11th April 2008 - The longest day

Today was the longest day of my life. Thankfully I had predicted that there would be an element of waiting involved and packed a flask of tea and some sandwiches in my large - and rather stylish if I do say so myself - leopardskin and patent bag. Mind you I do have very dodgy taste in many things, often finding myself drawn to anything shiny, glittery or animal print. Think Bet Lynch and you're not far wrong.

When Dad's appointment came through I decided to take up the offer of transport. Although I have a car and could borrow a wheelchair from the home, parking at the hospital is a big problem, with the car parks being quite a distance - over very bumpy terrain - from the hospital buildings. I did feel like a bit of a fraud, using the NHS resources when other options were available to me but I ignored that particular little conscience niggle.

I'd been told to arrive at the home as soon as possible after 8 as the ambulance transport that had been booked could turn up any time after then. I arranged for Sean to readjust his day to take Mark to school before going in late to work, and a friend was looking after Ellie and would take her to nursery at 12:30 if I wasn't back by then. The appointment was at 9:30 so I was sure I'd be back in time, but just in case, she would take her.

I duly turned up at the home just after 8, concerned that I might be late. I'm really anal about timekeeping. I'd much rather be early than late, so I was getting flustered by the traffic that delayed me and fretting about holding up the ambulance.
I needn't have worried. I don't like mealtimes at the home - I know I should be able to handle them better but I can't and don't. Dad hadn't started his breakfast yet and was very surprised to see me. I explained why I was there so early and sat with him while he was brought cereal, fruit juice and tea. The fruit juice he poured into his cereal, curdling the milk. He ate them regardless and tipped the bowl to his lips to drain the liquid. The other resident at the table wasn't fully awake and was drooping over their crispies. Her nose was running, dripping gloopily, stretching lower and lower towards her meal. Various residents were wheeled in and tucked under tables to have their breakfast. Breakfast and pills. Courses came and went. Rounds of toast. Top-ups of tea. I tried not to look at the clock but I couldn't help it. One of the staff told me not to worry if we were late for the appointment, the staff at the hospital were used to transport people being a bit late, we wouldn't be marked as a DNA.

The ambulance arrived at 10. We were the second stop, there were two more pick-ups and our drop off was last. My niggle at abusing NHS resources dissipated as perfectly able bodied individuals trotted and virtually skipped into the ambulance.
I was thunderous. Internally I was a seething mass of middle-aged, grumpy old woman, ranting to myself about the world and those in it. When I looked at Dad, slumped in resignation in his chair, all my anger melted and I felt so sad, so sorry for him that I managed to refocus myself on the point of the day.

Although we were so late, we only had to wait about half an hour to be seen. We had tea and a sandwich, and it was almost like an outing, like a picnic. The young doctor read through the letter Dad's GP had sent asking for the assessment while he asked Dad questions about how he was "As well as can be inpsected, morse. Inspector Morse. Ex. Expector Morse." and why he thought he was there "For the boat trip. Are you going on the Waverly too?". On hearing the answers he started on a different tack, deciding to delve back into Dad's medical history. He did some memory tests with him, that Dad stressed about not being able to answer. When asked how old he was he guessed at well over a hundred. He knew his date of birth, but not what year it was, who the Queen was, what city he was in, couldn't write at all, couldn't remember a sentence to repeat back to him. I could tell he knew he wasn't 'doing well' and he was getting flustered. The doctor got him to lie on the bed to examine him and performed whatever examination he felt was needed. I noticed a darkening on the sheet below Dad. I pushed my thoughts aside. The shadow grew larger and larger. He'd wet himself. He Doctor was oblivious to this. When I help him back into his wheelchair I noticed his incontinence pad in his trouser leg, shuffling it's way down his leg. I pulled it out of the bottom of his trouser leg and removed it. The doctor when to talk to the consultant and left me and Dad together. Dad tried to ask me how I thought he was doing in the examinations and I tried to reassure him that he was doing fine, not to worry. He looked across at he examination bed and noticed the wet mark on the bed. He tutted "Dirty mark. Clean sheets. Clean sheet, new start. Fresh plate, fesh, fresh, fesh" and I was glad he didn't know he'd made the mark, that he'd pissed himself.

A few minutes passed and the consultant came in. He was lovely. He had a gentle manner, he was polite to Dad, he didn't condescend to him, he explained his dementia to him in words that were incredibly well chosen, well thought out, well put. There was probably little need to be as kind as he was but he was anyway. He took time to explain to both of us what might be happening. He doesn't think he has Parkinsons. He might have a heart problem that might be helped with a pacemaker, but he needs a couple of ECG tests to be sure. The consultant organised to get Dad clean clothing and freshened up. He shook Dad's hand before he shook mine. He did everything right. I want to clone him and have all doctors take lessons from him.

The ambulance transport had left without us becuase we were so long, but another one would be picking us up. We had more tea and sandwiches. It was 2:30 when the ambulance came. Dad had been sleeping for the last hour. Every 5 minutes I would think "I'll just phone a taxi, this is daft" but then a bustling nurse would come by and ask if we were still here "No actually we left some time ago" and tut away to phone the tranpsort people.

When we got back to the home it was time for his afternoon tea. I handed over his soiled clothes in a hospital bag and asked that he was changed into his own clothes. I had to go to collect Ellie from my friend's.

A pacemaker. I suppose the trade-off is in the fact that if he doesn't have treatment to try and stop him falling, he will keep falling and one time he might break something and reduce the quality of his life even further. At least just now he can walk a bit. At least just now he can feed himself. I suppose 'they' wouldn't suggest doing it if it wasn't worthwhile. We'll just have to wait for the ECG's.
Poor Dad. x