11th December 2006 - Rabbie Burns

I found out Rab's second name today. I'd always thought of his as Scary Rab because of his arm outstretched drooling droopy eyed walk. Or sometimes Question Mark because of the incredible curve in his spine. Not very charitable I know but I need to do something while I'm in there and pulling out the latest Ian Rankin or a sudoko seems a bit rude.

Anyway, Rab's surname is Burns. Yes, that's right Rabbie Burns. Can you imagine growing up, going through school being called Rabbie Burns. It reminded me of a friend of mine whose father was called Douglas Douglas Douglas, first name, middle name and surname all Douglas. If that's not child abuse then I don't know what is.

I hadn't seen Rab around for a couple of weeks, but then he'd often disappear for a day or two because he was so unruly that the staff would keep him in his room. But I asked today where he was and Susie told me he'd gone across the bridge. As I was wondering if this was a euphemism she clarified by saying "We couldnae cope with him nae mair. He kept gieing me burns on my airms - funny that 'cos he was called Rab Burns - I say funny that 'cos he was called Rab Burns" and cackled at her own wit. "Rab Burns?" I ask incredulously "Poor man I wonder if he was any relation?" "He's got a sister, but she's no able to visit him in Fife" she replies. I can't be arsed trying to explain what I meant and ask if he couldn't have been sedated or medicated in some way to control his lashing out. Apparently if you "drug them up they cannae eat and that just makes mair work for us". So that's it, if you get too much for the staff they ship you off to a locked ward, regardless of where your family are. Lately even Gwen has been hitting out. Her husband finds this particuarly difficult because she'd always been so gentle, and you can tell looking at her that she has a gentle soul. I wonder if Dad will become violent, physically hit out rather than his verbal woundings.

In the day room Bertha is sitting in her chair two seats from L, and they are having a fight. Periodically L will get up and zimmer over to where Bertha is to try and thump her. She can't get too near because of the zimmer, and she can let go of it for long or she'll topple so she contents herself with kicking her and shouting that she'll "fuckin' murder ye the next time ye auld cunt". And Bertha will punch towards her and shout "leave me allow ye auld bugger!" Every now and then a staff member will take L back to her seat. The same seat, two seats away.
It's seems to me that if they moved one or other of them to the other end of the room it might be more effective but there you go. At least then there would be a good ten minutes by the time L got to Bertha to kick her.

The new lady Jinny is standing in the middle of the room, slightly rocking and holding her ears. I thought she was just upset by the ladies fighting until I look a bit closer and there's blood all over her hands. I shout for Susie who pulls her hands down from the sides of her head. In each hand is a creole earing. She's been slowly pulling them through her ear lobes.

I've had enough so I - unintentionally - wake Dad as I kiss him goodbye. "is that you off already then?" he asks. "I've been here for an hour Dad, you dropped off" I try and justify my escape. "Well if that's all the time you can be bothered to stay, I suppose that's fine". Mental Munch moment again as I silently scream and kiss him again saying "I stay longer tomorrow Dad, see you tomorrow".

1st December 2006 - Secret love

I must have been in a bad mood because the cheery woman that visits her Mum and is so relentlessly chirpy really, really irritated me today. "I'll git 'em singing, you jist watch me" is always her motto. No matter what the problem is she seems to think that a few choruses of a Doris Day and everything is fine. And maybe she's right, maybe frog-marching their memories into a sing-song is better than where they are. But I watched her with Bertha today, she bullied her into singing "Once I had a secret love". Just because she knows the words and sings it doesn't mean it's a song she loves does it? It's maybe a horrible memory, linked with a lost love, with a heartbreak only bearable occasionally to revisit and dip a toe into it's cold water. Maybe she doesn't want to sing it. She stood over her, bent, just inches from her face and sang at her, sang her into submission, secret loved her into singing - which Bertha did, she sang several verses and when she'd stopped she was crying and still poking Nina beside her, making Nina squeal.

I suppose I was annoyed, too, because the louder she gets her to sing, the less likely I am to catch the few words that my Dad says that make sense. Her own Mum doesn't speak - not words - she sits quiet straight - not slumped like some of the residents and sometimes gabbles, but not words just sounds. She has one foot and leg bandaged, Mummy-like in grubby crepe. You know within seconds that her daughter is here to visit her, she comes in a cloud of cheery noise. Cheery in that way you know would turn to shouting if you crossed her. She has one of those righteously indignant, "I know better" airs that I'm begining to intensely dislike. But then I'm not in a good mood.

So what I could hear from Dad, he's worried because he's not got a house any more. Apparently Jeannette - me - has "really made a mess with the money. It's just like her too, I should have known better, she's always been untrustworthy with money. " And I have, I'm useless with money. So he thinks he hasn't got a bed for the night. He seems to think he's homeless - a tramp - only got the clothes he's got on. I try and convince him he's got plenty of money and that he has a nice room down the corridor that's his, his own bed, own room, own clothes. He's not in a mood to be consoled and he glowers at me, especially when I try to change the subject. "It'll be Christmas soon, Dad. I'll bring you in some cards if you like and we can send them out to people." His withering look speaks for him. "It's Mark's birthday party tomorrow Dad, so I might not get in to visit you, but I'll come in the day after". "Och well, if you've got something more important on".

He's looking very dishevelled, so I ask Karen how he is. She says she's noticed a change in his confusion and has sent off a sample to see if he has a urine infection. He's not able to find or remember there's a toilet in his room at night and he's getting the night staff up 4 or 5 times a night. I fight the urge to say "Tough, that's what they are there for" and once again realise I'm in a bad mood. Last week one of the staff mentioned that he sometime thinks the pressure mat by the side of his bed is part if the bed. Karen says he's been found lying on that, on the floor, pulling a cover down onto himself. I find this image particularly upsetting, Dad, lying on the cold, hard, linoleum covered floor, trying to go to sleep. No wonder he thinks he's homeless. No wonder he's depressed - in his mind he's worked all his life to end up penniless, homeless and ignored by the family he worked so hard for. I hope he's got a uti, that something can help to get him out of the mental place he's in just now. I wonder if the staff would have bothered if he wasn't making their jobs more difficult, if he didn't his bed and clothes changed several times a night, if he wasn't lying on the pressure mat making his alarm sound. Doesn't matter I suppose, he's getting attention. And it makes me realise again, reminds me, that I couldn't have him at home. I couldn't cope with having to change him several times a night. I think I could cope with the days, at the expense of Ellie and Mark, but I couldn't cope with the nights.

Sorry Dad.