Mum Gives Us A Fright

Mum Gives Us A Fright

We'd made plans for Saturday, 15 July, when one of us could have a turn down at the Epping Ongar Railway. It does take some organising, as there always has to be someone with Mum, but we really look forward to having a few hours chuffing along with steam trains. I am not called a Railway Cat for nothing!

Saturday dawned. Two carers, Vicky and Danielle, arrived at about 7.00 a.m. as usual, to get Mum up, washed and dressed, and sitting in the chair, all ready for me to come along and help her to brush her teeth (Mum doesn't like anyone touching her face or her teeth), and make a nice mug of tea and corn flakes for breakfast. 

Saturday proved more complicated. After about half an hour, I was asked to come and help.  In spite of being called, encouraged and cajoled, Mum was not waking up; she just lay in bed, and even when the carers tried putting their arms around Mum to help her to sit up, it was having no effect; she simply lay back on the bed and slept on.  Even my stentorian powers of a trained voice bellowing, "Come on, Mum, it's time to get up now!" had no effect.

The carers were very concerned, because they could hear a trace of a raspy sound as Mum breathed, and it was agreed they would ring the emergency service.  I was very impressed with the calm, swift way they dealt with everything. Vicky rang 999 and explained that Mum was totally unresponsive to them; she was asked to check Mum's breathing and report on the frequency. Within a few minutes, two paramedics arrived by car, and started to carry out tests on Mum; they were swiftly followed by two more paramedics in an ambulance, so she was getting the best attention.  

Soon Mum was carried out to the ambulance; I said I would go with her, and waited whilst the paramedics carried out some more tests. They also got a line into Mum, in case she needed any medication intravenously, and at last we were ready to go.  Mum was tightly strapped in on the stretcher, which was just as well, as we set off at a great lick, flying over the speed control humps on the way.  

Even for reasonably healthy people, the journey was very bumpy. Clinging on to my seat for dear life, I came out with:

"This is really uncomfortable!  I'll bet you hate the humps when you have patients with spinal injuries!"

The paramedic sitting with us in the back of the ambulance turned to me said, 

"Oh, of course, you won't know, will you?  We're blue lighted all the way to the hospital! And, yes, we do hate the humps. Especially when you have an old vehicle like this one.....!"

It was a blessed relief when the ambulance swung into the bay at the A&E Department. Mum was still showing no signs of stirring, so we were clearly headed for the right place, as she was wheeled into the "resus" area.

There were so many things going through my mind at that moment.  I answered all the questions about her general health and medication, and the doctors got on with running multiple tests on Mum.  Within a very short time, she had had an ECG, an X-ray, and enough phials of blood to satisfy the thirstiest vampire.  I was reminded of that wonderful line in The Blood Donor, one of the old Tony Hancock radio programmes from the 1950s and 60s, where Hancock asks indignantly, "A pint? Have you gone raving mad?..... Why, that's very nearly an armful!"

During all this activity, Mum started to stir, and woke up. It was such a relief; she became quite chatty and asked the doctors and nurses attending to her who they were and where they came from - when two of them said, "Italy," Mum was delighted, and went on to tell them we'd been there too, and how much we had liked it.  Mum was quite lucid, and answered various questions, telling them her date of birth and where she was born.  She couldn't understand how she had come to be in hospital, though, and I explained how worried we had been, when she wouldn't wake up.

It was decided to do a CT scan of Mum's head, and in the meantime, we were moved out of the Re-sus area, and taken to a bay in the Majors area of A&E.  You could not fault the care Mum was given, or the speed of its delivery.

At this point, I needed to get home for something to eat and drink. Another member of the family arrived, with toothpaste and toothbrush for Mum, so we managed to freshen her up and get her teeth cleaned, and then I could go home for an hour or so.

