24th February 2008 - House of the flying tables

When I went in Dad was sleeping at a table. Sitting beside him were Lily and Amy. Lily was in a very chatty mood. Amy was just in a mood. But Amy doesn't stay in one place for more than a minute or two so her venom was only in short bursts.

Lily was wanting someone to change her trousers, but due to staff shortage and it being break time for most of the staff that were there, she was being fobbed off again and again. But she was very aware she was being ignored or at least side lined and her needs were not being prioritised. This feeling seemed to spark a link in her brain, and triggered the outpouring of numerous wee snatches of her life, which she was letting us know about. "I wiz never wanted me. My mither, she doted on ma bruther like, but me, I hid to fend fur maesel. Made me stronger mind. I couldnae dae onything tae please that wummin, and it wisnae fur the want o' trying. All I's wantin' is a pair of troosers. I've got clean pants on, I'm no mingin'" she trailed off. "And ma weans. I've lost count of the number o' times I've bailed them oot of trouble. But wur are they noo? And their pals - never turnt one of them away fae ma door if they'd fallen oot wi' their maw's, their da or their man. And wit dae I git fur it? They didnae look the road I'm oan noo". She looked at me and asked "Dae you and him" nodding to Dad "go up the dancing? It does ma heart glad tae see the pair of your thegither. I could greet with the happiness I could". She thought me and Dad were a couple so I said "This is my Dad, Lily. He lives here. We don't go dancing". She looked at me. "Don't be an erse, nae bugger goes tae the dancin' wi' thur Da - in the name - ye couldnae go wi a lumber if yur Da wiz stood staunin' wtachin' ye".
I couldn't disagree, but it was getting increasingly difficult to continue talking so I just shook my head and said "No" in an aping exaggerated way, and that seemed to be a response she was happy with.

One of the carers came over to talk to me. She told me that Robert was dead. I realised then - as I often do when I'm told of a death - that I hadn't seem him this visit, or last. I really liked Robert, he was a lovely old man. Sally went on to tell me about Gordy who had been very ill. "He's awright noo, but wi nearly lost him there fur a bit." I looked across at Gordy. Gordy who is virtually blind, deaf, only just ablle to walk, can't feed himself or dress himself or commicate at all. "Aye, he's fine noo - lost a bit uv weight like, but he right as rain noo. Honestly, Jeannie, you shood huv seen him last week. Pitiful it wiz". I looked at Gordy again. He had lost weight, a lot of it and I wondered how much more pitiful he could have looked last week. "Oh, no. Wit daft buggers left a table near Cecily!" Sally interrupted my thoughts on Gordy "she's gonna start bucjin' chuckin' 'em again. Francine? FRANCINE? I need help in the dayroom! Cecily's got a table!" she bellowed. And Cecily did, indeed, have hold of a table - the hospital overbed style table that's on wheels and open to one side to allow it to be pushed in over a person in bed or sitting at a chair. They are often used to corral a person into their chair or as improvised zimmers.

"Ahm oan ma break Sal. I've no sat doon for the last 7 hoors, I'm dying on the crapper and if I dinnae have a fag soon I'll be throwin' buckin' table aboot the place" Francine shouted through from the kitchen where she was making a tea and assembling a plate of cakes for her snack. "Can ye no shout oan Karen, she's taken Bertha tae the shithoose, she can let her sit there fur a bit an come through - it's no like oor Bertha's gonnae go onywheres like".

Sally shouted on Karen. Who shouted back that she was helping Bertha and she should get Joan to nelp, she should be back from her break. Just at that point, Cecily hurled the table across the room into the sleeping figure of Mrs Dawson. She awoke with a ear piercing screech "Dr Murray, Dr Murray, the babies deid, the babies deid. Dr Murray, Dr Murray, Dr Murray!" she shouted loudly, over and over again. From the far end of the room, hidden behind on of the arm chairs, appeared Joan, who had been their all along and couldn't have not heard Sally, Francine and Karen shouting to each other. It would have been impossible not to hear, not to know that help was needed, that she was needed. "My break is fineeshed." she said and went to calm Mrs Dawson and reprimand Cecily - who had thrown another and was trying to reach a third. I looked at Sally, who's mouth hung open, gaping to show her impressive collection of silver fillings. "See wit I mean" she stage whispered to me "fuckin' lazy basturds the blacks. She's hird every buckin' wurd and no shifted her black erse."

