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.