Whilst I was away, Mum had the CT scan, after which she became very sleepy once more; in the end, she slept in A&E for a further 2 hours. Whilst Mum snoozed on, the results came back from the lab.  There was no  obvious reason why Mum had been so unresponsive earlier; the blood tests were fine, the X-ray was clear, the ECG showed nothing unusual and the CT scan gave no cause for concern either.

I was ready to return to the hospital, when I got a call to say Mum was being discharged, and there would be a letter going to her GP, requesting further monitoring tests. I went back to A&E and ordered a wheelchair taxi, and Mum  was back home by 1.00 p.m. - just the right time for lunch, of course, except that we hadn't had breakfast yet!

With everything that had happened in the morning, all the other calls for carers to come in had been cancelled; now that we were back home so much earlier than we had thought possible, I rang Vicky at Home Sweet Home Care, to ask if there was any chance at all of someone coming in to help get Mum washed and dressed, and bless them, within half an hour, another carer called Debbie arrived, whom Mum knows well, and she carried out the complete morning call routine. Home Sweet Home really live up to their name, and  Mum is never looked at as just "a slot to be filled on the rota..."

And so we carried on as usual.  We had breakfast at lunch time; Mum had her afternoon nap as she always does, and then we had tea and cake at supper time.  At all events, we had a totally different Saturday to the one planned - a case of "The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley!"

Although she seemed a little bit dozier than she normally is, it isn't that unusual for Mum to have "I'm tired" days, and we are still no wiser as to why she was totally unresponsive to all blandishments  in the morning.  Maybe her brain had switched off in some way?

Whatever the cause, at the moment we don't have an answer - and we don't like mysteries!

It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It......

It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It.......

In spite of having dementia, Mum can learn new things. 

It's Not What You Say, It's The Way That You Say It.....

My daughter Wendy has a pussy cat, called Artemis. Mum knows nothing about Greek mythology, and there is no way she would learn or remember that name, so I had to think of a way to help her. A simplified version of the name would do so, along with some miming, I set about trying to get the name to stay in her memory. I hit on the idea of pretending to hold a palette, and mimed mixing paints and then making extravagant brush strokes in the air.

Mum enjoyed this as a game; we have played charades in the past.  

Alex:  "What am I doing?"

Mum: "Oh, you're drawing!"

Alex:  "Right! And what do you call people who make drawings?"

Mum:  "Artists!" 

Alex:  "That's it! And that is what Wendy's pussy cat is called - Artist."

And so Artemis became Artist in Mum's head; and that was close enough.

When Mum is drinking her tea, we help her to finish it by suggesting she has one mouthful in turn for all the pussycats. As I've mentioned before, we do "rounds," mentioning all the cats in turn; occasionally, Mum forgets the name "Artist." 

If you then say, "Have a drink for Wendy's pussy cat - what is she called?" Mum may or may not come out with the right name - it is a bit hit and miss, and can sometimes elicit all sorts of strange, totally unrelated names: "Liverpool....." "....Australia...." "......Morrisons..." (Where did that come from?!)

If, however, you phrase it with a bit of a lilt, and emphasis on certain words:

"Let's have one for Wendy and Al's pussy cat; what's her name?" Mum will invariably say, "Artist!" 

Great praise all round for her good memory, and another mouthful of tea goes down.

Mum's Matchmaking

Mum's Matchmaking

My Uncle John is Mum's brother, and he lives in Brisbane.  Since his wife (Aunt Marguerite) died in 2003, he has been very lonely; he has no grandchildren.  He manages very well, still drives and looks after himself in a retirement unit, but he would love to have a nice lady friend, to enjoy outings with, take out for lunch and maybe go to the cinema with occasionally.

Mum is aware of his situation, and tries her best to get him matched up with any lady that comes into her life.

Scene:  Mum is being taken to the bathroom by a young carer.

Mum:
My brother's looking for a wife, you know....

Carer:
Is  he?

Mum
Oh, yes.  Since his wife died, he's very lonely.  He hasn't got anyone.

