THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART SIXTEEN)

Have we reached the final part? We left off part way through the twelfth week, with my sister having left her faraway home and firmly ensconced in mum’s flat, waiting to assist her with adjusting to the world outside the hospital again. Mum’s release is supposedly “imminent”. Will there be one final twist in the tale of our sorry saga before it reaches it’s inevitable conclusion?

FEB 15 2011

Day 80. Sis rings 9.20AM. Mum and the GMF have been pestering her for hours already to try to get her to persuade me to ring the Social Services. I explain that I think this is pointless because we are only just into office hours and people need to be allowed to do their jobs. Mum leaves 2 messages in similar vein whilst I’m talking to sis, and rings me again two minutes later and seems less than chuffed when I explain my position. All-in-all this is not an encouraging start to the day.

Then it all goes very quiet and I’m left to stew in my own juices and hover next to the phone in the expectation that it will ring at any moment which doesn’t help me to focus on my work. I imagine that sis is doing an afternoon visit as the GMF is reportedly unwell, but I sit at home quietly getting annoyed about the sense I’m getting that my mother and the GMF seems to be of the collective opinion that the continuance of her hospital stay is somehow all down to me and my less than proactive nature, and that she would have been home weeks ago if only I’d made a phone call or two. Nothing to do with her health or any doctors at all then…?

Strangely today the NHS is getting a mauling in the news for how it cares for the elderly, but I’m starting to think that that’s going to turn out to be my fault as well. I feel like I’m unravelling.

Meanwhile, from the tone of her post-visiting phone call, sis seems to be getting frustrated by it all, but it’s not as if I didn’t warn her. I think I might have said this before but, welcome, as the saying goes, to my world. She’s had a frustrating day getting nowhere and things have taken a darker turn. It seems that because sis failed to appear with any cheese for mum a small riot started to brew up and was only avoided when a nurse mentioned that there was some in the fridge left over from the latest meal service. I noticed for the first time only a couple of days ago mum’s missing or broken tooth because it’s taken that long for her to smile, but sis hadn’t seen it during her stay after New Year either, so this is obviously a recent thing that neither of us knew about. Mum has also been accosted/molested by her new neighbour in the next bed today which has led to altercations and remonstrations. Hell really can be other people.

FEB 16 2011

Sis rings 9.30AM(ish) after having been talked into calling Social Services and now knows that mum is “on the list” for release and due a visit today. This would seem to represent a step forward in the “imminent departure” stakes, but, as ever, the cynic in me refuses to believe it until she’s actually sitting inside the car. We have, after all, been here before.

A later call, which turns into a lengthy chat about many issues, some of them which don’t show the better sides of my nature, tells me that the Social Worker has been to see mum this morning and that she will “definitely” be home before the weekend (although she was “definitely” going to be home before Christmas, so I’m still not holding my breath… Maybe I should start digging a trench? They never actually said which Christmas, of course…).

Mum rings and tells me that she’s had 3 visits this morning. Firstly the Social Worker (which I knew about), then the Care Team Nurse who says that she will see her “at home” next week, and finally from the Intermediate Care Worker who has given her prescription for a bathroom stool which will need collecting sometime. Things actually do seem to be in motion at last…

The afternoon brings the less than gratefully received (by mum anyway, as she hates change) news that she is to be relocated to a rehabilitation ward, presumably ready to be let back into an unsuspecting world, and a more positive call later tells me to check that she’s actually been moved before leaving for my visit, how wonderful the GMF is for doing her packing, and that she felt more comfortable with the frame rather than the pair of sticks – someone came from the destination ward to check this apparently - and so the sticks are gone.

Dashing around before it was time to go for the evening visit so I didn't get a chance to call first, and optimistically went to the “wrong” ward, but, as I met my sister by the lift, it wasn’t just me. Just under an hour with mum waiting in limbo to be relocated and none too pleased about it. The Social Services still think it might be “a few days” due to it being a ward where people are assessed on their ability to cope alone. There may be exams… Still, the GMF has packed her bags for her (with only a few slight omissions), and there was some chat about planning life at home and we kept trying to distract her from the subject of the “unfortunate” neighbour. I did also get an acknowledgement that my now regular observation that we really must let things unfold at their own pace was probably right.

A latish call informs me that the move to the new ward is complete and that this latest ward is very nice. As ever, it’s fear of the unknown that makes her awkward, I feel.

FEB 17 2011

A morning call from mum tells me that she’s had a good night’s sleep and has managed to transfer her TV across by herself. You are expected to do more for yourself on that ward, apparently. We discuss the fact that I might not see her today to take advantage of my sister’s presence to take the pressure off, unless of course the decision is made for her to go home, which, of course, would be another matter entirely.

Sis rings at 4.00PM to tell me she’s collected the prescribed stool (from a different supplier I knew nothing of) and tells me of the many calls that she has received today (including an elderly lady ringing her as a wrong number at 5.00AM and then pressing redial a further 4 times… Sigh!), and that she has made arrangements to stay up north a little longer if necessary due to all the continuing delays in mum’s release. Other matters are discussed, and we have a moment of fiscal panic when it dawns on me that the TV will run out tonight and I wasn’t planning on visiting and, for a second, it looks as if I will have to go after all, but sis finds enough coins in the dark depths of her purse to save the day. The cost of failure would be more than we could bear…

After my evening in, a phone call from sis to discuss yet more issues and worries about mum’s future home life, mostly about whether mum’s prepared to put the effort in with things like improved diet and so forth, but both of us are still none the wiser and befuddled when we sign off. All I know at the moment is that if mum really doesn’t make any effort to help herself and ends up in hospital for the third time, I genuinely, genuinely don’t know if I can cope with it again.

FEB 18 2011

Day 83. A Friday. A social worker rings me and tells me that mum can be sent home early afternoon tomorrow if they’ve got the meds and the ambulance sorted. The carers are in place for 8.45AM, 11.45AM, 4.30PM and 8.15PM. The thing that’s delaying it until tomorrow is the ambulance availability issue, and so, when I suggest that either sis or myself can collect her in a car, enquiries need to be made to look into the possibility of the release happening today, possibly around 6.30PM. The Social Worker rings off so that she can call the ward to check. I briefly ring sis to put her on standby and try to keep the line clear, but then mum rings and I have to tell her to go away as I’m waiting for a call. The care package is for transfers, meals, commode hygiene, catheter care and mobility issues, so that all seems fine and dandy. Ten minutes later and it seems we’re good to go for this evening and we’ll need to ring the ward before we set off, just to check everything is in place and possibly arrange for a wheelchair to be available. I then (of course) forget to ask one vital question, “Has the care package also been brought forward?” and so have to wait for another call back, which, when it comes, gives me some further useful information like contact numbers for the carers. In the meanwhile, sis has gone out for one “final afternoon of peace” and tells me that mum had complained at me cutting short her call; “He says he’s waiting for Social Services to ring!” “That’s because he’s waiting for Social Services to ring…” sis replied. Mum has also cancelled the GMF from doing his afternoon visit, as usual jumping the gun as she hadn’t been told at that point that her release wasn’t due until at least 6.30PM, and, despite not actually being dressed yet, she’s packed her bags. Will she never learn? Later on she changes her mind and the GMF visits after all...

