28th June 2007 - Rotate weekly to prolong life

I got a text from my brother to say he'd visit but I was worried about Dad's state the previous day, so I went in anyway. When we got there - Ellie and I - he was asleep in a 'comfy' chair with a support cushion hugged to him. These cushions are dotted around the place, used either under the seat cushion for extra height, used as a regular cushion in supporting the back or occasionally as props for the residents that can not hold themselves upright at all and will slump without support. They are square, covered in blue plastic and stink. They are also emblazoned with advise for use of the cushion. As I looked along the line of residents sleeping in the armchairs I realised some wag had positioned each of them to hug a cushion to themselves, and arranged their arms so you could read the cushion care advise "Rotate weekly to prolong life".

26th July 2007 - Antibiotics

Dad was not well when I saw him today. His voice was raspy, he was very tired and he was completely barking. He has got a cold so maybe that was knocking him for six. His nose kept running and he'd wipe it on his cuff. It seemed wrong to be chastising my father for wiping his nose on his sleeve as I do so often to my son and daughter. But it was really grossing me out. He stopped but instead of using the tissues I'd brought him just allowed the snot to run out of his nose and drip into a stain just to the left of the stain of the drool from his mouth, running then dripping down his chin. I don't think he knew what the tissues where for. Didn't even call them wipers any more.

After I left the home called me at home to let me know they'd called the doctor to see him. The doctor pronounced that his chest was clear but prescribed an antibiotic "as there was obviously something wrong with him". He's already on an antibiotic to control a hospital aquired infection in the bone in his arm. Pratting about with his medication can have a huge impact, not only does it rob him of any proper sleep pattern, it often makes him hallucinate wildly and can knock out the effect of the antibiotic maintaining his bone infection and make the wound flare up again. How can anyone prescribe any drug without knowing what's wrong - how can you cure what you can't diagnose? Maybe I'm wrong - I often am - but is that no a bit arse about face? And potentially dangerous considering the fine balance of this man's chemistry? His arm will flare up - again - soon I suppose.

21st June 2007 - The longest day

I spoke to Rab today. He's lovely. His wife is a resident and he comes in every day to see her. He says hello to everyone, he remembers everyone's names, he takes time to speak to everyone he see's on his path from the door to his wife. He's amazing. He obvious dotes on his wife, she has terminal cancer and her memory has been affected by the disease and treatment. Normally he'll just ask how I am, how Dad is or chat to Ellie, but today Dad was sleeping and his wife was seeing a social worker in her room, so he sat beside me and asked how I was. For some reason I didn't come back with fine, I looked at Dad, my eyes filled and I said that I was ok. He understood. He asked what I thought of the home and I gave him a few of my gripes.

When I asked how he was he told me how he was cheery in the home, but depressed in his home, he keeps it together for his wife, but he's only just hanging on by a thread sometimes. The latest treatment for her cancer took a lot out of her and she's in a lot of pain, his family aren't coping well with losing her and he's finding it difficult to support them. And then this week he found out he's got cancer too. But there's no point moaning is there, just shut up and get on with it.

Fucking hell. Moan. Moan a lot. I'll listen, I'll understand. Moan all you like Rab. You've earned a moan.

Dad woke, Rab asked how he was, squeezed and patted his knee and told him he was 'no a bad old soul' and Dad smiled, pleased at the contact. He winked and waved as he walked away to see is his wife was finished "It's the longest day today Jeannette, tomorrow will be shorter". It is the longest day.

20th June 2007 - Tommywatch

Dad was sleeping when I went in. He woke briefly but dozed off again. He would rouse when 'shoogled' but drop off as quickly as he could.

Rebecca was paddling. She often rolls up her trouser legs and paddles round the room. She's very tiny, but her legs are remarkably sturdy. She has a lovely caring, care worn face.

Lily was swearing at Cecily - the toilet brush one - and flicking the "v's" and the Dr one.

Something must have happened to Amy. She was much more wandered than usual and when she walked - which she does all the time - she was someone onesided, so much so that she would traverse in an arc. I wondered if she'd had a stroke.

Fran and Dottie both pretended to be asleep when she came near, nudging one another in warning that "She" was coming. "The auld cunt".

