22nd February 2007 - Tams gone.

One of the staff met me at the door with a hushed "Tam's gone. Last night. Pneumonia. It's a wee shame" And I covered myself in caring humanity again with my response of "Which one is Tam?". Jesus,what a dumbfuck thing to say. So much for wanting the residents to be treated as individuals, with respect - am I just all lip service to those ideas too then? Which one is Tam. But the answer was worse than my question - although to be fair in a place full of old people it might be difficult to differentiate verbally but I think something better than "The bald guy in the corner - nae teeth and very dribbly - I'll no miss that I'll tell yea, I'll no be missing aw that drool".

In the day room people seemed unperturbed and there was - indeed - an empty chair in the corner where Tam used to sit. I remembered him then, of course. He'd always been quite far through his dementia when I knew him, so I'd never talked sensibly with him. He had a really kind face though. A gentle face. Might have been a total cunt I suppose but I'll never know.

After a few minutes the fire doors at either end of the dayroom were closed and all the wanderers were ushered into the room. This was very difficult for the residents who want to wander, they don't like to be confined, Bruce's polar bear back and forth had to stop. Those that were able to keep asking the two staff in the dayroom why they were not allowed out, why they had to stay put. If there was ever a time for doling out tea and cake it must have been then - but it wasn't tea time. I must have been having a slow day because it didn't dawn on me for quite a while that the private ambulance must be there. Private ambulance. Those black vans. Why ambulance? I suppose it's better than Dead Van - the Deadford Bedford. Just after I realised it one of the staff stage whispered to me that the Funeral Directors where in and they didn't want to upset the other residents by letting them see them. Would it upset them? I wonder. If they were aware enough to know what they were doing would they care? Bruce was trying to stir up a rebellion within the tottering ranks of the able and the zimmer enabled - a charge on the doors. He got diverted by a staff member who he quizzed about why he was not allowed out and was told she couldn't tell him he'd have to ask the senior staff member. They must have known though on some level, because despite everyone being in the same room and unable to go out, and despite there being a limited number of 'comfy' chairs, Tam's remains empty.

Lily was sitting at one of the tables, gazing lovingly at a single photo of a baby girl. Or at least a baby dressed consistently in pink. Various passersby are shown the photo of (interchangeably) her son, her granddaughter, her wee nephew and her husband. She's very lucid in her descriptions of each of these babies and shows off the photo proudly. "Look at my wee nephew, isn't he gorgeous - he's got his da's eyes and aw. Gorgeous". "See the pretty wee bairn - there lovely at that age are they no?" When the embargo is lifted on leaving the room she gets up slowly and starts to thump her zimmer out the room. One of the staff members went after her with her photo
"That's no mine doll. It was just lying there. Thank fuck tae - hell of an ugly bairn that is it no?"

20th February 2007 - NHS24

"Don't even bother if you're dead". That's what Francine told me told today. She was talking - over Dad - to me about NHS24 and their lack of response when her son had gastro enteritis. My Dad was talking to me at the same time but he's now considered so far on that no-one bothers with what he says, when he's talking or not. No-one listens, they shush him, seat him, and if it's the right time give him tea, if it's not they dangle the carrot of promised tea, promised land, tea and a biscuit. So we were seated at a table and Dad was looking at me talking, Francince was standinga couple of feet behind, both of them speaking to me at the same time. Dad looking puzzled when I looked over his shoulder and talked.

She said "When we've had a resident death" whispering the word death obviously "if it's in the evening or night we just leave them there. There's no point phoning NHS24 they'll no come oot unless you keep on phoning and stay on the phone for ages. That music does yer heid in. We jist wait til the morn and git their ain GP's in to pronounce them deid."

Why does she think it's ok to tell me that. Does she think I'll be sympathetic to the plight of the staff? Does she not think I might be a bit more concerned that they leave a dead - or potentially just dying resident - lying there until the GP's surgery opens - and if it's a weekend? My mind goes back to a recent death and an A4 notice sellotaped over the residents name on their door "Keep Out, No Entry" like a 6 year olds bedroom fortress. That notice had been up for a weekend. Surely not.

19th February 2007 - Look what you could have won

Ellie, Mark and I all went in today. Or rather Mark went to Tesco's while Ellie and I visited, then came in after he'd walked as slowly as possible to the home. Sean and I had been away for the weekend, so I hadn't seen Dad since Thursday, although Colin had said he'd visit on Friday and Sunday. I'd tried very hard not to feel guilty and had succeeded for the mostpart until it came to this quandry - one that I've had before.