It all goes very quiet during the afternoon. Too quiet. Still, I’m able to get on with my work (despite sudden power outages really not helping), so it’s probably a good thing. Sis rings me after she returns from her peaceful afternoon and the situation remains at “go” and so we formulate a plan of action and exchange the various details we’ve individually accrued. There needs to be a call made before we leave just to check that everything’s still on track and sis volunteers to do that and indeed, at about 5 o’clock she does, and we are still at “go, go, go!”. Surely, it's too late now for things to change...?

I load up the car with all mum’s valuables that I’d removed from the flat for safety (and witness one of those two cars nose-to-nose with neither of them willing to back up moments which goes on for five minutes – but that’s another story…) before heading to the supermarket for a swift shopping session to get mum bread, milk, cheese and other perishables to see her through the weekend. Oh, and in a moment of inspiration, one of those plug night-lights for the flat. I also grab sis and I some sandwiches as we’re unlikely to get much chance to eat in the coming hours. Sis and I meet in the car park and transfer mum’s things (including her Christmas presents) safely to the more secure boot of her car and, after a brief moment to reflect on matters, we take a deep breath and head inside.

Mum is sitting in her chair, fed, dressed and just about ready to go. Sis delivers the socks she was asked to bring and mum’s outdoor shoes are then slowly (and with difficulty as mum’s feet have swollen from underuse) added to complete the ensemble. After a few ‘I’s are dotted and ‘T’s crossed, mum is placed into a wheelchair and, bidding farewell to some of the rather excellent staff on that particular ward, with a hope that they won’t be seeing her back there any time soon (which I think was meant in the best possible way…) we head back out into a corridor to anticipate going into the great outdoors. Sis fetches her silver car (“Thunderbird 1”) and we transfer mum into it and I load up my green car (“Thunderbird 2”) with the luggage and her walker, and follow along behind them (after having returned the wheelchair). Strangely, memories of that same road ten weeks ago, heading in the opposite direction after the ambulance was called, come flooding back to me as I drive along. It’s funny, that. I’ve driven that way many times in between, but it was only tonight that it all came back to me.

I arrive at the flat in time to hand mum her walker for her to attempt the epic walk up the corridor to her home, and an evening of readjusting her to the ways of the world and her old/new environment. After an hour or so, I leave sis and mum to it as they anticipate the arrival of the first of the carers, and head home and back to relative normality. I make a swift call as I arrive as I’d forgotten to mention a couple of things, and sis tells me that the carer has just arrived. Later on, as I doze in front of the telly, there’s another call. This time it’s mum, happy enough and safely tucked up in her own bed at last.

So, after all that I’ve told you about, mum is finally home.

Now the fun really begins…

But that’s another story! I’m rather hoping that this is the end of our sorry little saga for a while, although, as regular readers will know, mum has been home before during these events, so nothing is certain. This has been a very personal journey that I’ve been sharing with you, and I know that one or two people felt that they were being a little intrusive as they read it, but I hope you haven’t been too appalled at my indiscretions. I tried to keep it honest, and, perhaps at times I was rather TOO honest, but I’m hoping that these diaries will prove to be a useful document for me (and hopefully for my sister as well) to refer to over the coming months and years to help keep a sense of proportion and reality as the memory of a rather difficult time begins to fade. For those of you who have joined me along the way, thank you for your interest, and I hope, truly I do, that we won’t need to be adding any further chapters any time soon.

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART FIFTEEN)

(Or “Another Sunday and sweet F.A.”) Last time we reached the end of week eleven and day 77 of this saga. Three more days and we could have gone around the world with Phileas Fogg and might possibly have felt that we’d achieved much more by doing that. Instead the dreary round of waiting for test results and trudging out into the night with my pockets laden with cheese and sweeties trundles on...

FEB 13 2011

Mum rings 8.15AM on Sunday morning to ask whether I’m visiting today, because the GMF has cried off citing his bad back and general unwellness. Mum’s neighbour in the next bed has been told she can return to her nursing home tomorrow, and, as mum quite reasonably asked when something similar was going to be said to her, she was told that her blood is still not balanced and so we start week twelve in much the same situation as we headed into week eleven.

Spent much of the day battling the twin demons of exhaustion and depression and not too successfully, before heading out in the driving rain to sit in traffic for an hour on my way to make an afternoon visit. I stayed just over an hour and kept it friendly. The GMF had briefly popped in with flowers from Church but he was gone before I arrived, and I spent a little time reminiscing over tales of travel and worrying about mum’s much neglected feet. Considering as a diabetic she is supposed to have them examined every month, it seems slightly disturbing to me that she has been in hospital for nearly three months and, despite it being mentioned fairly frequently, they have not been looked at. The standard response is that “Podiatry have no available appointments” apparently, but surely that doesn’t stop somebody just looking, does it? Or indeed booking an appointment...? I had a look and they didn’t look great to me, but then I’m not a medical professional. Anyway, the hour was friendly enough and we parted amicably with me promising to return tomorrow.

Mum leaves a message on the answerphone as we’ve just settled down to eat to the effect that she’s seen a slight but encouraging improvement in some of her more personal problems, which is definitely a cause for some small celebration.

FEB 14 2011

Mum rings just as the toast pops up out of the toaster (her timing is impeccable) to tell me that she’s already been told that she won’t be going home today, although the lady in the next bed is. Mum has already had blood taken away for testing this morning but seems fairly philosophical about the whole matter.

One hour and forty minutes later she rings me and tells me that she might be heading home today and has no recollection whatsoever of her earlier call to me telling me the exact opposite. Apparently the doctor has been round and thinks that she’s pretty much well enough to go and I will be getting my orders from the hospital (no matter what else I might have to do) fairly soon, no doubt. The baton is being handed over to her G.P. apparently, who will have to readmit her if the problems return.