I was surprised that Joan hadn't moved to help earlier but I was also aware that all Sally had to do was stop talking to me and she could have prevented Mrs Dawson getting rammed with the table. "Is Mrs Dawson ok?" I asked. "That yin? Never up nor doon no matter wit happens. Jist goes oan and oan and oan aboot that buckin' deid bairn. I tells her, I sez 'Yer bairns deid 50 years luv' but she jist bit ma heid aff. Some of them ye like, and somes ye dinnae. I dinnae like hur. She disnae like me neither likes so that's fine. I jist keeps away. It depresses me tae hear hur go oan aboot that deid bairn". Her buzzer buzzed in the folds at her waist. "That's Mags. We've got this system - if she sees the heid bummer coming ma way she buzzes me and I does the same fur her. Got me oot of a lot of scrapes I kin tells ye tha' fur nuthin'. Nice talkin' tae ye Jeannie. Yer Da's doing away, by the way, jist doing away. He's nae bother that yin. We all like gentleman Jim - that's wit I calls him - gentleman Jim - eh Jimmy" she shoogles him awake "eh Jimmy, yer a right gent" and she left us. Me and my gentleman dad, doing away.

17th February 2008 - Buenos días Peter Rabbit

"Buenos días Peter Rabbit" Dad said to me when I woke him. "Pardon?" I said, not unreasonably I think in the circumstances. "Buenos días Peter Rabbit" he repeated, looking at me for an appropriate response. The only one that I could think of that might be anywhere near satisfactory was a simple "Buenos días". I considered adding "Squirrel Nutkin", "Jemima Puddleduck" or something similar but I really didn't want to add to the confusion.

He looked at me. Looked round me. Looked through me. Looked above me. "Buenos fucking días? Buenos fucking días? You gone all dago on me now?" and fell asleep.

I have never, ever, in all the 43 and a bit years (holy shit I'm old!) that I've known him heard him say the 'f' word. In other circumstances I would have found it positively refreshing, but not now. He was angry with me, I didn't know what to say and I felt stupid for letting it upset me. I made him some tea and woke him. "Hello Mary love" he said. My Mum - and in English - how normal.

14th February 2008 - Valentine's Day

When I visited Dad today he knew it was a 'special' day. He knew there was something up, something on, something todo. The CD playing was a love cd - "How deep is your love", "Once, twice, three times a lady", "Sexual healing", "Lady in Red" - a cd that would have been advertised on TV as 'Ideal for Valentine's day'. One of the girls must have had flowers delivered because there was a frisson in the air, a buzz of joy and jealousy, of happiness and heartfelt blues. All the others wondering if they'd get flowers too or knowing that they wouldn't.

"Ma Robbie wouldnae gie them the money for floors - if ye go tae the shops the morns day morn they'll be hauf the price. Mair money than sense - I'd rather hiv the cash, thank you very much".

"Ma Lee he's allerdgict tae floors"

"Allerdgict tae the price - eh? I sed Allerdgict tae the price"

"Wit aboot Col, did you git a cerd the morn Moira?"

"Naw, but thir better be a cerd fir me the nite - and a bloody big yin at tha' - or he's in ma bad books. If he's wantin' his hole this side of Christmas I'd better git floors, a padded cerd, a Tobelerone and a bottle of Asti. Eh? That right Nancy - I'm saying if he's efter his Nat King before Christmas I need to be appreciated".

Nancy stared blankly at her as she was hefted out of the lifting device into her chair.

"You ken wit I mean - eh Nancy ? - yiv goat tae keep 'em gaggin' oan it every noo and then - eh Nance ? Don't git me wrang, sometimes I'm right there, oan ma back legs akimbo, flappin' in the air fir him, but ivry noo and then he needs tellt whae's boss. Git them tellt - eh Nance - bet you did in yer day Nancy ma luv - git them tellt".

Dad asks me if it's someone's birthday today and I tell him it's Valentine's day. I can't tell by his face if he knows what that means or if he's even heard me speak, so I repeat myself until he looks away. Ellie tells him that her Dad gave her a chocolate heart and that she gave him a box of chocolates because her Daddy loves chocolate. "I don't like chocolate that much. Too cloying, sticky in mouth. You'd better take them back". Ellie burbles with mirth "You're not my Daddy, Granda, you're my Granda!" and Dad scowls at her, trying to understand. "Moira's not mine?" he asks me - thinking Ellie's my sister and I'm my Mum. What should I say ? Should I tell him she is and placate him, or try and make him see I'm his daughter not his wife ? "Of course Moira's yours Dad, but this is Ellie - she's my daughter. I'm your daughter, Jeannette". He looks at me, staring and blinking. He falls asleep.

"Wit aboot you Jeannette - is your man the romantic type is he?" I'm asked. And I wonder, is he? I did get a card and a pressie - and I tell them that - but is my Sean romantic? Does he jump through the hoops of Valentine's day, anniversary and birthday's to safeguard his sex life? He's not spontaneously romantic. I'd never come home to find he'd arranged a babysitter and we were off out somewhere - or that there was a bubble bath run and a meal ready. Not that kind of romantic. But I know he loves me, I know it like I've never known it before. He loves me much more than I deserve to be loved, more than I'm worth loving. I'm very lucky - and I can always run my own baths. I wouldn't change him, not one bit.