We'd visited a grand house when we were away, one that as a family we'd visited several times in my childhood, and I'd bought a guide book to show Dad. This is the quandry. Is it worse for him to see this kind of thing? Does it seem like a Jim Bowen "Look what you could have won" moment? Am I simply showing him something that'll further remind him he's going nowhere? In the past I've brought in programmes from shows I've been to see and the like and I'm sure his face read "What in the world made you think I'd like to see this?". But that could be my interpretation of it because this is a man who took and had processed photo's of his new porch to show me and my brother and sister. Presumably he didn't think our imaginations were up to the visualisation of such a design feature but - without blowing my imaginery imaginative trumpet too much - mine seemed pretty spot on once compared with the photographic evidence.

The 'photos of the porch' gave rise to one of my favourite stories - my sister was being persued by a new man and on the phone told him she was being shown photos of Dad's new porch - only to be met by an impressed noise from the other end and a enquiry of "Which one the 911?". She left him under that illusion - it's substantively less glamourous to have a father with a new metre square glass room on the front of his hoose than a porsche.

Anyway, I showed him the glossy from the grand house, pointed out the oil paintings and carvings that had remained in my memory for the 30 years between visits - hoping they were the most memorable for him too - and talked through the visit. I tried to get him to talk about having been there and he did to an extent, although I may have hustled him through it. My projection onto him rather than his words - once again.

11th February 2007 - Do I look that stupid?

Janey met me today with a "I bandaged your Dad's arm the minute you left yesterday, I looked round to tell you but you'd just that minute gone". That doesn't even make sense. Why would she need to tell me if I was still there - I was sitting beside him, I'd have seen her doing it. Does she really think I believe that? Does she really think that I don't know that he was sitting there with his arm oozing puss, fluid and blood until she got off her fat arse and did something about it? "The girls told me you were worried about him but we took care of it didn't we" she says as she ruffles his hair. "All sorted now, nothing to worry about". Not for you maybe, you're not the one with the hospital acquired infection flaring away at your arm, throbbing with pain and leaking bodily fluids all over your arm.
"I put him in a short sleeve shirt today. Easier on the laundry". No. It's winter, a long sleeve shirt and a proper bandage is easier on the laundry.

I looked at the chair where he'd been sitting the previous day and the wooden arm and all down the side showed a pattern of splatters and trickles of pink, collecting in a pool at the wooden base. The pink looked like spilled diluting juice that hadn't been cleaned, but it's the pink of the blood and fluid mix that was seeping out of Dad's shirt yesterday. So he'd sat in that chair while his arm throbbed and pulsated the poison out and it collected in a puddle. Then someone else will have sat there, maybe several people. And eaten their evening meal, their breakfast, their lunch, while fluid from Dad's MRSA filled wound sat in dried puddles on the arms of the chair. And I tell myself to shut up - who do I think I am Quincy? Sam Ryan? - maybe it's diluting juice, what do I know. And if I'm so appauled, so affronted, then why don't I do something instead of feeling disgusted and superior. Silly bitch that I am. Vacuous tart. My Mum once called me that, maybe she was right.

10th February 2007 - Keep flying over that nest

I was very tired today. So tired I had that 'out of worldly' feeling, that strange observer feeling. Everything was slightly muffled, my thoughts, my reactions, my emotions. And everything was a half a beat slower than it should be. It was really quite pleasant.

I look round the day room. The cheery woman's mum was crying and rocking, ululating her grief life a North African tribeswoman - except a lot whiter. Tweedledum and tweedledee were slumping around the place. This shape of person really can slump when they are upright. Very odd. Kerry was bending over to put Gwen in her cardigan and her top rode up, and leggings down to reveal her bum crack and the horrible truth that a woman of her size was going commando.

Sally was lifting Nan in the standing hoist to get her from wheelchair to armchair. She'd got her up on her feet, Nan was hanging with the cradle hammock under her arms, arms outstretched, head lolling to oneside with her gaze downcast and resigned. A grotesque of a high tech crucification. Sally was told she could go on her break half way through this manouevre and said to me with a conspiratorial wink "Suppose I should finish off here first, but it's no likes Nan'll say summfin and my feet are gowping. Huvnae had a fag for 3 hours an aw!" And she left her, suspended, unable to sit, to stand, to move or speak. "In the olden days she'd huv been bedriden ye ken, they've come so far. Don't know how lucky they are". Even through my fog I know I can't let Nan dangle there and go and find Jilly. Jilly who is like the tweedles in 15 more years. She tells me it wouldn't have done her any harm - might even have been good for her. If she was in distress she would just go to sleep anyway. She did - however - finish off seating her back down.

