Diary Of A Demented Daughter

15th October 2008 - Funeral

2008-11-06T20:58:00.004Z

The last few days have passed in a blur. Getting things done, registering the death, organising the funeral, flowers, 'the do'. Dad was a Christian so we wanted a minister to do a 'turn'. The tame one from the home came to see me. I find religious people very tricky to talk to - which is strange as I used to have a brother-in-law who is a priest ( long story, different life! ) - but I keep just wanting to say to them "But really, honestly, you don't really believe all that crap do you?". He was lovely though. Didn't even complaint when I gave him his tea - and he should have because I later noticed that the milk I'd used was off and there were floaters and God know what in it. Maybe He told him there was nothing to worry about in it because he was drinking it regardless. But the minister was lovely. He did suggest quite a bit of religon in the service but I thought I should let him take the lead, he's been to a few more than me.

I'd discussed with my siblings whether they wanted to speak or not, and neither of them did. I decided I'd like someone to speak that knew Dad because the minister - lovely as he was - didn't remember Dad. So I'd spent ages trying to get something to say, something that was true, something that wasn't slushy because he'd have hated that, something that didn't airbrush him but something that was heartfelt.

When it came to the day, I was really pleased to see my friends there. My ex-husband and my ex-sister-in-law where there. My family and my friends. Someone from the home came too, my siblings and their family, and my Dad's brother and his wife and their two sons and one of their wives.

" Firstly I'd like to thank you all for coming. With Dad having moved from Glasgow to Stewarton, then to Edinburgh, it was difficult to know who would be able to be here, so thank you all for coming.

Secondly, I'd like to extend my heartfelt thanks - and those of my sister and brother - to the staff at Portland Care home. Dad lived at Portland for the last 4 years of his life, and over those 4 years my admiration for the work that the staff do there has grown and grown. I have often been humbled by their compassion, their humanity, their dedication to the job and to those in their care. They have taught me a lot and I will always be grateful.

One of my recent fondest memories of Dad, was at last year's Christmas party at Pentland Hills. Mark, Ellie and I had been enjoying watching the country dancing when Dad was given his evening medication. He took this, but followed after the nurse who had given it, and as I went after him to get him to sit down again, the music started again and Dad started to dance with me. I'd never danced with him before. But we did then. He was a good dancer - his feet remembered even when so much else had been forgotten. I didn't want it to stop, it was lovely, dancing with Dad. Portland, and more particularly Tunhouse unit staff gave me and Dad that opportunity.

Lastly, my sister Moira found a quote that we both think is very appropriate for Dad, a description of the Victorian detective Chief Superintendent Williamson, by a colleague.

'A Scot, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, loyal, hardworking, persevering, phlegmatic, obstinate, unenthusiastic, courageous, always having his own opinion, never afraid to express it, slow to grasp a new idea, doubtful of its efficacy, seeing its disadvantages rather than its advantages, but withal so clear-headed, and so honest, and kind-hearted to a fault, he was a most upright and valuable public servant.'

Dad was human, just as we all are. He had flaws, he wasn't perfect, but above all, more than anything he tried his best. He knew his flaws and he tried to overcome them. I don't think you can ask more of a person than that. He worked hard, he loved his family and he did the best for his family. He did very little harm. He bore his illness very bravely, complaining very little and although it brought us all some very dark times, it taught me that I loved my father. He will be missed."

He is missed. I'm lost without him at the minute. I'm not sleeping. I know it'll change, get better, get easier. I don't want to forget him though, I don't want to forget all that I learnt about life, about death, about him and about me in the last four years. I think I've become a better person. I hope so. I hope I helped Dad. I know I could have and should have done more. I wish I'd done more. I'm glad I did what I did.

9th October 2008 - Dad died

2008-11-06T20:52:00.004Z

We'd both been worried that he'd die and we wouldn't notice. That one of his slow low breathing spells would just continue a bit longer and he'd not breath back in.

I can't write about it, it seems wrong, but it wasn't something anyone could fail to notice was happening. It was horrific. It was awful. The staff were in tears, we were in tears. We were literally hysterical afterwards in the flat, laughing in the most inappropriate way, but both knowing it was the letdown, the emotions that got us through the last few days spilled and we laughed, drank and cried.

I'm glad I was there. No-one should have to die alone. I'm glad I was able to help him pass.

Goodnight Dad. I love you.

