, they were wonderful for getting information to people who were not on the phone. I was working in London, and one evening the telegram boy delivered one from my fiancé in Portsmouth. He had planned to come up to London at the weekend and take me out, but now he had to let me know that, at very short notice, he had to go on sea trials with a new Royal Navy vessel instead. I was disappointed, but the job took priority, and at least I knew what was happening. I remember telegrams being delivered in orangey-coloured envelopes, with the typed message printed on thin strips, which were then stuck onto a sheet of paper. After every sentence, the word "stop" was always included, and as you paid for every word, this tended to up the cost! I have since read somewhere that for military telegrams, the word "stop" was used to prevent any ambiguity in orders contained in the message.

With all the modern methods of communication, I think telegrams were phased out years ago, but it was a nostalgic reminder of the past for Mum to get a card officially designated as a telegram; it's good the "telegram" title is still retained for occasions like Mum's 100th birthday.

With Mum's birthday card from the Queen safely in our possession, we were all ready for the start of the best birthday weekend.

We All Had Rotten Colds - But Are Now Recovered!

We All Had Rotten Colds - But Are Now Recovered!

If anyone is wondering about the three week-plus gap between postings on this blog, it is because we all went down with the dreaded 'llergy.  Mum was very unwell with a bad cold that went on her chest; the Doctor visited her at home, and Mum was on Amoxycillin for 10 days, which helped a lot.  After Mum had finished the medicine, I was still worried that there was something lingering on her chest; the Doctor came for a second visit to see her, and prescribed another week's course of antibiotics, Clarithromycin, which we hoped would finally get things sorted out.

Because we had all been so close to Mum, within a very short time, I was feeling distinctly "salt and peppery," and sure enough, soon I was feeling as rough as Mum must have felt when she first went down with the bug. We had all been working in such close proximity with Mum, soon the other members of the family were in the same boat!

It meant tasks were taken up by those feeling least ill at any one moment; when all you want to do is get your head down for a while, things that normally take minutes seemed to take hours, but we managed somehow to get everything done.

I can laugh about it now, but it wasn't much fun at the time. I loathe wearing a mask, but I didn't want to risk re-infecting Mum, so made sure I covered up before doing anything for her.

Our Doctor came round once more, to check Mum was really well again; we even had a urine sample tested, and that came back clear.

I was very aware our trip into London for Tea at the Ritz was getting ever closer; it's fine timing for occasions like these, for everyone to be well and enjoy the celebration!

Thanks to the care and attention from Mum's Doctor, and all the Home Sweet Home ladies who care for her, we got through it and dared to look forward to Mum's big day!

Looking After Mum With A Bad Cold/Chest

Looking After Mum With a Bad Cold/Chest

On Thursday, 3 October, Mum woke up and was pretty well; there were a couple of times when I noticed her nose needed a wipe, but nothing out of the ordinary! and she was really chipper, washing her hands and brushing her teeth. Then she ate all her breakfast, drank all her tea, and was very chatty - it was a really good morning!

The ladies came to get Mum into bed for a nap - again, everything was as usual, and I was happy to go off for a couple of hours to a Poetry afternoon; I certainly wouldn't have gone if I had known how quickly Mum would go downhill.

When I got home, Mum was up, but clearly unwell. She was very croaky, and it was frightening how fast everything had progressed. The carers had come back at 4.30 and got her sitting in the chair, so at least she was up, and had eaten some dinner (after saying she didn't want anything, in the end, she didn't do too badly!) and had her tea, but she was very tired, so at the next call, at 7.30, Mum went back to bed. The ladies said they would be back for the usual bed call, and see how she was then; but at 10.00 p.m., Mum was still sound asleep - she didn't even rouse when they were turning her and checking her pad was good for the night, so we all hoped a good sleep would do the trick and she would be as right as rain in the morning.

Because I was so worried about Mum, I couldn't sleep, so I made good use of the time, ringing various authorities in Brisbane, including The Office of the Public Guardian, to see how their investigation, about why Uncle John's son is trying to isolate him, is progressing. I was assured it is continuing, but I stressed that with Uncle John's diagnosis of terminal bile duct and liver cancer, time is of the essence; if all the searches go on for too long, it will soon become academic, because Uncle John will no longer be with us! The lady I spoke to then suggested I write Uncle John a letter, and we shall see if that, at least, gets through to him.

I then rang the Nursing Home, and asked if I could have a quick talk with Uncle John, but the message was the same: There is a letter on file from Uncle John's son, and he will not allow anyone to contact his father without his express permission.

It is just terribly sad. Mum keeps asking why she can't speak to her brother, and I also suspect Uncle John still has no money of his own, to ask someone to buy a 100th birthday card for him to send to her.

I kept checking on Mum, making sure her temperature didn't go up - in spite of her being unwell, she wasn't running a fever, so eventually I gave in and went to bed myself.

Come Friday morning, the lady carers washed Mum, dressed her in nice clean clothes, and talked to her, but Mum was still out of it. She slept on, and we agreed to see how she was at lunch time.

I was very worried because the last thing we want is for the infection to go on her chest, so I rang the surgery early in the morning; the receptionists know Mum - and her age - and took down all the details about how quickly this illness had come on, and promised to get the Doctor to call us as soon as possible.

In fact, as soon as the morning surgery was over, the Doctor arrived. We had already had the lunch call, and Mum was still not up; she slept through the Doctor examining her, listening to her chest (not even the cold end of the stethoscope woke her up!) and took her blood pressure.  Her chest was very "crackly," and the Doctor said she would prescribe a ten days' course of antibiotics for Mum, with the proviso that if she was not improving by Sunday, we should call 999.

By then, Mum had been in bed for around 20 hours, and I knew that was far too long. It's all very well being tired, and I know sleep is a great healer, but you can have too much of a good thing, and we had to get Mum going, and try to clear her chest.

This is where Home Sweet Home Care also really proved their worth. We rang the Office, and they were able to rearrange calls so that we could have help to get Mum up as soon as possible. The carers arrived, and Mum started to wake up, so they gently hoisted her, and got her settled in the chair. We put lots of pillows around her, so she was really comfortable.

