4th November 2007 - Almost very nearly

There is a man - Graham - that comes in to visit his Mum at the home who is very intriguing. His Mum is lovely. She has a smile that halves her face and whose warmth reaches her eyes, crinkling out into her spread of crowsfeet. When she talks to me she doesn't always make sense but she always leaves you feeling pleased that she stopped to chat. Her name is Iris, which always struck me as appropriate because she's slender and tall and strikingly beautiful.

Her son, too, is striking. He's not tall but he's very slender and he has a kind of presence about him. You find yourself drawn to him. I wasn't surprised to find out he had a 'story'. He just looks interesting. He was a footballer, in the 70's. Very gifted, very talented, could have been the Scots Georgie Best, but he got injured and never fulfilled his potential. He must have been very handsome - he still is but he looks very sad. Until he smiles, he's inherited Iris's smile. When he smiles his face radiates like hers does and you feel like you are basking in their light.

I was upset when I left today. Dad was so lost to me. He was sat in the office when I came in. I say 'sat' because he'd been plonked there. He'd been found on the floor again - I was told he'd gone to sit on an invisible chair and slumped to the ground, although no-one saw it. Again. So, they'd put him in the office with a table tight in against his chest so he couldn't move. I took him through to the 'quiet room' and he dozed off and on. He was lost to me. He didn't manage to tell me anything, didn't understand anything I said.

When I left I sat in the car in the car park for a few mintes. I was crying and oblivious to the outside world so I was surprised when I looked round and saw Graham in his car. I should have spoken to him because I think I managed to make him feel awkward. I'm sorry Graham if you're out there. I'm sure you've shed tears for Iris, and I shouldn't have been embarassed to be caught crying. I was though, it's as if I think I should be able to cope because I see other people coping ( at least to the outside world ). When I see everyone smiling and joking in the home I feel like I'm letting everyone down by not being able to be cheery, by being depressed, saddened and appalled by what I see and hear. When I flinch when someone screams or looks puzzled at someone trying to communicate. You know that scene in Carry on up the Khyber when the English are having a meal and the Indians are attacking and bombimg seven shades out of the room while they, oblivious, talk of the weather? And one wee man - the preacher I think he is - is aware of what's happening and not able to ignore it? "That's me that is". I want to be able to ignore it, to pretend everything is ok but it's not and I can't. And I feel I let all the others down by not following suit.

So, Graham, and all you other relatives, I'm sorry. I've often thought of asking people to meet up away from the home, to form some sort of support group, but I'm not sure anyone else sees the need. Maybe I should. Maybe I will.