7th July 2005 - London Bombings on Dad's birthday

Today was my Dad’s 76th birthday. It also was the day Muslim extremists hit London. My sister and nephew live in London, and as the story unfolds I sit transfixed, watching the horrific images and getting growingly frustrated with the lack of information on the constant news programs. What’s the point of 24 hour news when it’s just the same 10 minutes repeated over and over. I phone, and they’re ok. She’d gone into work really early that day and was at her desk by the time the bombs went off.

I went to the home early to let Dad know they were ok, give him his presents and to wish him happy birthday. Last year I’d thought he wouldn’t have another birthday, this year I hope he doesn’t have another. And immediately feel awful for thinking it.

He was aware of the bombings but hadn’t remembered that she lived in London. My reassurances make him worry more, so I phone my sister so she can speak to him. She does and he forgets why they are talking. After the phonecall he notices the TV and the footage of the bombings in London and wonders if my sister is ok. I tell him she is. “When did the IRA go into cahoots with the Paki’s anyway?” No answer to that one really.

Birthdays in the home go as follows. They bake a massive – but easily chewed – cake. Soft butter cream icing on Victoria sponge with red jam in the middle. Icing pink or blue depending. They remind whoever it is that it’s their birthday, then everyone that can, sings the song, the cake gets cut and served with tea. Those that can eat, eat it, some are fed it and others get it liquidized. The remainder of the day everyone is a bit edgy. Many think it was their birthday and will repeatedly, and often with variance, tell you their age. They will also bemoan the fact that it’s their n’th birthday and not one card, not as much as a bunch of flowers. Lena varies from 32 to 104 and berates her family members for their lack of diligence in the card sending and present buying departments. “Useless bunch of bastards. After all I’ve done for them. All I want is a card but oh no. Just wait ‘til I’m dead, they’ll be sorry then”.

Dad was 94 today. He was much relieved when I told him he was 76. “Oh, that’s not so bad then!”. No, not so bad after all. So I suppose there must be some comfort to be had in knowing one is 76, with limited use of one’s arms, living in a care home surrounded by madness with an increasingly tenuous grip on one’s own sanity. Glass half full – at least I’m not 94.