She also mentions a visit “one afternoon recently” by mysterious doctor from the kidney clinic which is the first time she has mentioned this to me, but she might have to attend his out-patient’s clinic.

Sis then rings and tells me that she’s on her way, despite my suggestions that this may well be another false dawn and I’m now incapable of positive thinking any more. “Jumping the gun” is the phrase that most springs to mind here, but she’s got sick of just waiting to come and a nursing sister on the ward has assured her that mum’s release is “imminent”.

Mum rings at lunchtime to tell me that she’s heard nothing else (did we ever really expect that she would?) but the GMF, in his vast experience of these matters, thinks she’ll be released either at teatime or bedtime. Mind you, the GMF is feeling pretty unwell himself today, apparently. Another call from mum at 4.10PM tells me that the Social Services have “just” been informed that mum is ready to go home, and so, as it takes time to get things in place, as expected there is unlikely to be any chance of her going home today. Sis rings not long after that to say she’s now “up north” although it might yet prove to be pointlessly.

I head out alone for another hospital visit and it’s just me and mum alone with her cheese craving until sis “surprisingly” appears about ten minutes later which jollies things along and we have a jokey moment over mum’s memory which is actually quite a light way of addressing a rather serious worry. Things remain happy enough, right until mum tells me that the GMF thinks that I should have “kicked up a fuss” because she hasn’t been sent home yet (in his considered medical opinion, obviously). Whilst I seethe over that, the knife is twisted again because when I tell her not to worry about the food she has in the flat until she’s actually back there, “This is how he is!” my sister gets told. I notice that immediately after this, mum then actually listens to my sister as she tells her precisely the same things that I’ve been saying, so that makes me feel as if whenever I try to be helpful it is just my jaw flapping, but when the GMF and sis speak, they obviously impart great wisdom.

I feel special.

Sis goes off to talk to the same nurse who told her mum would definitely be home tomorrow who now adds (after her 320 mile drive to be here for it) “…or possibly Wednesday.” I leave sis to listen to mum complain about me (“You can bitch about me for five minutes” as I put it in my most eloquent way...) and go to get another TV card, and the rest of the visit is relatively incident free apart from the “don’t bring me a load of fresh fruit” complaint about my planned “on-release” shopping trip for perishables which, on top of my notions of finding some alternative healthier snacking options, doesn’t fill me with confidence that I’m likely to be able to get anything right, no matter what I do.

Sis and I have a quick post-visit car park conference which fills in the details of the “bitching session” i.e. “Why am I like that about the GMF?” (because the sun shines out of his backside whilst I’m all that’s scuzzy in the universe, apparently) and we discuss my fears over possible kitchen fires in the flat and whether I shouldn’t attend tomorrow, release notwithstanding.

I can tell how wound up I still am because I very nearly crash the car as I leave the hospital. When I get home the beloved is annoyed on my behalf  - and suggests that I need to come up with more assertive responses to my mother’s “ways” for my future happiness and well-being - and I then ring sis, ostensibly to see that she got into the flat okay, but also for more discussion about our various woes and issues.

Are we about to reach the final chapter of our tedious tale? My sister is now waiting in mum’s flat, and mum is due for an “imminent” release into an unsuspecting world. Can anything possibly still go wrong to stop her from going home? Have we finally reached the beginning of the end of our sorry little saga? Stay tuned!

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART FOURTEEN)

We left off yesterday mid-way through week eleven of our yawnful yarns, and, whilst there is an ongoing sense that undoubted progress is being made, we still remain on our little treadmill. I am starting to worry that this little window of optimism we’re experiencing might just vanish with this prolonged state of limbo and the confidence mum currently has will ebb away and we will end up in a state of emotional atrophy if we’re not too careful…

FEB 10 2011

Day 75 (a Thursday I believe) starts with a phone call from mum about 9.15AM to tell me that there’s no news and had I heard anything…? We followed that with a discussion on the new diminished catheter bags and how she’s getting used to them, office hours and the possible duties of carers. I also had to remind mum that I planned not to visit today unless the notification to release happens to occur which seemed to be okay with her. Sis rang me for as much confirmation of this as I could give her before she went out shopping, and mum rang about noon to confirm that her magnesium levels are stubbornly lurking at the 0.4 mark (suddenly 0.7 seems an awfully big number and an awfully long way off) and so she is to remain in hospital for the time being. Forty minutes later I get another call to say that she’s managed to get a cheese fix sorted out for this evening (sometimes I do tend to feel like I’m going in as her “dealer” as I hand over small packets of sweets and cheese…).

I have a much-needed night off from visiting and much of our discussion at home is about my own health and how to preserve it, especially if in the long haul (I feel as if I’ve already done the long haul…) the status quo is to continue. After this eleven week (and counting…) stretch I need to start rationing my scheduled visits otherwise I’ll wear myself out and be no use to anyone. Whether I’ll be able to sell this notion to mum as she endures the long, lonely days in hospital remains (of course) to be seen.

FEB 11 2011

Sis rings about 11 o’clock to announce that mum definitely won’t be heading home before “early next week” as the magnesium is still not sorted (0.48 today, apparently) and they’ve just taken another sample for testing. Not a long chat - well I was trying to work - but I think my disillusionment might be showing. Mum, however, failed to ring all day, which was odd.

I headed out in the brewing rainstorm after work to have my hair cut and then pulled into the hospital for another visit on my way home, delivering more supplies and a new TV guide, as well as the good wishes of our mutual hairstylists. Mum’s quietness today was due to her sleeping much of the morning away, which I suppose was a good thing even if it worried at least one of the Ward staff for a while. Mum tells me she didn’t ring because sis had already told me everything, but I think that she really just probably forgot and didn’t want me to feel forgotten. Things between us are still remaining amicable (this could be a record!) although the thorny issue that “the GMF thinks that we shouldn’t visit at the same time” rather sticks in my craw although I don’t let on. The problem is that the weekend is my only chance for daytime visiting and the choice of an evening at home, and I rather resent that option being taken away from me. Still, I have mentioned the possibility that I need to reduce my quantity of visiting anyway for the sake of my own well-being and that wasn’t dismissed out of hand. I had to bring some more washing home as there was a problem with a faulty bag apparently, but we were able to have some civilised chats about world events and other matters which made a change.

FEB 12 2011

I have a bad night with my insomnia and find myself up in the middle of the night pondering on things as the rain beats down upon the roof tiles. Mum rang me briefly around 11.30AM having slept most of her morning away again. The weather seemed nice from what she could see out of the ward windows (although it was cloudy hereabouts) and she had remembered that I’d decided not to visit today, but we didn’t say much else. She rang again a couple of times about 3.40PM after a doze following her latest visit from the GMF. These calls were first to discuss her lack of any cheese, and then to report that some had arrived courtesy of the daughter of another patient.