In sitting up, Mum was also able to cough and clear her chest; we washed her hands and Mum brushed her teeth; I combed and plaited her hair. It was terribly slow to begin with, but after a while, Mum started to buck up and co-operate; she looked better, and said she felt better.

By then, we had the antibiotics from the chemist; I made tea for Mum and put out a few corn flakes, and she took the first dose of Amoxycillin. She manages the suspension medicine just fine; it smells of bananas, and Mum said how delicious it was - better that than her looking suspiciously at the bottle and asking what it's all for!

I needed to make sure Mum's fluid intake was kept up, and I think over the course of the evening, she did well to drink about 2 1/2 cups of tea; I wasn't so worried about food, but she still fancied a little bit of cake before bedtime.

The carers were terrific; even if they were off duty, we had offers of help from everyone at Home Sweet Home, and we were so touched by their concern and care. They made such an effort to help us, managing call times so that we were able to fit in a second dose of medicine before Mum went back to bed at about 9.30 p.m.

I stayed up for a while, and checked on Mum a few times, before going to bed at about 12.30. Then I could not sleep! My mind was awhirl with worrying about Mum, so at 3.00 a.m., I got up and went to check on her.

She was very hot, with a temperature of about 101f. I got a wodge of kitchen towel, wetted it with lukewarm water, and sponged Mum's forehead and arms to cool her down. I put a single layer of a light blanket over her, and presently checked her temperature again; it was a relief to see it had gone down to 98f.

My sleepless night was at least rewarded creatively; I was inspired to write a poem for the National Poetry Competition (closing date 31 October, so I had better get on with it!) and I also wrote a letter to Uncle John, that can be sent off later in the morning.

When I finally got to bed, I realised I had the first hint that I have probably picked up Mum's bug. It's that faint "salt and pepper" feeling in the nose, accompanied by a touch of malaise that is not just related to tiredness. Oh well. Working in such close proximity with Mum, makes this an occupational hazard. In case it is not the same thing that Mum has, when I got up, it was a case of "Masks at Dawn!"  I loathe wearing a mask, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

Requesting A Birthday Message From The Queen

Requesting A Birthday Message From The Queen

With Mum's big birthday coming up, I thought it was about time to start preparing for the moment when I submit a request to the Anniversaries Office at Buckingham Palace for a Birthday greeting from the Queen.

I knew that a one hundredth birthday was one of the anniversaries for which a message from the Queen could be requested, but I needed to know what documentation is required, and when I should apply on Mum's behalf.

I took the precaution of obtaining a fresh copy of Mum's birth certificate; I rang Liverpool Council and spoke to such a helpful lady, who gave me clear directions on navigating the way through the form on line. It proved interesting: having completed the form, and progressed to payment, suddenly the screen went on to a place about paying Council tax bills, and a whole lot of other, irrelevant (for me!) options! Luckily, I'd already been given a reference number which had been e-mailed to me, so at least I had that.

From my call earlier in the day, the lady I spoke to had told me the help line was open 24 hours a day, so, even though it was late at night, I rang the number to find out what had happened. Within a couple of rings, my call was answered; I was told the site had "gone down" and that I should try again in the morning. Who said working on-line was a good way to operate?!

Fast forward a few hours to mid-morning, and the next attempt to apply for Mum's birth certificate was successful. I opted for the fast track - if the order went in before 2.00 p.m. the certificate would be delivered the next day; I also paid the postage fee to cover the "Recorded, Signed For" service.

After lunch, a gentleman rang me from Liverpool; he was trawling through the archives, looking for the original entry of Mum's birth. As it happened - and because I already had a photocopy of a certificate I'd ordered back in 2011 - I actually had all the details to hand! He was mightily impressed as I read out all the information on this copy certificate: Mum was born at 76, Breck Road in Liverpool, on 28 October 1919, and her father had registered her birth on 8 November 1919. However, it turned out that the most important piece of information I had was a simple, 3 figure number on the left-hand side of the form; once I had read that out, within a couple of minutes it provided the "Eureka" moment and the gentleman said, "I've found it! The certificate will be with you in the morning."

And it was.

I then checked when I could apply to the Anniversaries Office with my request; by post, it has to be three weeks before the date, or you can apply on-line, 5 weeks in advance. Now I shall have to decide which way to do it. On the one hand, I don't want to send a postal application that could get lost or delayed in the post; so perhaps I shall have to try the on-line route. Watch this space!

I Am Re-Acquainted With Dementia UK

I Am Re-Acquainted With Dementia UK

It's funny how being so absorbed in looking after Mum - when most days resemble "Groundhog Day," with one period of 24 hours being pretty much like the last one - means you can forget how, in the early days when Mum came home, a particular organisation was especially helpful.

In the past few days, I've been in touch with the charity Dementia UK, and I've been reminded this is the organisation responsible for training, developing and supporting the dementia specialist Admiral Nurses. They were named after a man called Joseph Levy, who loved sailing, and was affectionately known as "Admiral Joe;" he also suffered from dementia, and when his family founded the charity in 1988, and appointed the first nurses in 1990, it was a natural decision to call them "Admiral Nurses."

A dear friend of mine called June died recently; she didn't live near us; because I couldn't leave Mum on her own, and after June moved to Hertfordshire, I wasn't able to visit her very often. It was sad news when her family wrote to tell me what had happened; I asked if they were having flowers, or family flowers only, and if they would prefer donation to a particular charity instead? My friend had suffered from dementia in the last years of her life, so her family thought a donation to an organisation helping people suffering from this sad illness would be really appropriate.

I got in touch with Dementia UK, and was hugely impressed by their response. They say that in any organisation, the person who answers the phone sets the tone, and this is so true: the lady who fielded my call was a great representative for the charity. She was helpful, knowledgeable, and when I said I would need a Gift Aid form to enclose with my cheque, she promised to send one in the post to me. The form and a personal, handwritten note to me, arrived the next morning.

Whilst we talked, she mentioned the Admiral Nurses, who not only help people with dementia, but assist their families as well; that is what jogged my memory, and took me back to 2012, when Mum first came home from hospital on 28 March.