Tommy's niece was in visiting. I've only once seen her before and have never seen anyone else visit him. That's not to say he doesn't have visitors, nor that she doesn't visit regularly, just not when I do. He's sitting in his chair - he is always in this chair, which seems to serve as his wheel chair too. He looks as if he'd be a very tall man if he was standing, and he's very thin, so maybe it would be dangerous to try and move him often. He swears all the time. Incoherently but you know it's ill intent "Yafuckinbassyacuntinfuckya". She'd moved him through to the smoking room and I went in to try and find a newspaper to read, and read to Dad if he ever woke up for long enough. She was tucking his arm behind the seat, down between a metal spar and the chair back. I made a noise so she'd notice me and leaving, took a paper.
When she brought him back I could see the side of his chair, with his arm still tucked in. He doesn't move much. He can drink from a cup, so he has some conscious control. He was trying to free his arm, making it rub against the chair. His arm looked like it was at a very strained, strange angle. She nodded over at me, then approached. "That yer Da?" and I said that is was. "He's ma uncle. He's an auld bastard that yin. Fuckin' put me an ma sister through hell when we wur bairns. The beatin', the abuse. Drunken auld bastard. She'll no come an see him. Couldnae gie a fuck. Me, I gist come to make sure he's still goin', still sufferin. I tell ye, there is a God. That auld cunt o'er there? He deserves to rot in his own pish. And noo he is. Don't git me wrong, it's a fuckin' shame for those and such as those that dinae deserve it - likes yer Da n'at - but that auld bag of shite? Long may his lum reek, that's wit I sey. I'l mibbe see you again. Cheerio".

I looked over at Tommy. His arm was still stuck. The skin was bleeding a little, the abrasion of the chair where he was trying to free his arm had rubbed away the skin. I go and tell a staff member who comes and frees the arm. Tommy swears at him and flails his arm to thump him. I look at my Dad sleeping. Not a perfect Dad, ineffective and ineffectual in many ways. An emotional cripple like many of us. But not a Tommy. He still sleeps, so I kiss his cheek and tell him I'll see him tomorrow.

14th June 2007 - That man Barrymore again

When I first saw him, he was sleeping at a table after his morning tea, sat with Lily who was awake and chatty, despite her 92 years. When I woke Dad he smiled and laughed with pleasure at seeing me and I was glad I had come.

I hadn't been going to go. I was tired, there was loads of stuff to do in the house and I was vaguely hungover. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to see Amy who'd been depressing me. She'd been very trying, she'd taken a downturn lately and she was driving everyone round the bend. She can be so vicious and so tragic. She was crying all over me yesterday because she was frightened, literally scared rigid of Bruce when he approached her. She turned to me, her eyes filled with tears that burst the floodgates and flowed saltily down her freckled wrinkles. She was so small, so fragile and said "He scares me so. He's a bad man. He comes in to the toilet and does things. Make him go away". This is Amy who thought the day room was the toilet the previous day to that and had pulled down her trousers and pants in the corner of the room just before Tweedledum shouted her to "Don't be dirty this is the day room, no the bog Amy. Put it away, ye willnae get a lumber showing these guys that! I say, ye'll no get a lumber that wey, girl, I should ken, I've dun enuff in my time tae try tae get ma Nat King - zat no right Moira? Eh? Ye'll dae onythin' sumtimes tae git a lumber?".

But Amy was scared, so I put my arm round her shoulders and told her not to worry, she was safe, no-one would hurt her. She stared me in the eye, kicked my ankle and said very low but very clearly "Git yer fuckin' hauns aff me. I'm no a fuckin' nutcase - there's many of them in here thit are but no me. Yer fuckin daft auld cunt of a faither - he's one of them. Bastard is fuckin' mental. And stinking. Stinks of shite. Yer faither stinks o' shite. So you away an' fuck off".

So I didn't want to go, didn't want to even more than usual, but I was glad I did. And Dad was glad I did.

I mentioned Michael Barrymore's arrest to Dad. He'd been arrested in connection with the death of Stuart Lubbock at his house in 2001. The news came on a bulletin that was on while I was in the home visiting - I hadn't seen the news that morning or a paper - so I was very surprised and exclaimed some sort of "Oh". Dad couldn't remember who Michael Barrymore was. He and Mum used to sit and roar with laughter at "My kind of People". The mirth always escaped me - but then I am a humourless drone as my Mum once pointed out. I always felt it was cruel. But, the point was, he watched his programmes for years and yet couldn't remember him at all. I shouldn't be surprised, I know I shouldn't - a few weeks ago he couldn't remember his own name. I was surprised though, and saddened once again. But he'd been gad to see me, so it was a good visit.

11th June 2007 - FeeI the benefit now though

Dad was very depressed when I saw him. He's feeling ok, his drug regime has settled and he's pretty 'with-it'. Unfortunately that brings with it an awareness of his situation, he knows he's measuring out his life in coffee spoons, he knows where he is and he knows he's dying. He called the home a zoo today. He apologised for it right away saying that wasn't what he meant, but he was near enough. I was so lost for something to say, I couldn't think of anything to give him comfort, give him hope or solace. I could see Lily over at the door of the day room. She'd noticed us and was zimmering her way over to us. "Hullo hen, how are you the day?" I told her I was fine and asked how she was "Better than I wiz the morn hen. I wiz dog rough this morn, pished and shat mesel and I feel a lot better fur it - once I was cleaned up like, I'm no an animal. I really felt the benefit of a good empty oot. Do you enjoy a shite yersel hen?" she finished by asking. I confirmed that there was nothing like it, but quietly as I knew my Dad wouldn't approved of such coarse talk. "Maybe zoo was the bright worm after all" he said as she went towards the other end of the room to tell the residents there of her upturn in wellbeing brought on by her incontinence.