I guess it’s the small things that matter.

And so week eleven (and day 77) comes to a close and we remain none the wiser. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I suspect that there’ll be more soon.

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART THIRTEEN)

Or, if you prefer, week eleven, part one…

We left off on the brink of another weekend (marking the end of week ten of these tedious tales) which, once again, we really hoped might just turn out to be the last in hospital for mum before heading home, but after our recent experiences, really none of us was holding our breath…

FEB 05 2011

It’s a soggy Saturday morning when I get up about 7.40AM (that’s a lie-in for me…) after a relatively good night’s sleep to write up my latest diaries about this whole sorry saga. Today is the day I have decided to have a day off from hospital duties and just try to relax instead.

It’s quiet – almost too quiet – as I watch old films and generally chill out (as I believe the youngsters no longer actually say) and hear absolutely nothing about hospitals or any of that kind of thing all day as the rain continually hammers down.

FEB 06 2011

An afternoon trip to see mum on our way back from the shops starts off happy enough, in fact, this is the first time in quite a while that mum looks and acts like her old self. Even the beloved comments upon it, saying that it’s good to see mum actually laughing at things, which neither of us has seen for a while. Things take a slightly more tetchy tone when the subject of the accumulated church collection money owing crops up, and, to prevent another descent into bitter disagreement, the beloved drags me away and we head homewards pondering on matters fiscal.

FEB 07 2011

A business trip to Oldbury finds me heading to mum’s flat early in order to meet m’colleague in a more convenient spot for him to give me a lift. This gives me a short opportunity to potter about with some minor furniture layout thoughts, and to check the mail etc. Hanging around there means I am spotted by a neighbour who comes out for a bit of a chat, and because mum’s church is also nearby, various cars keep pulling up whilst I’m waiting to ask how she’s doing.

When I get home mid-afternoon, a message from mum implies that, if her blood is behaving itself, she is to be sent home tomorrow, but, as ever, I’ll believe it when I see it.

A really pleasant hour with mum tonight. For the first time in a long time she actually seems ready to go home, and looks it too. Despite all the false dawns of the last few weeks I now realise how foolish it might have been for them to let her go any earlier. She also seems to be looking forward and is eager to be self-sufficient and is talking about cooking for herself again, all of which is very encouraging. Certainly mum going home is looking more of a prospect than it has in while.

Rang sis to attempt to formulate some kind of action plan for her travel arrangements, or at least to have a kind of planning session which ends up being quite a long chat about practical stuff, but neither of us is really absolutely and utterly convinced yet that the actual definite day that mum goes home is truly upon us, after all, care plans still need to be triggered, ‘i’s need to be dotted and ‘t’s crossed. Things, as ever, remain in a state of flux.

FEB 08 2011

The early morning call from mum seems to suggest that her release is not quite as imminent as we were led to believe after an early morning chat to a nurse, but you never know. Still, mum seems cheerful enough about it after another blood sample winged its way off to the lab and she’d spent another night wolfing down her Tic-Tac supply (“Bring more! More!”) and she has been dubbed the “Tic-Tac Lady” by some of the nursing staff as she manages to drop them in amongst the bedclothes when having her midnight scoff (so that’s where they’re all going). A later call confirms the lack of release, and demands Maltesers (which she also shouldn’t have, apparently). Onward ever onward. I ring sis to stand her down.

I head out alone in the evening for yet another hospital visit which proves uneventful. (I know… Where’s the drama? Where’s the conflict? I’ll be boring you all to death with this if I’m not careful…). It seems many of her friends have suffered falls lately, but this awareness of the woes of others is again a good sign, and even mum is aware of how much better she is feeling now than she was even a couple of weeks back. She’s also enjoying her food again and has finally realised how useful some of the “daft” things – like bringing her a notebook to write in – that we did a few weeks ago have turned out to be. To be honest our hour is mostly chat about how home life is going to be and a few things that’ll need to be done once she gets there, and explaining things that had to be done whilst she’s been away (like having all her paperwork at my house in case the worst happened…) and making sure we get things back in order (like sis sitting down and discussing her financial situation with her) once she’s back in circulation. I load up the telly again, deliver her contraband (cheese, Tic-Tacs and Maltesers – other sweeties are of course available) and bring some more washing home.

Basically we’re playing a waiting game now. I notice the aftermath of an accident as I drive back home, and I ponder about it for a while, as my sympathies go out towards someone else as they are being put by circumstance into their own ‘bubble’.

FEB 09 2011

Mum leaves it until lunchtime to ring me (although both the beloved and sis ring earlier to ask what’s happening) to tell me she’s been told she’s staying put until the magnesium settles above 0.7 (whatever that might mean…) and so the daily cycle of visits must continue. At least the doctor has convinced mum of the importance of this magnesium issue as it directly affects whether or not she will have further heart-rate problems. A nurse has promised her a shower and shampoo tomorrow, so that’s progress. Meanwhile apparently the Maltesers caused a blood sugar spike (qu’elle surprise!) so I really need to track down a slightly less sugary snack solution when I head out to restock on mum’s supply of tissues this evening.

The end of the working day brings a tsunami of depression because I start to realise that I can’t see an end to it. I just want my life (such as it was) back… is that too much to ask? After a bit of a strop, I rally and head out alone for another hour’s hospital chat. No matter how much I endeavour to reassure her, mum still seems to be obsessing about money although I keep telling her to relax about it. Her health and getting well are more important things to be thinking about, I feel. She’s happier today as she got a shower and her hair washed and generally feels as if she could cope with being at home now. She also made a few phone calls to friends in order to try and plan things like a hairdresser coming to the flat. All good stuff, although the dried fruit and nuts I took along do not seem to fulfil the desired “snacking” function. I tentatively suggest that I might have an evening at home tomorrow, but, as ever, we shall just have to wait and see…

And so ends day 74 of our wild and wacky misadventures. There’ll be more soon, I’m sure. Hey! You at the back there! Wake up!

THE BUBBLE

I sit in the car driving home in the dark at the end of what I calculate to be day 71 in the bubble. It’s Sunday evening and I see people heading out for the night, couples laughing and joking. I see families with pushchairs heading home from their days of fun and frolics, or a birthday party, or just a visit to see grandma.

And I am in the bubble.