In those early days, there was so much going on, so much to arrange and so many practical things to put in place, we didn't think about how having Mum at home might impact on everyone else around her; the main focus was to get her home, organise the four visits a day from carers, and take it from there.  Over the next few weeks - that stretched into months! - appointments from physiotherapists and psychiatrists were scheduled, and it was during one of these visits, that the psychiatrist told us about Admiral Nurses; he said, they would be very helpful.

As we had got into some sort of routine, by then it was becoming clear we should explore every avenue for assistance; even if it wasn't needed at that moment, there could well come a time when expert advice would be invaluable, and I got in touch with Admiral Nurses, and a lady came to see us.

Seven a half years on, I can't recall her name, but what I do remember is that she sat down with us, and patiently and calmly led us through a maze of options where we could get further help for Mum, if and when we needed it.

This was definitely to our great benefit. Mum understood none of this, of course; apart from realising the physical problems her broken ankle had left her with, she had not - and never has - accepted she also suffers from dementia, but having the help and advice of the Admiral Nurse, with such a wealth of knowledge of how the system worked, was really comforting. Not having had to explore these avenues before, I was completely ignorant of some of the things she told us about, and it was wonderful to feel someone was holding our hand at a difficult time.

As the years have passed, we've got wiser, of course; dealing with Mum has its ups and downs, and we have become more accomplished at navigating our way through various services but, having been reminded of how good Admiral Nurses are, they are now again firmly in the forefront of my mind. It's good to know they are still there, if we need them.

Something A Little Light-Hearted

Something A Little Light-Hearted

Mum does like having her hair done. Not by a hairdresser in a salon, she just enjoys having her hair combed.

When I was little, I also loved my Grandma combing and plaiting my hair; I could stand it for hours! She would make three plaits for me, and then plait those three braids into one long one, and send me off happily, thinking she had done a good job for the day.

NOT SO!  I would disappear for what I thought was quite an acceptable length of time - 10 minutes, probably, max - and then I'd quickly undo the plaits; presently, I would seek Grandma out, and with the ribbons in my hand, and my most innocent face on, say: "They just came out! Grandma, can you do them again for me?!"

Not for a second was my Grandma taken in, but she was always willing to sit down with me once more, and treat me to a second hairdressing session.

Since she came to live with us, for a long while I asked a professional hairdresser to come round to cut Mum's hair; she made a lovely job of it, giving Mum a feathery cut, that looked really pretty.  However, after a while - ever since Mum has had to be hoisted - when the carers were not present, it became difficult to get Mum onto the glider, so that she could be wheeled into the bathroom for her hair-do; gradually, these visits stopped.

Not having had her hair cut for several months, Mum's hair grew quite a bit; it was a gorgeous silver colour, and one day, inspiration hit me.

I said, "Would you like me to plait your hair?"

"Oh, that's a good idea!" said Mum.

Armed with a comb and a couple of hair clips, I discovered I could still plait hair just like my Grandma, and Mum ended up with a rather short plait, that I pinned up at the back of her head. With a gentle wave at the front, she looked really pretty; and so it has continued. Nearly a year later, Mum's hair has grown longer, and now it's even easier to work with.

Mum's carers also have some brilliant ideas of their own, to style it in different ways.

The photo below doesn't quite do the style justice, but Shannon put Mum's hair into bunches, and we all commented on how pretty Mum looked! It takes years off her, and Mum enjoys every minute of the attention she gets.

Hair by Shannon

And More From The Hairdressing Department

And More From The Hairdressing Department

Everyone is getting into the way of dressing Mum's hair - one lady does French plaits, but she is on leave at the moment, so I haven't got a photo of Mum with that style; but here is one by Sydney, that we have called The Fountain:

The Fountain Style- by Sydney

I'm Back Writing Again

I'm Back Writing Again

Right, so once again I have to say "... If anyone reading this blog is wondering where on earth I have disappeared to, please don't give up on me..."

Since my last post on 13 July, I haven't been idle; I've continued to write, phone and communicate with as many people in authority that I can think of, and I have now submitted an official complaint to the Office of the Public Guardian in Brisbane, and they have taken it up. The problem is that we know such investigations can take a long time, and we don't know how long Uncle John might have left to live.

I had also been in touch with the British Vice Consul, and explained our concerns to her; she was so kind, and offered to visit Uncle John and, if I would e-mail some photos to her, she would print them out, and take them to Uncle John. She also said she would try to arrange regular visits by volunteers, to see Uncle John and - if he is well enough - take him out for little jaunts. Of course, we would love those visits to be made by us, but we are so far away, and if someone else can provide some bright spots in Uncle John's day, that would make us very happy, too. I sent the Vice Consul 17 photos, of the family, and of Uncle John, my Mum, and his Mum, taken at various times in East Africa; they would have brought back happy memories for him. However, when she requested permission to visit Uncle John, his son refused to allow the Vice Consul to go. What a sad state of affairs.

Two weeks ago, I had a 45 minute conversation with a lady from OPG, and explained all this to her, and how much Uncle John means to us; if we cannot even have a conversation with him, without his son first giving us permission, Uncle John might think we have abandoned him. It is so very hard that I cannot now simply ring up the Nursing Home, and ask to speak to Uncle John for a couple of minutes - I know the staff are busy, and I would never "overstay our welcome" with a long call. The fact remains that Mum doesn't know why she can't speak to her baby brother, and she asks after him, and how he is.

When Uncle John was in his Unit in Marsden, I could ring him every other day, and if Mum was up and properly awake, she would also have a chat to him.

This was usually around 9.00 a.m. our time, 6.00 or 7.00 p.m. Brisbane time, and Uncle John knew Mum would be in the middle of having her breakfast.

The conversation would usually go like this:

Uncle John (picking up the phone):  "John here!"

Me:  "Hello, Uncle John! And how are you, today?!"

Uncle John: "I'm fine - how are you?!"

Me: "We're fine, too. Mum's up - would you like to have a word?"

Uncle John: "Yes, please!"

I would then hold the phone to Mum's ear, with the loudspeaker function on, so that she could hear properly.

Me: "Ma, it's John on the line."

Mum: "Oh, good! Hello, Johnny boy! What are you doing?"