Jinny is wandering, oh-oh'ing her way round the residents. When she gets to Stella, she tells her she's a fucking liar and to "fuck away off right to fuck". This turn of phrase rather appeals to me and I think I'll start using it and telling people that annoy me to "fuck away off to fuck" - so much more definite than a simple "Fuck off" - no room for confusion.

Over in another part of the room Bruce is wandering over to a table where Billy is sitting, sleeping with his hand inside his fly cupping himself for comfort. Bruce's trackie bottoms are half way down his arse, when he turns to face me I see his cock and balls, peeping like Kilroy over a wall, over the top of his trousers. Bruce smiles, he knows they're out for an airing, just doesn't care. Maybe he's wanting someone to say something, maybe he wants to shock. I smile back, slightly slowly, a beat behind time, through my foggy tiredness.

Dad has on a black shirt but I notice a few white ringed patches round his elbow. Then I notice the elbow tip glistening wet and realise his infected arm is leaking again and the rings are where it's leaked and dried and leaked and dried again. He had that shirt on the previous day and I wonder if the infection burst out yesterday and he's been tholing it since then. I go and find Jilly and tell her he needs a dressing but I stay for a further hour, she passes a couple of times and wheezes about being short staffed, she'' be there in a minute right after she's given Amy her cigarette and had her break.

Time went on and on, but because of my tiredness I didn't mind, I just sat, until it got so late I had to go as the evening meals were begining to be served and I can't cope with meal times. On my way out I saw one of the staff that I like and ask her to see to my Dad's arm - she looked aghast when I showed it to her and rushed off to get a bandage. Why the fuck did I not do that sooner.

8th February 2007 - Who's who

Today really surprised me. Not only did Mary the incredibly tall old lady steal Dad's Jamaica ginger cake and toilet brush Cecily his tea but my Dad forgot one of his two claims to fame. The second is having come second on 15-1. The first is being related to a historical figure, his namesake so I'll not drop that name, who there's always been a vague sense of pride in the family for being directly related to. But today, when I told him that I remembered my cousin's son's name easily as it was amalgamation of this relative's name with that of his equally reknowned friend, my Dad said - who are they? I told him and he said he'd look out for them but did they often visit, which isn't surprising considering they've been dead for 250 years. If he's forgotten that, even if it's only a momentary thing, that's a quantum step in his brain loss.

That - to use Dadisms - really took the wind out my sails, put my light in a peep and there's another own about breath and porridge that I can't quite recall.

2nd February 2007 - It's the wrong trousers Grommet

Today a member of the catering staff strode through the day room towards the kitchen - Julie T Wallace in the Life and Loves of a She-Devil looked like a Geisha compared to this woman. "Where's ma cream slice" she screamed "An some bugger's been in aboot ma vienese whirls n'aw". I felt so terribly afraid for that person if ever she found them. As she strode back, the whole floor trembled and I looked up to see - to my surprise - her beauty, the lovely thing about her - her hair. She'd taken off her hygiene hat - in the kitchen strangely enough - to let her hair down. It was beautiful, thick, naturally wavy, an ash blonde shade that nature could only have come up with because no dye could have given all those glints of life and sparks of colour. I don't think I've ever seen lovelier hair. Unfortunately it was perched on Mount Sumo, but there you go. If you try hard you'll see the beauty in everything or so they say. In this place, it's often very difficult.

Billy was sitting in a chair behind me. At least he was one minute, then I heard a thud, looked round and he was on the floor, coiled. I looked round for help, there were two members of staff standing closer to him than I was sitting, but they were too busy talking about Jade Goody and hadn't noticed. I toy with the idea of not saying anything to see how long it'll take them to notice but then realise how awful that would be so I let them know there's a resident coiled on the floor by their feet.

Dad's holding his trousers up as he's got someone else's trousers on again - "It's the wrong trousers Grommet". I rushed off to get a belt from his room and thread it round his trousers as he stands head bowed as if shamed.

Over at a table Karen is filling in paperwork and absently, gently stroking the hand of Jinny beside her. Jinny is rocking slowly but is calmer than I've ever seen her. When Sally comes into the room - back from her break and reeking of smoke - she notices my glance and says "Aye that calms her doon, that and a banana. They're like animals sometime eh? A banana. She'll do anythin' that one fur ye fur a banana". As she wanders to the kitchen Jinny stabs the air with two gnarled twisted fingers in a 'v' sign at her lumbering retreating back.