Through brightly lit windows I see crowds of carefree people laughing, joking, drinking. All of them appear to be having a normal night out with their friends and families and lovers. Oblivious, unknowing, uncaring. Their lives an untroubled sea of tranquillity and normality. They are unaware of how easily that the normality can disappear. How it can just fade away and escape from their grasp on the slightest whim of fate.

And I am in the bubble…

I hear laughter through the wall; the neighbours enjoying their Sky TV and a few beers. Howling at the hilarity of someone’s latest comment, or the excitement of some sporting event. They are giggling with a knowing intimacy, enjoying a care-free quiet night in without a worry in the world.

But they don’t know I am in the bubble…

I feel like running away. I feel like getting in the car and just driving until I run out of petrol or roads. I want to overlook the sea and watch the waves crash in. I want to get away from telephones and responsibilities and the endless thinking and planning. I don’t want to have to talk about it any more. I don’t want the continuous worry. I want it to stop. I want to get away from it all.

But I’m trapped in the bubble…

The cycle of work, eat, visit, sleep is all I have. All day. Every day. Unchanging. Unblinking. No possibility of change. Every hope of change cruelly dashed by fate and circumstance and need and responsibility. Each evening punctured with the latest instalment of nothingness, the mind scraped for the latest scrap of desperate new news, anything at all that I can think of despite being shut off from the world at large.

Inside the bubble.

Nobody else can see it. Nobody else is aware of it. Nobody else can understand it.

I can see them all, running free through their lives, disconnected. Either unable or unwilling to even attempt to burst my bubble and set me free. Not even aware that the bubble is there. Occasionally I spot another bubble, but they can’t see me in mine and can’t hear my cries, as I can’t hear theirs.

Just a sea of isolated bubbles floating through so many lives hoping and yet fearing for the day they might pop.

I am in the bubble.

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART TWELVE)

The diaries chronicling my mother’s recent hospitalisation continue (although I’ve been trying to keep them in more manageable bite-sized chunks of late). As we left off yesterday, it would appear that, between the efforts of all sorts of various factions, we seem to be coming to the point of actually achieving some sort of possible release strategy by a kind of ‘drip-feed’ process…

FEB 02 2011

This morning, as I took the beloved to work, we mulled over the happy prospect of possibly getting our “normal” evenings back some time soon, as well as discussing the need not to let my mum take too much advantage of the situation and play the “illness” card too frequently. We shall have see about that, but the fact that we even feel able to be having these chats just prove to me that we really are seeing light at the end of the tunnel.

However…

Mum’s call around 11.15 comes after a meeting with a new doctor, from the Endochrinology department who insists that she won’t be being sent home until they’ve sorted out the magnesium levels in her blood. One step forward, two steps back. My hospital visits will have to continue for a little while yet, and I now have another list of shopping requirements in advance of this evening’s visit.

Sis rings to confirm this news and to tell me that they’ve discussed the knotty issue of my recent financial burden from all these events, which might mean that mum offers to pay me back some pennies, or, if I’m not prepared to accept that, maybe offering to take me out for a meal…

Shudder!

I ring the beloved to tell her the latest developments on the “now-not-going-home” announcement, and we’re both feeling rather disappointed about the continuing endlessly unchanging situation, although it is all rather ironic that this happens on “Groundhog Day”.

Social Services ring mid-afternoon, primarily to discuss “key-safes” which I suspect might prove complicated given the nature of the residents’ committee at mum’s flat. Mum herself rings shortly after this to request (of all things) some cheese, and calls again later, after the Social Worker has visited her, although the whole issue of the key-safe seems to now be getting unnecessarily complicated.

Another lonely journey out into a dark and soggy evening for my latest hospital visit. It’s a happy enough hour chatting about the day’s events. Matters fiscal and the whole seemingly massively over-complicated matter of this key-safe takes up much of the time, as do my own shortcomings. This is due to my reluctance to interfere in the first instance by contacting the managing agents of the flats, and seems to disappoint mum greatly, even though I maintain that me ringing them up in addition to Social Services will probably only confuse matters.

Mum’s fellow patient across the room is being moved to another ward which makes mum a little sad, but she has her contact numbers and seems to have made a new friend. I take a punt and buy another six days TV (so she’s almost bound to be released tomorrow now…) and finish the hour explaining the little I have managed to learn about Endochrinology.

It’s an education this hospital lark.

FEB 03 2011

The feelings of fatigue and the sense of endlessness of the situation are making things seem a little bleak and hopeless at home at the moment. Mum’s early morning call this morning is mostly to tell of how much she appreciated the cheese last night. The 11.15ish call is to remind me that I have a Radio Times in the car for her, request more cheese tonight, and to tell me she’s chatted to the nice new doctor and she’s definitely not going home today, although sis may finally get the telephone call from the doctor that she’s been trying to get for a while now. Later on, after I’ve just been summoned to a work meeting early next week (as ever, brilliantly timed), I get a call from that jolly nice Social Worker who is trying to sort out things with Age Concern and the managing agents which mostly seems to involve me needing to be at certain places at certain times and writing various cheques.

Whoopee!

Age Concern ring and will fit the key-safe first thing tomorrow as long as they can be met by my chequebook (with me tagging along, I suppose) to pay for it. I venture out in the gales for my usual evening visit, which starts off well enough despite strange new occupants on the ward with “odd” ways. Cheese and the solution of the key-safe problem are happily discussed, but things take a more frustrating turn when I explain the business trip that has been thrust upon me.

The “petulant child” emerges when it transpires that mum might not get things completely her own way when it comes to her departure from hospital. She seems to think that if she (metaphorically) snaps her fingers, then I should come running. Bitter experience, and the fact that I have a job to do, has taught me that these things are seldom instantaneous in hospitals and several hours may well elapse before all the paperwork and drugs are in order and she would finally be good to go. Of course the hospital staff’s jobs always trump mine in mum’s eyes as she thinks I should happily sit there waiting for a whole afternoon because it’s not fair of me to expect that they (i.e. those with important work to do as opposed to the pointless way I choose to waste my days) aren’t able to narrow down timescales and give me even the roughest of estimates about such things.

I suggest that the GMF might just attend during his normal visiting times to keep her company for a while on such an afternoon, but she says she wouldn’t ask him to do that because “he’s done enough” apparently - again trumping my own feeble efforts – although I, of course, would still be expected to.

I do feel compelled to point out that it’s my job that is currently providing the cash that I’ve been forking out hand over fist to keep things going during this whole saga, but I resist it. Instead I try to get her not to worry about anything, tell her that it’s everyone else’s problem, not hers, but I think I fail to convince her, and I leave feeling utterly frustrated with her.

