A true story

Hard to believe but sadly, true. No names, but regular readers will no doubt be able to work this out for themselves.

The 'study'

Now that life is a bit calmer again, I have begun to go through some of Dad's folders of articles, notes etc that are presently stacked up in what I laughingly call the study. I say laughingly because 'cupboard' would be a more accurate description. The room itself is undeniably tiny and to make matters worse, is crammed with two bookcases, a filing cabinet, desk and swivel chair, clothes airer and Keith's fat machine. Yes, you read that correctly. This is a large machine which he bought online in one of his crazier moments, in the (vain) hope that using it would break down excess fat. It doesn't and he hasn't even looked at it for about three years. But every time I suggest getting rid of it to some other idiot interested person, he demurs. Persuading him to dispose of anything - clothes, shoes, holey socks - is like pulling teeth, so if I think I can get away with it, I do occasionally sneak things out when he's not looking. Generally, this works quite well, but this time, I need to be more upfront.

'If we could get rid of the fat machine,' I say, 'I could move the filing cabinet into that corner and be able to get to the built in cupboard without having to move the clothes airer and the swivel chair.'

Sadly, he still remains to be convinced and as it's too big and heavy for me to sneak it out when he's not looking,  this is still a work in progress.

'Slow and steady wins the race' ...

The violence of the elderly?

When I was travelling around on buses in my youth, it was expected that a younger person, and especially children, would get up and offer their seats to older or pregnant adults who were standing. I used to hate doing it, simply because it made me the centre of attention, albeit only for a moment, and I just wasn't keen on that. However, I used to comfort myself with the thought that when I was old, youngsters would do the same for me. It hasn't happened of course, as in I haven't got old yet ...

(Pause for polite agreement) and youngsters, if they even notice you at all, would trample over you in the rush to get where they're going.  Proof of this was brought home to me some time ago in Chester, when a young woman with a baby in a buggy dashed out of a shop and straight across my path, without even seeing me, whereupon, she was mildly chastised by her partner.

"Watch out, you nearly knocked that old woman over!"

They both definitely noticed me when I explained quite forcibly that I was NOT old and did he perhaps need a visit to the optician in the near future? (OK, I didn't say the bit about the optician.)

We 'baby boomers' are not favourably viewed on the whole. We're the ones who 'had it all', which is true to a certain extent. We have been lucky. We grew up in a time when attitudes were changing, jobs were plentiful and, for the first time,  young people had a disposable income and the freedom that went with it.  Now, one of the few advantages of being of a certain age is that we have reasonable pensions, which the next cohort are less likely to have, although any savings we might have will almost certainly be swallowed up  in due course in care costs. 

But when I see this about over 75s being responsible for over half of all physical assaults on NHS staff, firstly, I find it  impossible to believe (think Saturday night in any A&E in the country) and secondly, I can only feel sorry for all concerned; the often confused elderly and the overstretched staff who don't have the time they need to explain things and go at a slower pace to suit the patient. 

Barring accident or terminal illness, we'll all eventually arrive in that land of old age but of course, the politicians, who should be doing all they can to make the experience more manageable, will be cushioned by the private care which their wealth will provide.

The daily round

Yep! I know, it's ages since I last posted. The more spare time I have, the less profitable use I seem to make of it and I don't know why that is but there you are. 

It's just over five months now since Dad died and a lot of that time was taken up with sorting out his affairs, clearing the house, getting it ready for sale and  fortunately, managing to sell it for the asking price to a nice young couple who, I hope, will be happy there. Paddy and Toby still pull on the lead to turn into the garden whenever we pass by and I still have to remind myself not to check whether the lawn has been mown as I drive past. 

 Then I spent a week on Welsh summer school in Mold, which was great, a chance to meet fellow learners, share our experiences of speaking Welsh, or trying to and learning that I could get through a week of classes where Welsh was spoken ninety percent of the time and understand it!
I also learned that I find it a lot more tiring doing a full week of classes than I did fifty odd years ago . Who knew!
The other small item of news is that, as well as not being able to hack a full week of studying, it appears I am no longer able to step outside the front door without tripping over the mat and going flying.
Just when you think life is getting boring!

Passing

Years ago, people used to talk about ‘passing away’. I remember when I was about eight and my grandfather died, my grandmother saying to someone who enquired, “Oh, he, er,  passed away” which I thought was an impressive, grown - up way of talking about a death, so when my teacher asked me how  my grandfather was, knowing that he had been ill,  I too replied with, “Oh he, er, passed away” and felt terribly grown up. I imagine the teacher turned away to hide a smile and the tale was told in the staff room at the first opportunity.

In recent years, the ‘in’ word is ‘passed.’ I have wondered if this is part of the modern tendency to shorten and simplify everything but actually, I don’t really understand why we can’t simply say that someone has died.

On Thursday, four of us sat by Dad’s bed as his life drew to its close. It was laboured and he was not really aware of what was happening around him and in that respect, it seemed not unlike the process of birth. Earlier in the day, the Methodist minister had visited to say prayers, at their usual times, the carers had been to make him comfortable and the district nurses had called to adjust his medication.

We will miss him, of course we will, but we will also remember that he lived a full and interesting life and achieved lots of things he wanted to and many that he never expected to and that will be his legacy.

Charles Taylor 1923 - 2016

I thought I would copy Elder Daughter's tribute to Dad which she posted on Facebook. She has said it so much better than I could. 