7th and 8th October - St Matthew's Passion

2008-10-24T22:29:00.009+01:00

We've been sitting with him, either me or Moira, or both of us, for days now. We'd both tried different classical pieces to listen to. And we both kept coming back to a CD of highlights from Bach's St Matthew's Passion. It's lovely. It's calming. It swarms over you, it massages you, it's just so beautiful. Different parts of it evoke differing emotions, but it's not maudline, it's not bathetic. I think it's perfect for his funeral, and so does Moira, but we both feel guilty for saying that before he's 'gone', talking over him. It's surreal. It's the blackest of humour we're having between us, Moira and I. As soon as we laugh, we feel guilty. As soon as either one of us has to eat or pee or sleep we feel guilty, or disrespectful, or unworthy. One of us will go out for breakfast and bring it back. I'll go and see the kids for a short time. One of us will bring back some lunch. We'll sit. One of us will go for something for tea - or dinner - and clink back shamefully with individual bottles of wine and cans of gin and tonic. The staff keep asking if we want tea, coffee, soup, sandwiches, anything at all. They are so good. They come and move him every 3 hours. He's on an air mattress to avoid any sores, but he's so frail and thin that I can't imagine he'd have enough weight to make a sore. But the staff are so lovely, so kind, so respectful.

Moira had a bad spell when I was away seeing the kids. It was weird, because I was supposed to come back at 7 in the evening, after I'd fed the family, but I started back at 5, and got stuck in traffic. She called me, very upset, but I was already on my way, I knew that she'd need me to come back quicker.

There's a guest room at the home and Moira's been staying there, when she's not with Dad. It's like a very impersonal hotel room. Like somewhere Alan Partridge might have stayed in - in Norwich. It doesn't matter though. It's there, we use it when we need to get a few minutes sleep. The staff have made an effort to make it 'homey'. Towels, a hairdryer, tea and coffee, shampoos, shower gels. The people that work at the home are great.

I honestly - although I have complained about individuals in the past - think that a good care worker is one of the most undervalued people in the world. Whether that is one who works in a care home or one who cares and works in their own home for their loved one.

I'm all disjointed. All over the place. Lack of sleep.

He's so pathetic now. I remember years ago when I first visited the home, thinking that some of the residents looked like holocaust victims. Dad looks like that now. His face is sunken, his skin has so little flesh below it. I can hold his hand now. I can stroke his hair. I can kiss his cheek and touch his face. I didn't do that when he was more aware. He and I weren't able to be 'touchy feely'. Our barriers didn't allow it. We don't have barriers now. There's none left. I've changed his incontinence pad in his old age, like he may have changed my nappy in my childhood. Full circle.

Sorry - all over the place. Very tired. Not sleepy but tired.

6th October 2008 - Vigil start

2008-10-24T21:58:00.004+01:00

He's 'Nil by Mouth' now. his swallowing reflex has left him. His time is numbered in days now, not weeks. My sister is coming to stay for the vigil. It must be so difficult for her. She has to leave her son in London with his nanny, leaving him with the knowledge that she'll be back when his Puppup is dead.

I'm glad she's coming though. The longer I stay in his room with him on my own, the more I doubt the decisions I've been making - even with the support of the doctor and my siblings. I know the 'Do Not Ressuciate' decision is right. I know the decision not to tube feed is best. But when I sit with him on my own, I start to talk to him, talk and remember, and sometimes look forward, and then I begin to doubt. It's tiredness too. When you are so tired and so sad, you're mind wanders from your known loadstone, your known right.

3rd October 2008 - Beg pardon

2008-10-03T12:24:00.007+01:00

Dad was a bit brighter yesterday. I managed to feed him a yoghurt, cup of orange juice, one of tea and another of diluting juice. We even managed to have a verbal exchange. He burped, after one of his drinks, and I said "Pardon" and he said "Beg pardon". When I left he was sitting supported in bed and looking awake.

That was yesterday.

Today when I went in this morning I met Pretti who told me how he'd eaten well the previous evening, even had some cheesecake and mince at tea time. Cheesecake and mince, hmmmm, nice. And she was going to get him through to the day room later that afternoon. So I was expecting him look as bright, if not more so, than when I'd seen him last.

He wasn't looking bright. Not bright at all. He'd scratched his face during the night and his face was covered in red lines and weels. I kicked myself mentally, because I'd noticed the length of his nails before and had meant to cut them - even got as far as bringing in clippers, but forgot to use them. He was glistening with petroleumm jelly that had been applied to his face to stop him being itchy. His mouth was gaping, his eyes have open with the familiar typewriter back and forth of his eyeballs beneath the lids. The smell in the room was the same. He wasn't for waking.