Carer
That's a shame

Mum
You'd be a nice wife for him.  He'd like you, and you'd have a lovely life with John.

Carer
But I'm afraid I'm married already.

Mum
Oh, that doesn't matter!

Alex (who has been listening to this exchange, and decides to rescue the carer)
Mum, this young lady is a bit young for Uncle John, you know.

Mum
Why?

Alex
Well, he's 94 now......

Mum (pausing to think for a moment)
Well, I know he's fond of Wendy, and she goes out to see him all the time....... He could marry Wendy.

Alex
Mum, Wendy does love Uncle John, like a grand-daughter would, but she is his great niece! She's a close relative, and in any case, she is 50 years younger than Uncle John.

Mum (looking at Alex - and a light bulb moment happens)
Oh, I see..... Well, he can marry you, then!

Young carer and Alex collapse into laughter.  Mum still thinks she has had a brilliant idea!

Yet More Hospital Life - Part 5 - The Ups and Downs of Life - or, Instruments of Torture: Hoists and Banana Boards

Yet More Hospital Life - Part 5 - The Ups and Downs of Life - or,  Instruments of Torture:  Hoists and Banana Boards

I've already said, how quickly you can get used to a completely new way of life, and we soon got accustomed to the longer journey between home and hospital, and made allowances for the more frequent traffic delays en route. Mum also got used being in hospital, and using bedpans instead of going to the bathroom.

Days turned into a week, and then two and three; Mum was terribly nervous of trying anything new, in case it jarred her ankle. She was also still in pain with her right knee, and so not very co-operative with the physiotherapists.

One morning, one of the bright, young physios brought along a beautifully smooth, shiny board.  The shape and colour of a banana, Mum was told this would help her to get out of bed, and spend some time sitting in the chair.

Mum looked suspiciously at the board, and then at the PT. "How I am going to do that?" she asked.

"Don't worry!" the physiotherapist assured her, "I'll help you....."

With that, she lowered the side of the hospital bed, and managed to slide one end of the banana board underneath Mum's behind.

"Right!" she said, enthusiastically.  "All you have to do now is relax, tilt yourself onto the board, let yourself  go, and slide down off the bed, and on to the chair!"

I could see Mum getting tense.  She didn't believe any of it; she was anxious she would go with such a rush and end up landing in the chair with a bump. There was also nothing to hold on to during the "ride." Even with the bed lowered, there was still a substantial difference in height from the bed to the chair seat.

The physiotherapist was not one to give up easily. "Come on," she said, "think how nice it will be, if you can sit in the chair for a while, instead of lying in bed all day!"

"Just a minute," said Mum, employing delaying tactics.  "If this will get me from the bed onto the chair, how will I get back up into bed again?"

She had a point.  It was one thing going from the higher bed to the lower chair; clearly, the banana board would not work in reverse.

"Oh, we'll get you back into bed!" The physio was reassuring.  "That won't be a problem."

Well, even I could see travelling by banana board was likely to make any patient feel out of control, and I thought it was reminiscent of slides in a salt mine near Berchtesgaden in Germany.

Nearly fifty years ago, I worked in Berchtesgaden as a fashion consultant for a company called Arwa, that made pantihose (tights in the UK), stockings and various sorts of fashionable hosiery. During my time with Arwa, I worked jolly hard, especially if there was an exhibition coming up and we had a new collection to prepare, with new colours and styles; but I did have time off, and one weekend found me taking a tour of the salt mine, not far out of  the town.  It was fun - and I was young and reasonably adventurous, although not especially keen on heights!  Some way into the tour, we were presented with the opportunity of taking a slide to get to a lower level in the mine. The slide was about 40 meters long, and formed by two long lengths of hardwood, I think probably oak, with a groove in the middle.  It was worn completely smooth by the thousands of miners - and now tourists - using  it over the years to get from an upper level in the mine to a lower one. We were told not to try to brake ourselves by putting a foot down on the way to the bottom; and with this instruction ringing in my ears, I climbed "aboard" the slide. With a few people in front, and a few more behind me, there was no turning back now! - and I reclined in the groove. Given a gentle push by the guide, we skimmed down to the lower level.  The only trouble was, as we got going, the rate of travel speeded up, and for someone not used to it, the slide was a nerve-racking experience.

