Personal blog about dealing with a father with dementia in a care home.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

5th March 2008 - Parkinsons

One of the carers phoned me today. Dad had had another couple of falls and had very low blood pressure so they had called for the GP. There was nothing to be concerned about - I was told - he was fine but the GP has sent for an appointment at the local hospital specialising in diseases of the elderly to have an assessment done on him - primarily assessing for Parkinsons disease.

At first I was appalled. Thinking - Parkinons too? Surely not, not as well as the dementia, can the man not get a break? But after a bit I started thinking that maybe, if he can get drug treatment that helps the shuffling, that aids his mobility, maybe that's a good thing. I took a trip to the internet to read up about Parkinsons. I have a friend who has Parkinsons. I made a mental note to call her the next day. Maybe it'll help Dad. Hopefully.

Saturday, March 01, 2008

1st March 2008 - Hava nagila hava nagila - huva wit?

They were having a sing-song from around the world today. When I arrived it was, mercifully, already over but snatches of songs were still lingering in the air as people whistled and hummed while they did their work. One of the male carers was particularly taken with "Hava nagila" - Let us celebrate in Hebrew apparently - and was singing under his breath. Lily wasn't for having this, she was up for sparking a fight. "Huv a wit? Wit ur ye oan, ye daft basturd. Huva nagila? I'll huva shite. Naw, you huva shite, you awa' and shite. Huva nagila. I'll gie ye Huva nagila, ye daft basturd."

Amy decided to drown out this exchange with a tremulous rendition of "Danny boy", which seemed to annoy Bertha who started a very vocal tirading rant against the Irish. "Fuckin' Micks. Paddy basturds. Shut the fuck up - Danny fucking boy" she threw at Amy and continued to berate her. Amy was undetered and unflinching in her warble.

Sing-song had been a success in a way I suppose. Provoked a reaction at least. As I left I noticed a poster up for the next event - a tea morning. The poster was asking for volunteers who could tell fortunes by reading tea leaves to 'perform' at the event. Now, far be it from me to suggest that divination by any method is a best pointless, at worst a dangerous sop to placate the gullible but I will suggest that a fortune teller in a care home does not have a difficult job. I think I would possess enough of 'the gift' to be able to give a glance at the tea leaves and give a really rather accurate prediction as to the future.

29th February 2008 - Leap Year Day

"Are you no gaun tae ask Rab tae marry ye then Sal?" Clare shouted through to Sal in the kitchen.

"That'll be buckin' right. Is it no bad enough I've goat two bairns tae hum, cook his dennners, wash his scants and pick up efter him - you wantme tae loose ma independence an' aw?" Sal shouts back and then urgently "Molly! Oot the kitchen. Yer an awfy wummin for no daeing as yer tellt". Molly duly ambles slowly out of the kitchen, muttering resentfully "Just wanted to help with the dishes - is that too much to ask?". "Git" bellows Sal and Molly hastens her pace.

"How aboot you Clare, you gonna pop the question wi' your Lee?" Sal asks Clare. Clare scoffs disparagingly from her six foot high head "Are ye awf her heid? Clare McClair? I dinnae thinks so. I suppose I could go hyphenated but I dinnae fancy McGlinchey-McClair neither. And onyway, I'm too yound tae git merrit. I'm only 19".

19. 9 fucking teen! She's only 19. She's so calm, so patient with the residents, so gentle, so mature. 19. Bloody hell. It seems like forever since I was 19. Shouldn't she be out, seeing the world, having carefree fun rather than cleaning old folk and living with Lee? "Each to their own" as my mother would have said "Each to their own".

Dad - who had been determinedly asleep for the first 20 minutes of my visit - roused himself and said "Tea. Make tea. Peas." So I went to make him a cup of tea. When I returned he was picking his nose and trying to flick the resultant green sticky goo off his finger. He wasn't having any success and when I put his mug of tea down, he held up his finger to me, like a toddler might, for me to dispose of the offending bogie. I got a tissue and removed it. I'd not think twice about performing this service for my daughter, so why does it gross me out so much to do it for my Dad?
He finished the tea, put the mug down and immediately ask for another. Lately he's had a thick gooey mucous sticking his lips together when he wakes. It doesn't seem to shift when he's awake but I think that might be because his brain doesn't recognise that he should lick his lips to remove it. Tea seems to help though. He's losing weight - again I think because his brain doesn't correctly interpret his body's 'hungry' signals - so the sugar in his tea will at least give him a few calories.

"Wit aboot you Jeannie - wit are you gonna dae wi' yer extra day?" Sal asks me. "No extra days peas" says Dad "No more days".