Again.

I get home and the beloved is incredibly supportive and prepared to fight my corner even if I won’t. Later on sis rings – I suspect in response to her own dealings with mum tonight - and we have a long chat about all sorts of stuff (some of it less than complimentary), and including some details about her telephone conversation with mum’s doctor which has proved quite enlightening at least…

FEB 04 2011

Out early to battle through traffic and grotty old weather to meet up with the chap from Age Concern who is actually on time (which surprises me) and has his own family issues to contend with up in Scotland, so it’s not just us (although I never really thought it was…). He tells me that they are available for all sorts of odd jobs which might be useful to know some day and I leave him fitting the safe as requested, and very impressed with how pleasant these people who do charity work can be. It does at least put my own sense of futility and my growing sense of bitter cynicism about this whole saga in some kind of perspective.

Mum’s ten o’clock call is much more “understanding” in tone. I suspect sis may have had “words”.

On occasions, like tonight, the evening visit can be a much more pleasant affair, and whilst mum is still understandably worrying about all sorts of things, my mantra is currently “until you’re actually in your home, there’s nothing you can do about any of it, so try not to worry” which even the nurse agreed with as she took mum’s blood pressure. I cut mum’s fingernails and we talk about the care situation and matters financial, both of which fall precisely under the scope for which the mantra is designed. I decide to have a day off from all visiting tomorrow, and this is generally well received. Like I say, I think someone has had “words” with her.

Which brings us to the end of week ten of our unfolding tale, with still more to come, it would seem… I keep hoping (for all our sakes) that I can round this all off pretty soon, but like the climax of an action movie, the unexpected problems just keep on coming and there’s always one more twist in the tale…

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART ELEVEN)

Yet another of the continuing diaries (which I know are being - albeit reluctantly - followed by one or two of you) chronicling my mother’s recent hospitalisation as we now come to the events of week ten of this little saga that began on a frosty Sunday morning at the end of November.

We left off on the brink of another weekend that circumstances might well cause to be the last in hospital before heading home, mum seeming a lot more chipper, and more importantly, making progress both mentally and physically it would seem…

JAN 29 2011

I actually managed to sleep (relatively) late today. Mum rings up slightly before 9.00AM to tell me that she’s had a good night and is looking forward to being at home soon. We briefly discuss a little more painting that I might need to do at her flat, but not today. However, as I try to dig out my old computer desk to donate to her, another call comes in – can I dig out a magnifying glass so she can attempt the (hush now…) “Daily Mail” crossword…?

I then had a bit of a change of heart about the painting, and so we packed the car with the decorating gear as well as the computer desk and headed to the flat stopping on the way only to get more gloss paint, and then we spent some time painting the remaining doors and setting up the computer upon it’s new home. The magnifying glass, alas, was nowhere to be found. We then battled our way to the hospital through Saturday traffic for an uneventful natter and then took another age getting home.

Sis rings in the evening having spoken to mum and impressed at how improved she is.

JAN 30 2011

I don’t think sis will ever quite comprehend how complicated a simple phrase like “You still need to change that melted microwave plug” made my Sunday afternoon. The awful traffic on the way to the flat, and the need to visit two incredibly busy shops in order to track an actual plug down to buy, as well as the simple frustration of getting my knackered mind to actually do this relatively simple task meant that it was two hours after I left home before I arrived at the hospital, and I wasn’t in the calmest frame of mind.

At first the visit went well, and the TV guide was much appreciated, but mum and I ended up having something approaching a full-blown row (right in front of the GMF I might add) when it came to discussing how seriously she needs to take the process of dealing with the representatives of Intermediate Care as they plan her future at home, which, as it followed swiftly on the heels of our discussion of how “sweetness and light” when dealing with people will make her life a lot happier once at home, it was something of a bitter irony, and I headed home furious (with myself mostly) for letting my frustrations boil over.

In an effort to calm myself down, I rang sis for some spleen venting and some conscience salving and also to make sure she stays ‘on message’ in the ‘helping mum to help herself’ stakes.

JAN 31 2011

Mum’s mid-morning call (it appears that she is still speaking to me) finds her of the opinion that her release is imminent, although I am yet to be convinced. The catheter seems to be likely to be a six-month thing at least, and this seems to have been finally decided now, and mum also seems to have come to terms with the notion.

The call to announce the release doesn’t actually come of course, but sis rings late afternoon to tell me what she’s managed to find out a little more from the ward sister about mum’s condition, but she doesn’t think that the care package will be in place for two or three days yet.

The beloved returns from work starting with a cold and I’m feeling none too bright myself as I set out into the burgeoning freezing fog for another visit. At least today I am able to keep it civilised as we discuss the post-hospital world and the discussions that mum had today with the woman from Intermediate Care. The walker-frame that she is currently using to get around the ward is hers to keep apparently, although the training in dealing with a catheter at home in emergencies is still to happen, and, thanks to mum, I have been threatened in my absence by a nurse for daring to suggest that my mother is anything less than a model patient. This wasn’t what I meant at all, but proves to me how I can say one thing and my mother hears something utterly different.

Same old, same old.

A little advice on how you catch more bees with honey has turned into something that stings me back. Ah well, at least it’s starting to seem like old times again as I head wearily on home.

FEB 01 2011

A quiet day on the calls front. In fact it’s so very quiet that I start to worry about it.

Mum is quite chatty during another solo evening visit, despite the lady in the next bed having constant conversations with an ‘invisible friend’ which (apparently) kept mum awake for much of the night. A woman from Social Services visited today to sort out some kind of timetable for the carers and to talk about food ordering. I’m supposed to have heard from her too, but this didn’t come to pass. A former colleague of mum’s had visited in the afternoon and they were talking about planning an outing, so, on the whole, it was all fairly positive, and we were able to consider mum’s social life and how to approach it after her release for a while.

The main stumbling block still seems to be finalising the issue of the catheter, but after that we should be ‘ready for launch’, as it were. Mum is, however, running out of supplies of tissues and sweeties, neither of which I have brought along having been unaware of this, although I did remember to return her latest set of washing. I tried to get to the hospital’s “little shop” when I went out for another TV card, but it had just closed for the day, so I just had to leave it for the day and promise to bring supplies tomorrow. For once, mum just making one of those seemingly pointless telephone calls that she does might have actually proved useful.

More tomorrow (I bet you can hardly wait…)

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART TEN)

Another of my continuing diaries chronicling my mother’s current hospitalisation as we plod on through week nine of our little saga that started way back in November. Again I’ll apologise if you are tiring of them, but there are other funkier musings to be found in other parts of Lesser Blogfordshire if you look for them.