12th February 2008 - Blisters like butterbeans

I've started training to do Edinburgh's Half Moon - it's a walk, round Edinburgh, at midnight, by women in bra's to raise money for research in breast cancer. The full walk is called the Moon Walk and it's a full length marathon - the Half Moon, therefore, is half of that. Me and a few friends are going to do it, both to raise money and to get fitter.

My sister for Christmas gave me a voucher for MBT's - Masai Barefoot Technology trainers. 135 quids worth of pretty bogging looking trainer, that makes you roll your foot when you walk, causing you to correct your posture and work your abs while you walk - a la Masai tribespeople. The 'wummin' in the shop went on, at considerable length, about how important it was to work up to wearing them in stages - a half an hour in the house for the first few days, a few hours indoors leading up to - after a couple of weeks - a trip outdoors. I was sceptical. I was doubtful of the need to be so catious. I was incredulous that I could do so much damage by wearing shoes. I was convinced she was just over-egging the danger to heighten the hype of the product.

I have blisters like butterbeans. Half way round our first exploratory walk I started getting a tingling in my foot. Above the ball of the foot, just under the toes. A trapped nerve was diagnosed by my walking friend, and I stopped to loosen, then tighten, then loosen and retighten the trainers. I think she was probably right, because the pain was right for the diagnosis. I managed to get back to her house and then drive home. I think the damage was done by loosening them off, so when I removed the big clumphy boots I unveiled matching blisters on my heels. Butterbeans. I'd always hated butterbeans as a child after an ill advised temper tantrum persuaded my mother to allow me to wear my new gym shoes to play outside, resulting in a massive and incredibly painful blister. Even now - although I like the flavour and even the texture - they still look like an unburst blister to me.

A whole new world of stingy pain. Blisters. They are disproportionately painful are they not? But, scientists have excelled themselves. They have developed the most wonderful blister plaster. They are fabulous. Just google 'blister plaster' and you will get to them. If only they had invented them when I was on a walking 'holiday', youth hosteling with a friend in the Lake District in 1980. Stumps of leg ends - I'd hesitate to call them feet at the time - bound into tight, dubbin'd brown boots. They were her old boots and didn't really fit. Blisters over blisters. The bloody sweaty insides of the boots darker than the muddy outsides. My, am I getting old and nostalgic!? But those blister plasters would have been great back then.

I tried to tell Dad of my blisters today, but he wasn't having it. The new entertainments co-ordinator - who looks like Mr Mackay in South Park - was playing with a large balloon. He would wander around the room and batter it towards a resident who would batter it back. Most of the residents really seemed to enjoy it. They'd stretch and use their arms, legs, heads even, to bat the balloon back. Simple but really effective. Dad enjoyed it, much more than trying to work out who I was and why I was telling him of my sore feet. Still, I saw him smile, it's been a while since I saw that. Thanks, Mr MacKay. You gave pleasure today to more than two people. Well more. Good return for a day.

3rd February 2008 - Judge not

There was a new carer today. He looks to be late teens. He has lots of tatoos. He has his nose, eyebrow and lip pierced. His ear lobes are distended by big washer earrings. His mouth gapes when he breathes.

Christine - one of, if not the most trying resident - was underdressing herself at a table.

He went over to her, and very calmly spoke to her, got her to stand, gently helped her back into her clothes, tucked her in, straightened her skirt, smoothed her hair and helped her to calm herself. I watched in awe of how well he dealt with her. I've never seen any of the carers in the home deal as well with Christine. He must have sensed me watching because he looked up and saw me, then mouthed over asking if I was ok. It was only then I realised I had tears running down my face.

It's so easy to judge people, to pidgeon hole them, and dismiss them. I didn't realise I was so guilty of it. I'm going to try harder - like Boxer in Animal Farm - I will work harder - to produce a better version of me.

30th January 2008 - Ming the merciless

Sundowning again. On a loop......

Resident 1 "Dr Menzies" - said Mingis - "the baby's dead, the baby's dead, bring her floors, bring her floors. Dr Menzies, Mrs Munro, wee Craig, away oot to play, the baby's dead, the baby's dead".

Resident 2 "God, I hear God. Love me Jesus. Little children. Jesus loves me this I know, for the bible tells me so"

Resident 3 "Mammy, Daddy, the mans hurting me"

Resident 4 "Yefuckinbassayefuckinbassaye"

Resident 5 "Aaaargh. Aaaaargh. Aaaargh"

Resident 6 "He's a barber. I'm not needing a haircut I want a fag".

Me "So, how has today been then Dad?"

Dad looks round him slowly, looks back at me with resignation, with derision, with sadness "I'm grand. Yourself?"