Uncle John: "I know what you're doing! You're having cornflakes, aren't you?"

Mum: "Yes, I am. How do you know?"

Uncle John, laughing: "I know you like cornflakes!"

There would be another few exchanges, before Mum would say, "I'm going to eat my breakfast now..."

Uncle John: "Alright, Phyllis - you enjoy it. Take care of yourself."

Mum: "I love you."

Uncle John: "I love you, too."

Then Uncle John and I would carry on our conversation, and he would tell me what he'd been doing over the past few days - food shopping at Woolworths or Coles, or going to get batteries for his hearing aid... nothing earth shattering, just gentle chat, keeping up with each other's lives.

Sometimes, Uncle John would tell me that Johnny had promised to visit him at the weekend, so he had got in the biscuits and ginger beer that Johnny likes; if I knew that was supposed to happen, I would leave the next phone call until the Monday but then, more often than not, our conversation would go like this:

Me: "Hello Uncle John! Did you have a nice weekend?"

Uncle John (always positive): "Oh, yes; fine!"

Me: "Did you see Johnny? How was he?"

Then there would be a pause.

Uncle John: "Oh, he couldn't come..."

You could hear the disappointment in his voice.

Me: "Why not, Uncle John? What happened?"

And sometimes the reason given was because Johnny said he was busy, or had gone off to the Gold Coast for the weekend. Uncle John was never invited to join in for the trip.

So now we are persevering with trying to get a better quality of life organised for Uncle John. I still cannot fathom why anyone would want to be so unkind to him, and not try to make however long he has left, as happy and fulfilling a life as possible.

We're Fighting Uncle John's Corner

We're Fighting Uncle John's Corner

If anyone reading this blog is wondering where on earth I have disappeared to, please don't give up on me; since I wrote about Uncle John's move to Jindalee, and Wendy's imminent visit to him on 15 June, so much has happened.

Wendy arrived early on the morning on 15 June, and Uncle John was thrilled to see her again, and looking forward so much to going out and about with her. We had already checked the staff were happy about it, and we were even offered a folding wheelchair that Wendy could put in the boot of the car, should Uncle John need it whilst they were out.

But then came the bad news: staff told Wendy she could not take Uncle John out of the facility, without his son's permission - his son had a written a letter about a week ago, and this was now attached to the Enduring Power of Attorney on Uncle John's file.

Wendy asked if someone could ring Johnny, and get permission? This was done, and the answer came back: "No!" Then Wendy asked, if Johnny would like to come out with her and his dad? and back the answer came: "No!"

It was a terrible disappointment for Uncle John. He said, "Can't we just ... get up and go? I can walk!"
Sensibly, but sadly, Wendy had to advise him against it; she feared that if they simply walked out and went for a drive, Johnny could tell staff at the nursing home that Wendy could not see Uncle John at all, and that would be a terrible shame. With only a week available for her to spend with Uncle John, they decided to go with what they had, and Wendy would stay with him every day, for as long as possible.

Early on the Monday morning, Brisbane time, I spoke to a Solicitor, who was very understanding; he said we should request a copy of the Enduring Power of Attorney, and a copy of the letter forbidding Uncle John to leave the nursing home. I spoke to a staff member at the nursing home, but she was quite curt, and said she could not provide us with a copy of the EPOA or letter, and that everything was perfectly alright, and working as it should!

Wendy and I remained completely unimpressed and unconvinced; "... Everything is alright, and working perfectly as it should!" is the same script Uncle John's son has used on every occasion when he has to justify himself; except that everything is not alright, and is not working perfectly as it should.

Uncle John is terribly upset that his son has closed down his bank account, and he has no money for his personal use at all.  Uncle John had nothing with which to buy one of our family members a birthday card, so Wendy got one for him, which he was pleased about, but of course once Wendy left, there was no-one else will do that for him. The wardrobe for his clothes had virtually nothing in it, and there were no outdoor shoes, either; Uncle John said he felt as if he was in prison.

During the week Wendy was with Uncle John, I rang the warden at Marsden Gardens, and asked what had happened to Uncle John's unit?

"Oh, the family cleared it all out on 1 May," came the reply.

With everything gone, there was nothing Wendy could do to retrieve some items for Uncle John; he does not know what his son has done, and still wants (and believes he can) go back and pick up some personal things. His room is so sparse, with nothing to personalise it for him - he has no books, no mementos, no photographs - nothing from his past at all.

When she had to leave for the airport on Friday, 21 June, Wendy went to see him again in the morning - only for a couple of hours this time, but he was so happy to see her. By good luck, the Skype signal was good, and we could all have a chat.

He told me how awful he felt, as he didn't "...have a brass farthing!" and how grateful he was to Wendy for coming back to Brisbane to be with him, and what good company she was. He held out his arms and we had a Skype hug (there must be such a thing!) and blew each other a kiss. I promised Uncle John I am working as hard as I can, to get him some assistance.

At last Wendy gave Uncle John another hug, and then it was time for her to set off on the first leg of her journey home.

One of the reasons I haven't been able to write very much, is because I have been engaged in 2- and 3-hour hour telephone conversations with various authorities in Australia, and explaining all our worries over and over again, takes time; in addition, I've been coping with a 9 hour time difference between the UK and Australia, so it's been a case of burning of the midnight oil, more than even I want to! But if I can get some help for Uncle John, it will all have been worth it.

Uncle John's wardrobe, with two lonely,
empty coat hangers,, swinging from the rail.

And the bottom of Uncle John's wardrobe,
with no outdoor shoes

Uncle John - sitting in a dressing gown

Summer 2012 with Uncle John

Summer 2012 with Uncle John

Whenever Uncle John returned to Brisbane after staying with us, for some long while afterwards the house always seemed very quiet and empty, and after he went back to Australia in 2011, even Mum was moping around for a bit, so she obviously missed him more than she would admit to.

2011, of course, was the year that saw a huge change in Mum's mobility; she broke her ankle on November 4, and ended up in hospital for four and a half months, which neatly covered Christmas and New Year, making it a very different celebration for us all.

I've written in other posts, that when it was decided she would come to live with us permanently, she came home on 28 March 2012 - my 66th birthday.