A bit further on in the tour, another slide loomed: "This is a baby slide!" the guide laughed.  Yes, it was shorter, and I thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound!" and had another go.

If you had to ride the slides every day, I am sure you would get accustomed to them; but Mum, at 92, had an altogether different view of the banana board.

In the end, she tried it - once. As the physio got her positioned further onto the board, and she started to slide, Mum gave an ear-piercing scream as her weight propelled her downhill into the chair.  Mum sat there shaking,  and I covered her up with a rug and told her she had done very well.  That was the last time she agreed to slide on the board; getting her back into bed was another issue altogether.

Mum sat in the armchair for hours.  The material covering the seat was obviously something that could be cleaned and disinfected, so it felt cold and hard, and was not very comfortable.  I got a rug for Mum and covered her knees, someone else found a foot stool, and there she stayed.

At least it made a change for Mum, to be sitting up in a chair whilst she ate the dinner I brought her;  I made every encouraging remark I could think of, pointing out it was much better than being propped up in bed!

However, soon the time came when Mum had to get back into bed; and that involved using a hoist. Hoists are operated by two people, and I know nurses, carers, and everyone involved in their use, have to be well trained, but I do wonder if, before they are let loose on patients, they are also required to experience being hoisted themselves.  If not, they should be.  Even with the most helpful and reassuring operators around you, it's scary being fitted into a sling and then hooked up to the "crane," lifted out of a chair and swung over to the bed.  Being told to sit still and not move was not helpful; Mum wriggled and jiggled and tried to hang on to something, but there really wasn't anything to hang on to.

It might have taken only a few minutes, but in terms of stress and fear, it felt like a long time before Mum was safely deposited back on the bed.

After the Break (Part 4) - More Hospital Life

After the Break  (Part 4) - More Hospital Life

Catering

It took a while to get used to travelling the extra distance to the hospital Mum had been moved to; there was some resistance to our twice daily visits, and bringing in her food.

Armed with the permission I'd been granted by the first hospital, and taking into account Mum's age, the extended visits were sanctioned. I remember signing a disclaimer about providing Mum's meals, but eventually we could carry on as before.

By this time, it was getting on towards the end of November. The weather was getting worse; in rush hour traffic, with wind and rain, the journey could take an hour. Even so, our meals for Mum were still warm on arrival, and she would eat everything I had prepared for her. The food provided by the hospital catering did not have anything that Mum would eat; it was, as she put it, "All mucked about," with gravy often poured over the food; the sandwiches were also not to Mum's liking, as they included all sorts of "extras," such a spices and mayonnaise - none of which Mum touches. (I have to admit, I'm like this, too. I like plain bread and butter, and maybe a tomato, or a cucumber, as a filling.  The moment "a little bit of this, and a little bit of that..." are added, the whole thing has been ruined for me.  Mum and I are not, and never have been, what you could call adventurous with food!)

On one evening, I had made a large pan of Lancashire hot pot; wrapped up in the hot box, when I arrived on the ward, it was still piping hot, and smelled delicious. The aroma had the effect of the replicating the old Bisto kids' advert; as I walked down the main aisle of the ward, to Mum's bay, people looked up and, if they were mobile, followed me. They asked what I'd got in the hot box, and I explained it was Mum's dinner.

I know it's not easy catering for large numbers of people on a daily basis, on a limited budget; what I  also know, is that it is not difficult to make nutritious, delicious food quite cheaply; and the simpler the dish, the more people there are who are likely to enjoy it. Not everyone is into nouvelle cuisine and, talking to people around Mum's age, they are not overly fond of spicy  food, either.

