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.