We all harboured a hope that one day she would eventually recover more mobility, and be able to walk at least a few steps. In the end, we accepted that, because she was confident to weight bear only momentarily - and by doing what we called "the twiddle," transfer from bed to chair to wheelchair - we had to be satisfied with that. At least, once she was ensconced in the wheelchair, we could take her out into the garden, or use wheelchair accessible taxis for check-up visits to hospital or - more importantly, of course - trips to The Ritz! - so she was not completely housebound.

With a month or two, we had settled down into a routine. We had carers coming in four times a day, who were soon accustomed to Mum and her foibles, and Mum got used to be being helped with her personal care.

At that time, Mum was much more aware of what was happening; she could feed herself and drink her tea properly, so mealtimes were a lot quicker.

Naturally, I kept Uncle John right up to date with Mum's progress, and I was thrilled when he said he would come back again in the summer, and stay with us for a month or three. We all looked forward with great anticipation to meeting him at Heathrow.

It was so good to have Uncle John back in the fold with us - as usual, he slotted straight into the family routine, and was such good company. It was a pleasure to have him back.

He also fitted in with the times the carers came to attend to Mum, and waited patiently until it was his turn to use the bathroom.

One of my most abiding (and endearing!) memories of his stay, was the way he was not averse to helping with Mum, in between the carers' calls. At that stage, Mum knew when she wanted to go to the loo, and would ask to be taken on the glidabout commode. Uncle John was there, helping her to get seated on the glider, and cheerfully wheeling her into the bathroom; and the great thing was, Mum did not complain about him helping her.

Uncle John was still a whizz at shopping in Tesco, pushing the trolley up and down the aisles even more quickly than I could keep up with him! As always, he was extremely good company.

We had our little day trips out; again, I booked a table for Tea at the Ritz, which Mum really looked forward to, and everything went well on the day.

We also decided to have another trip down memory lane - this time to the Isle of Wight, where my  Uncle Austin, Mum and Uncle John, had spent part of their childhood.

I got in touch with the Isle of Wight County Press, and they were very interested in Uncle John's imminent return to St Helens. They ran a piece about him - "John to see changes after 75 years away" - and how he and his family had lived at Yarborough Cottages, until they moved to London. He went to the Church School in St Helen's, learned to play golf, and his sister, my Mum, liked having a railway line near the bottom of their garden. She also remembered a beautiful rose that stood in the garden, and how it went up and over the top of their front door.

It was brilliant to have this advance information in the paper; Uncle John said he hoped the story about his forthcoming return would jog people's memories, and if there were any old friends who remembered him, he would love to hear from them.

I made reservations for the hotel and the ferry, and at the end of July, Wendy drove us to Portsmouth for the crossing to the island.

We had a marvellous stay. People were so kind and helpful; and the reporter from the County Press did a follow-up interview with Uncle John. We went back to St Helens; Yarborough Cottages are still there, and the family who live in Uncle John's old house invited us in, and showed us around. Uncle John said, "The cottages are neat, but so small! I wonder how two adults and three children could fit inside!" But of course they did, and they all had a very happy childhood.

To our delight, the rose bush outside the front door was still there, and from what we could ascertain, it was the same one Uncle John and my Mum remember so well. A little more straggly, perhaps, than when it was a young plant, but still blooming, and still fragrant.

Uncle John, Wendy and me outside Yarborough Cottages

We visited the former St Helen's Railway Station, had a ride on the Isle of Wight Steam Railway, and went round Quarr Abbey; such great memories came flooding back, and it was good for Wendy and me to see, first-hand, what Uncle John and my Mum mean, when they talk about things that happened when they were children.

Although our trip was a flying visit, we made some lovely friends, and Uncle John said how much he hoped he would be able to come back for a longer visit.

As a post script, shortly after we got back home, there was a letter waiting for Uncle John, from an old school friend; he was a few months older than Uncle John, and about to celebrate his 90th birthday. He had read the report in the paper about our visit, and wanted to keep in touch. It was a shame we hadn't been able to see him, but we sent him a birthday card and it was so nice Uncle John and this gentleman were able to have a chat on the phone, and catch up on each other's lives from so long ago.

All too soon, Uncle John's stay with us came to an end, and we had to take him back to Heathrow. Mum was much quieter and more thoughtful this time, and said how much she would miss him, and how we all hoped he would be back again the following year.

Uncle John Moves To Jindalee

Uncle John Moves To Jindalee

Whilst Uncle John was on the palliative care ward at St Vincent's Hospital, we always knew the maximum time he could stay there was six weeks; he was transferred from Princess Alexandra Hospital to St Vincent's Hospital on 28 March, and we were painfully aware of the days flying by.

I rang Uncle John every other day and, over time, got to know all the nurses on their different shifts. The phone by his bed did not have a button to increase the volume, but everyone was so helpful, staying with him for a few minutes, to make sure he got the gist of what I was saying.

As I've written before, it is such a shame that my cousin does not communicate with us. Wendy has always kept the door open for contact - she sends cards and notes to him and his wife at appropriate times throughout the year, but never receives a response.. That is something we have to accept, but we were concerned that if Uncle John left St Vincent's Hospital, we would not be told where he was going.

At last, there came some really great news. The Palliative Care Nurse Manager e-mailed me to say that on 2 May, Uncle John would be transferred to the TriCare nursing home, in Jindalee, which is only about a 7 minutes' drive from his son's home.

We were so grateful for this information! and once we knew Uncle John was safely ensconced in his new abode, I was able to call him. He was pretty cheerful and more or less accepted he couldn't go back to his old unit in Marsden, but being in a nursing home was definitely a step up from lying in a hospital palliative care bed!

Since then, I have been able to call Uncle John regularly. He doesn't have a phone in his room, but the nurses have phones with a speaker button, which they take to him when I ring, and turn up the volume. I so appreciate them doing this, as I know how busy they are, and try never to outstay my welcome, speaking to Uncle John for only a couple of minutes. This is long enough to tell him we're all thinking of him, and wishing him well!