We left off with me in the process of redecorating mum’s flat for her suspected imminent release…

JAN 23 2011

Despite the fatigue, I have a lousy night’s sleep and wake up frequently and finally get up stupidly early. I then wake the beloved at 7:30AM on a Sunday morning and, after a brief breakfast, we head on over to mum’s flat again and spend the entire day wallpapering. By 5.30PM it’s all done and tidied and, whilst probably not up to anyone’s professional standards, it looks pretty good, and a heck of a lot better than it did, even if I say so myself.

We head to the beloved’s parents house to drop off some of the borrowed decorating equipment and they spontaneously feed us, and then, as we were passing by that way on our way home, we decide to pay a quick unexpected evening visit to mum.

The conversation is much as yesterday, wanting to know the outcome, worries about home cooking as it’s generally been another dull Sunday on the ward. The snapshots we took of the decorating are at least a distraction even if, when viewed on a tiny screen, I wonder how much can be seen. Still mum seems pleased enough, although it’s sometimes hard to tell whether she’s saying just what she expects we want to hear or not. Anyway, I optimistically set up the TV for another 3 day stint, and hear the tale of how one of the staff today accused mum of acting like a “spoilt child”, which, if true, seems a little unfair (although I can imagine it). Tonight’s tea (salmon and cucumber sandwiches) was apparently more successful as mum could actually taste it for once…

We head home before the hour was really up because we were shattered and forgot to take mum’s washing. Sis rings later on to ask how it went, which was nice, but the call turned a bit ranty as I poured out my fatigued frustrations of my recent experiences with the National Health “Service”.

JAN 24 2011

Mum rings to tell me that the doctor has been round and the latest is that she won’t be released before Wednesday, so the immediate crisis is averted. I call up sis to give her this information and find out from my elder niece that mum has not remembered her birthday, so a swift call to the hospital (with my anonymous pal doing his usual two-minute sales spiel – I got a shockingly huge phone bill last week) reminds mum of this, otherwise she’d have been annoyed about it later.

A short lunchtime call: Bring sweets and tissues tonight.

The beloved’s tales of other’s woes from work helps to put things a little more in perspective. Kind of. Nonetheless, and despite all that, I really didn’t want to go tonight. But we had to, and we did. Taking the pictures of the great-grandchild was possibly one of our better moves, and mum does seem to be starting to engage with people and think about what it might be like to be at home, so that’s an improvement. We started to list foods that she might enjoy eating, so all-in-all it wasn’t the dispiriting experience that I thought it might be.

JAN 25 2011

Business trip to London. Left the house 6:50AM, got home 10:00PM.

JAN 26 2011

Mum rings early to check that I got back safely. Her cough sounds dreadful, but, despite two of her fellow inmates being released yesterday, and she now has new faces to get to know, her own status remains as per usual, with a rumour that she’ll be sent home “early next week”. Meanwhile a trip to the Urologist seems to be on her agenda.

Sis rings mid-morning for a bit of a chat, telling me much the same with added insight from the ward’s nursing sister. Some of it proves laughable. When asked about what my mum should do about her daily requirements if a catheter becomes a permanent fixture, sis is told that mum should see her GP every day. “How should she get there?” sis quite reasonably asks. “How did she used to get there?” came the reply. “Well, she used to walk the half mile…”

We also consider the knotty problem of whether it is still too soon to consider mum selling up and moving into permanent sheltered accommodation. We both believe that she’s still too independent minded to be happy with this, but equally stubborn enough to make a snap decision that she may well live long enough to seriously regret.

The evening visit finds the beloved and I very wearily trudging in again but it’s happy enough. Mum has definitely started taking an interest in the world again, taken notice of things that we have mentioned and has even started writing lists and making plans for her post-hospitalisation home life. There’s a slight ‘bewilderment’ moment when we ask where the idea that they’re letting her home early next week came from, and for once the GMF gets slightly berated for failing to deliver a TV guide again, which we take as a healthy sign. I do set up the TV for a further 6 day stint, however, which might be pessimistic (but is still more value than daily card purchases – I really could have bought my own TV by now) but as she’s actually watching it and talking about the news again, it seems to be worth it.

JAN 27 2011

This morning, the beloved and I were mulling over the fact that, whilst mum’s life has kind of been in limbo for the past couple of months, in many ways so have ours. You can’t really plan for anything because you never know quite what’s going to happen. You can’t book a holiday or arrange any building work. You can’t book theatre tickets or even a night out in a restaurant. Even the odd pizza has gone past its sell-by date before we’ve been able to find any time to actually eat it, and baths are taken at the oddest times.

A short mid-morning telephone call from mum is okay though, with her feeling well enough having had a good night’s sleep due to her sleeping pill and an extra dose of cough medicine during the night.

An hour later another call: “A lady from Intermediate Care has just been and said “You’re not quite ready to go home yet, so we’ll come and see you again on Monday…” although the call is frustratingly cut off…

Our evening visit finds us running late due to train delays, a desire to eat and a need to stop and buy petrol en route. There is news that mum’s former schoolfriend Ann, who recently visited mum in hospital has died, and mum is now trying to get hold of a phone number to express her sympathies. As we consider this matter, mum’s church minister turns up bearing the very number along with him and stays for a chat about things like the law and jury service which rather distracts us from chatting to mum, but we are subtly and expertly put back on track. Those clergy can be quite impressive fellows to watch in action. I am slightly befuddled by the praying, but if it gives mum some comfort, then why ever not? Mum is also engaging with her fellow patients which has brought the added benefit of her being given a gift of some fresh fruit from one of them. I will go as far as to say that mum was so very much her old self tonight that I can finally glimpse some light at the end of this particular tunnel.

JAN 28 2011

Mum’s mid-morning call today is suitably gushing about her granddaughter’s plans, which I suppose should be taken as a positive sign that the old mum is returning. I do, however, resist the urge to point out that saying that “she’s done all right for herself” is a rather old-fashioned way of looking at things, which is what I might have done in the pre-illness world.

A late afternoon call requesting more tissues and telling tales of cherries and cough medicine is interrupted by a nurse bearing a message, and I am hung up on.