1st February 2007 - Whose right is it anyway?

Went in this afternoon to see him. He's got a large lump on the back of his head and dried blood in his hair. He must have hit something hard, very hard. He says he fell twice, says the more painfull fall hurt his back. I told the staff about that one too. They're going to get a urine sample tested to see if he's got a UTI. No matter what goes wrong they do this. Apparently he was very unsteady on his feet yesterday, but I didn't notice that when I saw him. Maybe he got wobblier in the afternoon or evening. His nose kept running and he kept wiping it on his sleeve, leaving snail trails up his arms. I gave him a tissue from a pocket packet and the remaining ones he put in his pocket. He got up and said he needed to go to the toilet and I asked if he knew where to go and he seemed compus enough to get there so I let him go, while Ellie and I played snap. Jinny at the next table was annoying Amy. She was annoying me too but from a distance. She kept taking her top off and juggling her breasts. Not that they looked like breasts, nothing sexual, nothing nurturing, nothing comforting in those paps. Amy kept telling her she was a dirty bitch but Jinny persisted. Jinny only really says 'Oh-oh'. She varies the volume, speed and pitch but very rarely the words. Once she came towards me, very directly, very pointedly coming for me, held my face and said 'Toilet'. I took her by the hand and led her to the nearest toilet. She was crying and grateful and kissed me full on the lips.

When Dad is led back from the toilet he's wearing different trousers. His nose is still dripping and I realise the hankies are in the pair of trousers he's soiled, so I give him a fresh packet, Groundhog Day again. thinking of Groundhog Day makes me remember - not that I'd forgotten but it jolts back to the forefront of my mind - that he's gone through over 2 and a half years of Groundhog Days. Surely he has the right to end that if he can? Human rights - who dishes them out then? Who says what's a human right and what's not, and who gave them the right to say so. Well I'm giving my Dad the right. I'm not going to say anything to the home. If he is thinking of suicide and is able to do it then do I have the right to stop him?

I didn't really get to talk to him, what with Jinny the jug juggler and some daft tart who greeted me as if she knew me and told me about a visit to the zoo they're having in March. Would my Dad like to go? What about the steamrailway or the canal boats? Or she runs a wee sudoko afternoon every now and then - away and shite -has she seem him? has she sat with him? Sudoko for Christ's sake.

1st February 2007 - Heading for the loo

The phone rang at about quarter to midnight. I knew it was the home. Didn't even cross my mind that it was anyone else. Dad had fallen on the way to or from the toilet in the night and hit the back of his head. It was bleeding a lot but he didn't seem concussed and they'd stopped the blood and given him that panacea for all that ails ya - a nice cup of tea.

Do I think that he deliberately hit his head in a suicide attempt? I don't know. Even the demented would surely be able to come up with a better suicide plan than bashing the back of your head off the toilet. But I suppose they don't know what he was doing when he fell. They only know what they've put together from what they found. Surely it's pretty tricky to hit the back of your head falling.

It's a bit of a coincidence though. Should I say something? How will I feel if he manages to kill himself. Or worse damage himself so that his life quality is even lower than it is at present. But if he really does want to stop the ebbing of his life, should I prevent him. He really did seem to be telling me not to stop him the other day.

I told Sean parts of the conversation I'd pieced together with Dad. I didn't ask what he thought I should do and I didn't tell him how upset I'd been or how troubled I was/am about what to do. I know what he'll say, I'm saying the same things to myself. And he wasn't feeling well and needed his sleep, and I reckoned if I started talking I might get upset and it'd turn into a big long chat that would not be good for helping him feel better. And he's such a good man - Sean - that I don't want to let him see the darker bits of me. He fell in love with the me that's the best of me, I hate disappointing him, letting him down. I try so hard to be the me that he loves all the time, but I know I'm not. I'm not the upright, honourable, compassionate, decent person he loves, not all the time. Sometimes I mean spirited, small and ugly and I don't want him to see that.

I'll see Dad this afternoon and find out how he is. It surely is impossible to hit the back of your own head deliberately off the toilet or the floor - at least without a Norman Wisdom (or these days Lee Evans) acrobatic skill. Even in his salad days Dad wasn't the most agile of men, so it's doubtful he's suddenly developed a talent for tumbling.