Not long after his transfer to Jindalee, I had one very disturbing conversation with Uncle John, when he was clearly very upset. Uncle John told me, his son had been to visit him; my cousin had said to his dad, "....you haven't got long to live!"

I tried to reassure Uncle John; I said, "That's ridiculous! No-one can say just how long any of us have got left to live! You're doing so well; if you hadn't been doing well, you would have stayed in St. Vincent's Hospital, and you wouldn't be in the nursing home now!"

"Yes... well", said Uncle John, reluctantly, "I suppose that's true..."

I stayed on the line a couple of minutes more, encouraging and cheering him, and promised to call him again in a day or so.

After that, I rang the Nursing Home straight back, and spoke to the lovely lady who had answered my call the first time round; I repeated what Uncle John had told me, and how very upset he was.

Her reaction was immediate: "That's terrible! I'll get someone to go to him right now, and give him some TLC!"

It worked brilliantly, and the next time I rang Uncle John, he was happy and much more like his old self. In future, the nurses will keep an eye on him, and make sure he isn't left feeling so despondent.

Knowing Wendy is flying out to see him again very soon, is also lifting his spirits. We have already checked there are clothes in his wardrobe; if he is fit enough and up for it, and the medical staff are happy about it, Wendy will take him out in the car, and drive him to some of the places they know so well. We even harbour a hope it may be possible for them to go to Forest Lake, and enjoy another lunch at Sizzlers! We shall see how things go; but in the meantime, Uncle John remains hopeful, positive and cheerful!

Taking Time To Smell The Roses

Taking Time To Smell The Roses

Back in the day when I was in full flow of theatre productions, cabaret performances and ballroom dancing (how on earth did I find the time to do all that - plus rehearsals - and still work at The Daily News?!) one of the monologues I loved performing was one of the Postscripts written by JB Priestley for the BBC.

It begins, "I don't think there has ever been a lovelier English spring than this one, now melting into full summer."  Living in South Africa meant I couldn't quite appreciate the nuances of the changing seasons in the UK, but the magic of his words transported me to another world, and I loved reciting it.

Once again, this year has proved if we didn't have the weather to talk about, perhaps we wouldn't have much conversation! but there are now more and more days when you can feel a warmth in the air, and you just have to stop and enjoy moments in the garden, and be grateful you can see, hear, touch, feel and smell things, like the perfume of roses on the breeze.

When we have had difficult days to get through, and worrying things to contend with, it's as if we are given a respite, when we can stop everything for a short while and go outside, literally and metaphorically to smell the roses.

We have a beautiful vermillion rose; a deep red rose, that produces flowers that are so perfect, they look as though they are made of silk; and a floribunda rose, "Blue for You," that keeps producing red-tinted buds that explode into a magnificent mauve.

A Red Admiral, sunning itself on one of Mum's sheets, drying on the line!

The wisteria this year was also magnificent, making a magical archway all along the side pathway of the house.

When Mum was still able to do the "twiddle" to get herself out of the chair and into the wheelchair, it was easy to take her out into the garden to enjoy the scenes and summer scents for a while, with the cats at her feet; it is more complicated now, because she has to be hoisted. Mum could indeed be hoisted into the wheelchair, and wheeled into the garden, but because we are not qualified to use the hoist, Mum would have to stay in the wheelchair until the carers' next call. That could work, but we would then worry that the carers might be delayed with an emergency at a previous call, so thus far, we have not risked it. As the summer progresses, I will try and organise an extra call, so that we can be sure of getting Mum back into the house before too long, and back in her chair for dinner.

On a day like today, you feel everything is possible! and I have been taking time to stop, step outside, and smell the roses.

I Spoke Too Soon...!

I Spoke Too Soon...!

Ah. Yes. Well...

After a time when things had been just jogging along gently, and I felt I could write about feeling relaxed, the next day was as if someone had tipped a load of extra problems into a giant mixing bowl, and was enjoying stirring everything up.

First thing in the morning, Mum's clothes and entire set of bed-linen needed changing: not just the usual flat top sheet (I put a fresh one of those out every day), she had soiled the lot, including her nightie. This meant an awful lot of sterilising and pre-washing, before it could go in the washing machine. In addition, the sling was wet; this must be laundered at a lower temperature than the rest of the stuff, and it takes a long time to dry. I got that on first.

Happily, it was a beautifully warm and sunshiny day; a few hours out on the line, blowing in the warm breeze, and later that afternoon, the sling was dry.

If a washing machine had feelings, I imagine after dealing with the loads it coped with today, it would be wiping its mechanical brow and saying, "Thank goodness that's over!" I was certainly relieved to have got it everything washed and on the line.

The second problem was with Pushkin, one of our pussy cats. Last night, when I was ironing, she lay down by my feet as usual; I took off my shoes, tickling her ears with my toes. She can stand this attention for hours! As I finished the ironing, she curled up in the corner by the radiator, just as she normally does, and was soon fast asleep. Pushkin does not have a voice - she cannot meow - but when she sleeps, and probably dreaming, she makes little noises. Maybe she is chasing mice, or on other important business, but this evening, I thought her chirrups seemed to be coming a little faster than usual.

When I stroked her to say goodnight, she seemed fine, but in the morning she was lying very still, and breathing so shallowly, at first we thought she might have died.

She was off her food, she was sick and had diarrhoea, so we realised it could be quite serious. I rang the vet's surgery, and got an appointment for later in the morning.

Then Mum had to be attended to. We divided up the jobs equally; after washing her hands and getting her teeth brushed, I made the breakfast and helped Mum to eat her cornflakes and drink her tea, whilst another family member rushed Pushkin to the vet.

I could tell Mum was also very uncomfortable. She kept moving her legs up and down, and I thought something must be hurting her.

"Have you got any pain anywhere?" I asked.

"Yes, I do," she said.

"Where does it hurt, Ma?"

"My ankle."

Well, she couldn't have been more precise than that, so I checked her left ankle, and I was really worried to see the ankle bone appeared to be sticking out far more than it had done before.

Ever since the operation back in November 2011 to insert a metal strip and screws, we have known the result wasn't perfect. The surgeon told us Mum's bones were like crumbly cheese; they had done their best, but Mum was left with some dislocation. We have always been very careful not to damage the area in any way; we check her legs every night, and I was sure her ankle had not been like that when she went to bed.