A hospital visit on a cold evening and the beloved is working late so we head straight in after I meet her train, and she does the weekly shop as I do the actual visiting. Mum is positively perky and says that she’s “looking forward” to going home. Her meals have been an issue today as somebody “lost” her meal orders, but a chat he had earlier with a junior doctor means that she believes that the consultant will be ringing sis (“Fat chance” I think). Still she manages to find the woes and wails of her fellow patients and their attendant noisy medical equipment irritating, which is a healthier sign of wanting to be out of there and, when talking about her future, is adamant that a nursing home would not be her preferred choice.

We head home and I wonder whether the sudden death of her friend has brought home to her how comparatively lucky she is…?

Which brings us to the end of week nine (and month two) of our sorry little saga, and we are also now seven weeks, several lifetimes and an astonishing amount of cash down the road from the emergency re-admittance of my mother via an ambulance on that dark Saturday evening in December. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun…?

THE WHOLE SORRY SAGA (PART NINE)

As we enter week nine of the saga of my mother’s hospitalisation, I’m sure those of you who “follow” these things are as heartily fed up of reading them as I am at having to write them. They do, however, serve a useful purpose in organising my thoughts, so I’m going to continue on with them as we head towards whatever outcome we eventually reach.

We left off with my sister’s imminent departure after a sterling two and a half weeks away from home and mum seeming a lot better than she has in a while, which just goes to show how much difference the simple things like a good night’s sleep can actually make…

JAN 19 2011

Sis is heading home today. I go to the flat first thing and on my way to the dentist’s to get mum’s keys back and have a brief council of war. The farewells were understandably apparently a bit “weepy” last night, but things with mum’s situation are still much improved from when sis first arrived.

Mum rings for a lunchtime chat and we mull over her options and fears about her own prospects for heading home.

The evening visit is chatty, but for me, the lack of my sister’s presence, doing all those little things she did so well, is a slight worry. Mum  and I chat at length (when not drowned out by the six visitors – the notice outside the ward insists on two – at a nearby bed) about looking to the future. Ah well, at least the fruit flavoured Tic Tacs* she asked me to bring are well received, (as she can actually taste the strong flavours) and it’s nice to see mum enthusing over any foodstuff these days, although I do fret when I notice the sugar content, because I really thought that they were sugar-free. (*Other sweets are of course available.)

JAN 20 2011

Already shattered when I wake up today, and sis has only been gone a day. Mum rings 10.00AM-ish convinced that it’s a Monday and I wouldn’t be in (neither of which are good assumptions to make), although there’s no reason I wouldn’t be or why she would want to ring me if she thought I was out. Both of these things tend to have me (and no doubt the GMF who’s now probably got a couple of hundred messages on his phone for daring to go out) wondering whether today’s confusion is a sign of some sort of regression.

However, a lunchtime call to tell me how nice the Tic Tacs are is almost instantly cut off at her end…

Battling through thick fog for the evening visit and another stilted hour, although mum is generally looking a lot better and starting to take an interest again, asking for television privileges once more after nearly a fortnight of not being bothered. Of course setting up the TV again becomes an almighty tricky thing to do as the bed is still set up for the wrong patient, but we manage eventually. All this really does show the value of how simple things like a good night’s sleep and controlling the fluid retention problem can really make a huge difference to someone’s well-being. The social services assessment didn’t happen again today, but the idea of six weeks of respite care seems to have become more of an appealing prospect.

JAN 21 2011

An early morning call around 8.00AM from mum is slightly confusing, but, considering she had woken up coughing at 4.00AM, this shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. I mention the beloved’s suggestion that mum starts to list the things she thinks she may need if the respite care option comes into play, as, at least, it will give her something to think about.

During another confused phone call at lunchtime asking for a new supply of tissues, I manage to also glean the information that the Doctor sees her being sent home Monday or Tuesday (Tuesday being MASSIVELY inconvenient for me professionally…) and with no mention at all of the respite care that was, as far as I was concerned, high on the agenda. No mention of social services assessment either, so it seriously looks like everything’s going to pot again.

Evening visit is massively frustrating as I try to get some information about the ‘plan’ they might have for mum, and the insanity of trying to get any answers at all, after waiting for everyone else in the world to be dealt with as more of a priority (which does seem to have been a pattern) and then trying to get my concerns across as the now very familiar party line of “medically fit to be released” gets spouted again. When I point out that last time they did that, mum was back there in an ambulance five days later, this doesn’t seem to matter, and is a symptom of the general lack of concern for any specific issues that I am constantly feeling. Respite care now doesn’t seem to be on the table any more, experimental removal overnight of the catheter is a prospect that deeply concerns mum, who thinks that she won’t get a good night’s sleep because of it, and all-in-all, all that I have achieved is to leave her feeling agitated and confused and worried.

Well done me.

Head home, thoroughly frustrated and ring sis to rant for an hour.

JAN 22 2011

Got up early and drove to my mum’s flat where the beloved and I spend the day decorating. The dark paint on the hallway walls is not good for her getting about the place, so I’ve taken it upon myself to try and brighten it up, but with the sudden prospect of her being home as early as Monday, it all has to be done this weekend. Mum only rings twice to see how things are coming along.

Home to a slight (but massively irritating) work problem I have no time to deal with this weekend.

Wearily drove to the hospital for a visit. I’m asked about the decorating, but mum just “hopes it’s not a waste of my time”. Mum is starting to get depressed again and I can’t help but feel that she always seems to get worse on “my watch”. She makes some demands of a nurse for additional cough linctus, but the supply is restricted due to its medicinal content. At least it would appear that someone has apparently been to examine her about the mysteriously returning and awful sounding cough. After bloating up on the experimental day off the catheter, it has been reattached, seemingly now looking like it might prove to be a permanent fixture.

Time and again mum is telling me she can’t see herself ever getting home. Time and again she says she wants to know what they’ve decided to do with her. She does it seems accept that a short stay in respite care might not be the worst thing to try. Time and again I try to tell her not to worry and that she has to remain as charming as she can and not worry, that things will unfold at their own pace etc. I talk again about trying to engage her brain by reading etc., but her interest seems to be waning again.

How she’s going to eat seems to be her main concern about going home. The GMF has “helpfully” suggested that she’ll never be able to cook for herself (although I suspect his emphasis was different to mum’s retelling of it). I tell her that things like that have to be taken a day at a time once she’s home. “Today I’ll try to make myself a sandwich, the next day cheese on toast” and so on, but I’m not sure she’s getting it. We actually have big plans (well, plans anyway) in place to solve the food issue as and when she gets home, but again it’s difficult to get her to see beyond the issue of the initial problem.

Drove home exhausted, but the look I was given at suggesting that I might not go tomorrow – it depends how day two of the decorating progresses - means that I'm ultimately unlikely to allow myself that option.