Mum also likes bananas; I often left one by her bedside, to have as a snack when she felt like it. One day, the lady in the next bed called me over.

She said, "Your Mum's lucky, having you bring in the food she likes.  I've just been given this orange....."

She held it out for me; it was frozen, a solid ball of ice.

She asked, "How am I supposed to eat that?"

"And where on earth has it been stored?!" I wondered.

"I think I'd better be careful I don't drop it on my foot....."

Well, we had to laugh - but I fear other patients were quite envious of Mum and her custom-made menus.  When you're in hospital, you need to eat properly, to keep up your strength and help you get well enough to be discharged.

The nursing staff were, on the whole, very good.  They were all rushed off their feet, but somehow they kept smiling, kept going, and kept the patients cared for. There were a couple that were outstanding -  one was a lady from the Philippines, who was always patient, always smiling, and who had enough time to talk to everyone, yet still got everything done; the other was a male nurse from Liverpool, who made sure patients who needed help with eating and drinking, got food and fluids into them. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, and could keep tabs on anyone who might be in danger of trying to walk to the bathroom on their own, when they should wait for help.  He knew the street where Mum was born in Liverpool, and he would take time to reminisce with her.  It was lovely to know that when I left the hospital for a few hours, Mum was in pretty good hands.

"I'm Dead." (Or: "There's No Point Getting Up.....")

"I'm Dead."  (Or: "There's No Point Getting Up.....")

Scene:  Mum's Bedroom

Time:  One o'clock in the afternoon


A Carer arrives to get Mum up, after her morning nap.

Carer:
Hello Phyllis!  It's time to get up

Mum
Can't you see I'm dead?

Carer (brightly):
Come on, it's time to get up now

Mum stays quiet.

Carer
Alex is going to come in to help you get up.....

Mum
I'm dead

Alex enters
Come on, Mum, it's time to get up and go to the loo.  Then I'll make your lovely dinner.

Mum, still grumbling, reluctantly sits up, and allows herself to be helped on to the glider.

The Carer wheels Mum to the bathroom.

Alex
There you are, Mum.  Tell us when you're ready and then we'll take you to wash your hands.

Mum  (looking belligerently at Alex and the Carer)
You're going to have a big shock, because I'm dead!


Needless to say, Mum was very much alive for dinner; she ate the lot, and finished off the meal with 3  After Eight mints and a cup of tea.  At least she wasn't going to be dead hungry.

A Poetic Interlude

A Poetic Interlude

I had a dear friend, whom I had known since I first came back to England in the early 1970s. When she developed dementia, her family moved her into a care home, near to where they lived, and I had not seen her for a while.  When I visited her, I was shocked at the deterioration of her senses, her mind, her memory.  She still had the outward appearance of my friend, but did she know who I was?  and, more importantly, where was she?

I was inspired to write this poem......

Where Is My Friend?

Where is my friend? Hidden
Beneath the tortuous pathways
Of a confused mind.
Where is the steely Matron? - Full of wit
And flashes of wicked inspiration?

She's hiding now, in this frail frame of mind;
Just sitting there, crumpled in her chair.
(It doesn't even look comfortable).
She leans forward, conspiratorially. Oh, yes,
She has all the right vocabulary.

All the right words, from the time when
Her thoughts were razor-sharp, cutting edge.
She says, "I have....." (and now she's counting,
Counting slowly, deliberately, a child again,
Using all her fingers and toes....)

Triumphantly, the answer comes:
"I have eight sons, you know!"
I hear her call me - call me by another name.
She announces loudly to a passing nurse:
"Of course it's her!" She's insistent.

Then puzzlement flits across her face,
Coupled with a sudden, frightening
Uncertainty - so painful to see.
Is she thinking, "Where is my friend?"
Like me?