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.