As it was a bank holiday weekend, there was no point in trying to get it checked out until Tuesday; maybe another X-ray will be required. In the meantime, we gently wrapped a bandage round her ankle, covering the bone, which will give it some support and protection until we can call Mum's GP.

I gave Mum a couple of paracetamols in water - because they are effervescent, Mum calls it "fizzy-pop"! - and presently the carers returned to get Mum back into bed for her afternoon nap.

The news on Pushkin was that her temperature was slightly raised, and she was obviously distressed. Poor little thing - she is such an inoffensive little cat, and it's awful to think she is unwell. The vet took a blood test, and said she would call us at home, as soon as she had the results.

Pushkin was very glad to be home again, and came to sit beside me; I was prepared to tickle her ears with my toes, but she was not up even for that favourite pastime.

When the vet rang, she said Pushkin has hyperthyroidism, which is fairly common in older cats; her white blood count was raised as well, so she is probably fighting an infection. We arranged another appointment for later in the day, and at that consultation, the vet gave Pushkin an injection of antibiotics, so hopefully that should start to make her feel better soon. We can't get Pushkin to take tablets, and the vet said there is an alternative medication for the thyroid problem, in the form of a cream, which we must rub into the skin on the inside of Pushkin's ears, twice a day. This medicine is dearer than tablets, but it is no use having pills if we can't get Pushkin to swallow them.  The vet will order the cream and it should arrive in a few days.

After all this, everyone ended up feeling, "Please, can it stop now? And can we have break?!"

On a happier note, Mum had a good afternoon kip - she woke up smiling, and happy, and did not complain at all about her ankle; she enjoyed all her dinner.

Pushkin, waiting for her dinner!

Pushkin also started to perk up a bit, and had something to eat. We are all just so happy that the moment we could see something was not right, we took her to the vet straight away - time can be of the essence!

Living in Boring Times!

Living in Boring Times!

Since we got back home from Brisbane - (over six weeks ago now; my, how time does fly!) - I've been gradually catching up with everything I left behind when Wendy and I flew out to see Uncle John. This evening, I have actually finished ironing everything in sight (which is a new take on the old military instruction: "If it moves, salute it; if it doesn't, paint it." I don't paint, I iron it! ) and it's a very satisfying feeling to know all Mum's clothes are dried, pressed and aired, and ready to wear. What I must not do now, is become complacent, and rest on my laurels when, on the morrow, the next load of washing comes out of the machine; the moment everything is dry, I shall get on with ironing it, and maintain the momentum.

Apart from a few episodes, Mum has on the whole been very co-operative. Today was a lovely day, because this morning, at 9.30 UK time, I rang the Nursing Home in Jindalee, where Uncle John is being very well looked after. A lovely nurse took a phone with a loudspeaker button to Uncle John, and he could hear me very clearly; Mum was also up and dressed, and sitting in her chair, so she was able to talk to Uncle John as well.

"Hello, Johnny-Boy!" This is her usual greeting.

"Oh, hello Phyllis!" Uncle John came back.

"I'm going to have my breakfast," said Mum.

Uncle John knows Mum so well: "I know what you're having!" he said, "you're having cornflakes, aren't you?"

"I am!" Mum confirmed.

It is just so good to have a normal, simple conversation for a few minutes; quiet, boring times are far nicer and easier to live through, than so-called "interesting" times.

Mum has still not really taken in how ill Uncle John is, although she does have flashes of understanding; she is still talking about going out to Australia, and seeing him.

A couple of days ago, Mum announced:

"The Prince is coming to visit us; and when we go to Australia, the Prime Minister is coming round to see us!"

Then she added, "I've got a very good job, now! They've moved me to another board room."

A little pause, then: "But it's very hard."

Family: "But I'm sure you're very good at it."

Mum: "I like it, because I can clean my teeth better!"

There are occasions now where she asks me to tell her again, just what is the matter with Uncle John? and I explain gently, he is very ill, but because he is being looked after extremely well, he's doing much better than anyone thought he would. Being transferred from a palliative care ward in a hospital to a nursing home, is definitely a step up!

"Oh, so he's getting better, then?"

As no-one can say with certainty how long anyone will live for, I agree with her, and leave it at that.

Sightseeing Singapore - Monday

Sightseeing Singapore - Monday

Singapore had one more dramatic scene for us: during the night, there was a heavy thunderstorm - Thor was definitely throwing his anvil about above the clouds, and the lightning was spectacular. The rain wasn't light, either!

Come the morning, the fog and mist had also descended:

At first glance, Wendy thought one of the buildings must be on fire! but it was just the sun piercing parts of the cloud and reflecting on the windows.

Sadly, that put paid to the idea of a ride on the Ferris wheel, the Singapore Flyer - another case of, "We'll do that, next time."

We took it easy in the morning; showered, dressed, make-up on (!) and packed, all by 10.00 a.m., when our breakfast arrived. Back home, Wendy works so hard, and we knew we faced a long trip back to England, so we chilled and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast.

We checked out at midday, and left our cases at reception. It is too hot and humid to leave clothes packed up and left in the outside temperature, so Wendy requested our baggage be kept in the cool room.

We went for a stroll round Suntec City, shop window gazing as we went; beautiful jewellery, and beautiful handbags, and a shop that specialised in very glamorous gowns! Officially wedding dresses, they could also fit the bill as gorgeous costumes on stage for a cabaret performance. I dared to ask the price, and was amazed to find one of the most expensive cost S$349 - In England I would be looking at three times the price. One day I shall go back, with an empty suitcase, and fill it up!

Back at the Pan Pacific, there was a cream tea on offer. However, anyone who knows me is aware I am very picky about sandwiches (even at the Ritz, Mum and I have a special request for plain cucumber sandwiches, on white bread and butter), and we didn't want everything that was included on the menu here. The waitress suggested we could order a couple of plain scones instead; these would be specially made for us, and ready we wanted them, at 3.30 p.m.