5th June 2007 - Robert Mitchum

Dad was sitting at a 'comfy' chair when I went in. There were two housekeepers in the day room - the older one hoovering and the younger one using a carpet shampooer. The noise was incredible. The distruption of the two machines made Bertha kick off, and she made Derek start to cry and moan. He set off Tommy and the Lily started screaming at Bertha. Dad didn't seem to mind though. Probably because he thought he was watching a film. He seemed to think the part of the younger housekeeper was being played by a young Robert Mitchum. Granted she wasn't a bonny girl but the similarity to big Mitch was lost on me.

3rd June 2007 - Lying not Lion

"I've been telling lies" Dad blurted out when I met him today. "I've got to tell you. Lying to the three. Making up stories. To the three. But mainly to you. You're Jeannette". I am Jeannette. I rather liked being part of 'the three' though - it sounded vaguely Star Trekky and mystical. I was part of 'the three' - three siblings - my Dad's children.

I got him settled and asked "What do you mean you've been lying? What stories have you been telling?" I asked him. I tried not to be ingtrigued, I tried not to guide him or harass him into continuing that line of thought - both for his sake and for mine. I've known many times in the past when he seemed to be about to tell me something important only for it to be hoovered away with the dust of the housekeepers persistent,pointless, distracting vaccuming. Or to be be changed mid sentence to follow the theme blared by the commercial on TV - "Your Mum and I didn't mean any harm we just got on to Sheila's wheels. No hang on, who's Sheila?".
He stared at me and I could see him searching and searching his mind to try and find the thread he'd dropped. But it was gone "Lion? There's no lions here - you want the zoo for those" and then his face eased a little and brightened as he thought he'd got back what to his point "I meant Lyons tea house - that was it, that right isn't it?" he implored, nodding me into agreeing "Yes, that's right Lyons tea house" and he smiled, happy to have sorted that one out, and dropped off into another catnap.

He's less and less able to communicate at all these days. He still uses all the 'filler' words in conversation so that he will start off saying "I've been trying for a number of days - perhaps even a week - to tell you something. Every time I get to the point, I lose my train of thought" and by the time he's finished that - or something similar - he's knackered and can't remember the actual 'thing'.
So much of conversation is pointless - not just my Dad's. I hate it when people talk and talk but say nothing. "Well, actually,in point of fact, it's like this Jeannette, I turned round and I just said to the boy I said......" instead of "I said....". Wasted words. And when your words are measured out in rations of five or six at a time, there's no point wasting them will fillers, with crap. I want to tell him just to say what is important. But it's pointless. He won't understand. I looked at him and he's fighting his way to wakefulness again. His skin is very dry, the antibiotics he's been on are making his skin very itchy, his skin is "anty" which I took to mean that he felt it was crawling. He's used to having dry itchy skin - he's had asthma and eczema all his life. He's been taken off the cream he'd used for the past 30 years for his skin to alieviate the itching "because of the long term detrimental effects". Aye right. His skin is dry, his eyes are yellowing, bloodshot and his irises are constricting with a bluey white ring. He's losing weight too, he looks so small. Small and helpless. And hopeless. But he doesn't need to be itchy too - long term detrimental effects? Fucking Doctors.

1st June 2007 - Making her feel special

I talked to my Dad today about the wee girl that went missing in Portugal - Madeline McCann. I wish I hadn't. I was leafing through the paper and her picture was in it and that of her parents with their other two children. I was telling him how horrble it must be, wondering how anyone could take a child. I was meaning that I didn't know how what state of mind you'd have to be in to take - and keep - a child from it's parents. He took what I said rather differently. He said he supposed it would be quite easy to take a child. He surmised that the abductors probably told her lots of lies about how pretty and clever she was to make her feel special, then she'd go with them willingly she'd be so full of herself. It was such a Dad thing to say, so typical of the things he'd have said - the attitude he'd have had to me when I was growing up - that I was fuming. Pointlessly, frustratingly angry with him. My eyes smarted with redundant never to be shed tears "Of course she's special, she's pretty, she's clever, she IS special. Every child is special". "Well, you would say that. I hope you don't go telling your two they are special. Turning their heads. Making them think they're more than they are". Well, Dad, I'm rather afraid I do. Daily and then some. I tell them they are clever, they are gorgeous, they are wonderful, they are loved.
Why did this flash of self have to be THIS flash of self? Don't get above yourself, don't think you're anything special because you're not. We are all living in the gutter - some of us might be looking at the stars but others are blindfolding us and telling us it's where we belong.
I know it's not his fault. I know it is his old self peaking through, untrammelled by the dementia, but how he came to be the person that would think like that is lost. What turned him into the bitter soul that would want his daughter convinced of her ordinariness, her mundane abilities, her average looks and lack of wit? No, Dad, my children are special. And so is Madeline. And so, I suppose, are you Dad. Except your potential is behind you, is that what made you so bitter?