Today saw the end of the long and extraordinary life of a remarkable man.

He had a passion for Kipling, knickerbocker glories, steam trains and lamenting the passing of the British Empire. He was hilariously and unrepentantly un-PC. He would delight in telling us what he would do to Tony Blair if he ever got his hands on him. He wrote a book. He painted and drew. He met the queen. He taught himself to use a computer and spent much of his 80s emailing friends all over the world that he had met online, until his eyesight failed. In his younger years he built steam engines and lectured on engineering in universities up and down the UK despite mostly being a self educated man. He loved his family dearly, and we loved him. He was described by all who knew him as a true gentleman.

He was a man that I was proud to call my friend, my mentor and my co-conspirator. He encouraged me, inspired me, took an interest in my life and work, and taught me so much.

He was my grandad.

I am posting this to celebrate a wonderful human being and to tell the world how proud I am to have known him. He died peacefully at home, his way, surrounded by his family. Rest in peace grandad, and thank you for all that you have given us xxx

All quiet on the midnight front

After a fairly quiet day yesterday, Dad needed medication to settle him again last night. A district nurse came in the evening to administer it, warning me that some time in the early hours, he might become restless again and need a top up. As it happened, he didn’t. He slept soundly all night, but I thought it would be better to sleep downstairs this time, instead of upstairs with the baby alarm.

This is where the advantages of a small house suddenly become less obvious.

Dad had a two seater sofa in his living room, which needed to go to make room for the hospital bed and anyway, a two seater is not really long enough to sleep on, not if you want to stretch your legs, anyway. He also has a rise and recline chair, which we kept and which is very comfortable for sitting on. Sadly, it’s not so comfortable to sleep on.

By two am, I had finally figured out a way to lie on it which was not too detrimental to my back and I did actually manage to sleep maybe fifty percent of the night, in short bursts, but being a bit on the greedy side, where sleep is concerned, that still left me feeling a little the worse for wear today.

Today, Dad has had a syringe fitted, which will administer his medication in short, measured doses throughout twenty four hours, so I am very hopeful that he will have another good night.

For me, it’s back upstairs with the baby monitor and hopefully, an equally good night’s sleep.

Dad back at home

Dad has been back at home for just over a week now and we are getting used to the new carers who come in four times a day to wash and change him, see to his food, what little he is eating, and generally make him comfortable, In addition, we have carers from Hospice at Home and Marie Curie to stay the night with him, if they have someone available. They are usually only able to tell me if they can send someone during the early evening, so I don’t generally know until then whether someone will be in or if I will have to stay. If I stay, I sleep upstairs and have a baby monitor on in case Dad is restless or needs anything during the night.

The baby monitor is a bit of a two edged sword as it picks up every sound, which stops me sleeping or on the other hand, when he is quiet, I keep waking up and wondering why I can’t hear anything. Well, you can’t win ‘em all! The nights when someone rings up and says, “I’ll be at your dad’s tonight” are sheer bliss and I can’t thank them enough. I brought up four children with all the attendant disrupted nights and lack of sleep, but then, as Elder Daughter was happy to point out, I was thirty years younger then. These days, sleep eludes me all too frequently anyway (own personal heating system, creaky hip and knees etc)  and a good night’s slumber is both rare and precious.

Last night, Carol from Hospice at Home drew the short straw as Dad had a very disrupted night and barely slept at all, so much so, that she had to call on Out of Hours Marie Curie service to come out, resulting in his first injection of Midazolam to calm him down.

This is a steep learning curve.

Things are beginning to move, it seems

Yesterday the district nurse rang to say that she had arranged for the four visits a day to Dad by the Carers, followed by a phone call this morning from Red Cross it arrange the delivery of a hospital bed etc for him.
So it looks as though things are moving.
All I need to do now is persuade him of this and disabuse him of the notion that really, there is a sinister plot by the hospital to keep him as an in-patient!

Getting home

Today I was at a meeting with the professionals involved in getting Dad back home. He has been in hospital since Boxing Day, during which time he has needed a blood transfusion for anaemia, a permanent catheter and two or three courses of intravenous antibiotics for infections, of which two were pneumonia. Over the last week or so, his mobility has declined to the point where, although he can sometimes stand and bear his own weight, he is not able to walk and, although he sits out in the chair during the morning, he usually gets tired by lunchtime and needs to get back into bed. 

On his good days, he can't understand why he can't just go back home and resume his daily life, conveniently forgetting that he has had help from carers four times a day for the past few months. Other days, he can fall asleep mid sentence and yet other times, the delirium he is prone to during his spells in hospital comes to the fore and there is little connection with reality. 

However, through good and bad, he has always stressed to anyone who would listen that he wanted to go home as soon as possible and finally, things are beginning to be put into place for this.

The occupational therapist has visited his house, where I have cleared the living room to make space for a hospital bed, and is happy with it, the consultant has agreed that it would be in his best interests to be cared for at home, and the district nurse is now going to contact Hospice at Home to provide carers to visit four times a day to see to his practical needs.

"All this fuss!" said Dad when we reported back to him. "I don't need carers. I can look after myself!" He reminds us that he looked after the house and Mum for years when she was ill, and so he did, admirably, so it's difficult for him to come to terms with the fact that now it is he who needs help and support and who can blame him?

It's a difficult business, the growing old thing.