Requesting A Birthday Message From The Queen

Requesting A Birthday Message From The Queen

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was.

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

I Am Re-Acquainted With Dementia UK

I Am Re-Acquainted With Dementia UK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something A Little Light-Hearted

Something A Little Light-Hearted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hair by Shannon

And More From The Hairdressing Department

And More From The Hairdressing Department

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

The Fountain Style- by Sydney

I'm Back Writing Again

I'm Back Writing Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

The conversation would usually go like this:

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

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

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

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

Uncle John: "Yes, please!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mum: "I love you."

Uncle John: "I love you, too."

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

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

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

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

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

Then there would be a pause.

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

You could hear the disappointment in his voice.

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

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

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

We're Fighting Uncle John's Corner

We're Fighting Uncle John's Corner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle John - sitting in a dressing gown

Summer 2012 with Uncle John

Summer 2012 with Uncle John

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle John, Wendy and me outside Yarborough Cottages

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

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

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

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