I'd had my fill of gallivanting. The receptionist gave me a copy of The Straits Times, and I sat reading, or just watching the world go by and enjoying my surroundings, whilst Wendy went off for another wander round the shops.

An indoor stream in the Pan Pacific

Futuristic lifts! It's quite fun ascending to the 26th floor

It also gave me time to reflect on the ten days we had been away from home. If the past few posts have begun to read like a travelogue, it's probably because it has been so long since I've had a proper holiday, and I've gone a bit detail-crazy. I felt sad thinking of Uncle John in Brisbane, but very happy that I had seen him.

Wendy returned in good time for our tea; the scones arrived, complete with cream and strawberry jam, and pots of tea and extra hot water. The only problem was, we should have asked how big the scones were! Had we known they were very delicate (i.e., tiny!) we would have ordered half a dozen each.

Never mind. They were delicious, and melted on the tongue.

After tea, we collected our luggage and went up to the Hospitality Suite, which Wendy had pre-booked. It was beautifully appointed, with an en-suite bathroom and a pile of fluffy towels and toiletries. We spent nearly an hour showering, freshening up and preparing for the flight, and I tried to take an old-fashioned selfie - i.e., a photo in the mirror:

Next time, I'll remember to keep my head up!

The taxi came on time; when we arrived at the airport, we took our cases to be cling film wrapped for added security, and checked in.  Going through passport control was followed by a tense moment or three for me - the automatic screen could not read my thumb print! A charming (and still smiling) officer escorted me to another counter, where I was asked to try again, impressing my thumb on the screen. This one was obviously a bit more sensitive; this time, it read my print correctly, but I was then asked to provide further finger and thumb prints of both hands. At moments like these, I experience dark fears of what might happen if this more sophisticated machine still does not recognise me, but the officers assured me this occurs sometimes. All was well; I was waved through and joined Wendy - she looked a tad relieved, too!

Flying back to London always takes longer than the outbound journey; headwinds conspire to add another hour or two to the flight, but we settled down and the time passed, punctuated by sleeps, food, walks up and down the aisles and (for me) another couple of films, although by the time we were nearing Heathrow, I was so heavy-lidded, I wasn't sure if I'd manage to finish watching the second picture.

We landed, collected the suitcases, loaded up the car and (how she keeps going, I don't know) Wendy drove us home.

It took me a good two days to get over the jet-lag; I tried to do as much as I possibly could to get back into the usual routine, but I had to give in on a few occasions, and let someone else carry on!

Mum was pleased to see me, but I'm not sure how much she remembers about me being away, or why I went to Brisbane in the first place. I told her about Uncle John, and sometimes she knows and remembers how, where and why he is in hospital, and at other times it comes as a new piece of information.

When I think back on this trip, and all Wendy and I have achieved, I am just so pleased I was able to go with her. We had the worry about if we could be sure we'd be told how Uncle John was progressing, and a minor battle to get our names and contact details on the forms; we saw him in Princess Alexandra Hospital, and transferred to St Vincent's Hospital; celebrating my birthday with Uncle John was a highlight, as was Wendy taking me to so many places she and Uncle John love visiting.

But the best memory is seeing the expression on Uncle John's face, that first day when we walked into the ward at Princess Alexandra Hospital, and when he said, he had never thought he would ever see me, ever again; and he had never expected to see Wendy back in Brisbane again, either.

Sightseeing in Singapore - Sunday Afternoon/Evening

Sightseeing in Singapore - Sunday Afternoon/Evening

After the tour, it wasn't far to walk to Raffles Hotel; it is due to reopen later this year, but there is still a lot of scaffolding in place, and a lot of work to be done.

The Long Bar has been open again for a while but, since refurbishment, we thought it had lost some of its charm, and felt rather sterile. It's hard to quantify it, but the old bar had a certain feeling of permanence,, and the thick covering of peanut shells on the floor looked as though it had been there for a very long time! In the new site, although patrons are still allowed to throw peanut shells on the floor as in days of old, we wondered if there is someone who comes along each night, and sweeps them all up, so that it is pristine for start of business the next day?! The ceiling fans still waft, but now they are powered electrically; and patrons have to queue up to get in.

It was then I understood why Wendy was clear she did not want to go to the Long Bar on Saturday night; the wait to get in would probably have been horrendous! As it was, it took us nearly half an hour to cross the threshold and be guided to a table.

The Singapore Sling Shaker

Once seated, Wendy had a Singapore Sling; I ordered orange juice, but I was persuaded to have a sip of Wendy's tipple. All I can say is, if I had to drink it, I think it would have to be written on  prescription, and taken on doctor's orders! My orange juice went down just fine.

Of course, the atmosphere is what you go for, and the history and the sense of occasion; it was lovely to be back.

Although Raffles Hotel isn't open, they have a little souvenir shop which is, and we went in to see where Wendy had bought pretty things from her last trip.

Wendy knew all the best shops; we really enjoyed ourselves seeing what was on offer, and although the shoe shop didn't have anything fresh to tempt Wendy, she saw a stunning pair of evening trousers - black, with silver stripes running down the sides, reminiscent of the building photographed from our room at the Pan Pacific! Very dramatic, very Wendy.

Back at the Hotel, after all that fun, sightseeing, walking and shopping, we didn't feel like eating in the restaurant, so again we ordered room service; we reckoned we wouldn't change a winning team, and kept to the same menu we'd enjoyed last night.

It was then time to make tracks to visit Super Tree Grove. It was actually not all that far to walk, but as we had been on our feet so much today, Wendy decided we would take a taxi; again, a wise move, and we arrived in good time for the light show.

It is a very beautiful place, with a ring of special trees festooned with lights, which dance to the music of Strauss waltzes, excerpts from opera, some very dramatic, some deeply romantic and moving. It is quite entrancing.

The light show at Super Tree Grove

The few photographs we took don't do it justice, but in any case, I didn't want to have a finger pressing the camera button, clicking away all the time; I just wanted to enjoy the performance. It lasted 15 minutes and what wonderful impressions we took away with us.

Wendy was pleased to have shown me so many things she enjoys on her visits to Singapore; another taxi ride back to the hotel, another call to room service to order breakfast for the next morning, and that was it for the day. We both felt we had done well!