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!
Friday, 1 November 2019
Sunday, 6 October 2019
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 September 2019
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!
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!
Wednesday, 18 September 2019
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.
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.
Monday, 26 August 2019
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.
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 |
Friday, 23 August 2019
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:
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| The Fountain Style- by Sydney |
Friday, 9 August 2019
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.
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.
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