I clipped his nails, but he wasn't best pleased, pulling his hand away and grimacing. I don't think I could have been hurting him, I was being very gentle.

A woman knocked on the door and came in. I'd never seen her before, so she introduced herself as the home manager. She told me that he'd eaten well the previous day and that if I needed anything I should just buzz - and did I want a cup of tea. I didn't. I wondered if she'd been told I was in. Doesn't matter I suppose, she was nice enough. Stood at the bottom of his bed, straightened the covers, told me "At least he's not in any pain".

Whoever had woken him had put a CD on for him - the one I'd put in the machine three days previously. Opera arias and famous pieces of music. At one point Handel's Messiah was ringing in my ears... "For the lord God omnipotent reigneth. Hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah. The kingdom of this world; is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of His Christ and of His Christ. And He shall reign for ever and ever And he shall reign forever and ever And he shall reign forever and ever And he shall reign forever and ever"... oh yeah? Really? Really? And is that omnipotent God looking down on this shrivelled, skeletal, rotting man, a man who did very little harm, and thinking "You know, I think I'll let him stay like that a bit longer". Fuck off. Fuck right off. As Jim Royle would have it "Omnipotent my arse".

I really hope, though, that the last exchange I have with him is not "Pardon!", "Beg pardon". Now, that would be ironic. What a metaphor for our relationship, how appropriate that a stitled, pointlessly polite formality would be the last things we understand of each other.

See you tomorrow Dad. Maybe. Hopefully. Or do I mean hopefully not. Do I want him to go on like this? It seems unlikely that he's going to get substantially better, better enough to be able to have any quality of life. So maybe, maybe I mean hopefully not. Maybe I'm at the point of the man I met all those months ago who was hoping for his mother's death, hopefully waiting like an expectant father. I think it's time to tell my brother and sister.

28th September 2008 - Wafer paper Dad

2008-09-29T08:04:00.006+01:00

He's so frail. He's so thin. So tiny and so very papery wafery flimsy. One of the staff - Amy - was asking about what 'the family' wanted at 'the time'. I've filled in all this paperwork, I know I have. I'm sure I remember asking Moira and Colin what they wanted, and what they thought Dad would want.

Why is she asking again now? Is that a sign that they think 'something' is going to happen?

August 2008

2008-09-06T08:15:00.004+01:00

There's nothing to say. I've run out of energy. I can't muster a cheery hello when I go in to see him any more. Sometimes I even forget to talk to him, just sit beside him and talk to the staff. How must that feel for him - completely ignored even by his visitor. If he knows I'm his visitor. He does recognise me as being someone he should know, but who he thinks I am is anyone's guess.

My admiration for the staff just gets more and more. I know I complain about some of them and their apparent lack of respect for the residents, but I know it's a job I could never do, I know that for every resident there is a type of caring ( and carer ) that is just right, and that they are ( mostly ) deeply decent people. There are very few other jobs where the staff would attend events, give up their spare time, volunteer for extra duties and all for minimum wage.

22nd July 2008 - I'm building an ark

2008-09-06T07:53:00.003+01:00

I know it's a national obsession - complaining about the weather - but holy mother am I sick of the rain. I can't remember a day when it didn't rain. The kids are on holiday from school and I ran out of indoor things to do in the first week and patience with childrens TV the second week.

I'd planned - too - to take Dad out in a chair when the summer was here. Just round the gardens, or down the road for a tea, or something, anything, to get him out of the home, get some fresh air. But I can't in the rain.

Ellie's rebelling against going in to see Dad. Mark has, for a long time now, been uncomfortable with it, but Ellie's been ok really up until now. She's always been scared of a couple of the residents but, mostly, if I brought he a sweetie and some colouring pens and books, she was fine. She's more aware now, she's getting some understanding of the lives of the residents, how bleak it is and how sad. She knows that when we are not there her grandad just wanders about and sleeps where he stops, only to wake to wander again until someone takes him to get fed, or changed. She knows he doesn't make sense.

So, I'm not seeing much of Dad over this god awful summer. I'm only managing to see him two or three times a week. He doesn't seem to mind. I can't remember the last time he called me by my name, or the last time we had an exchange that lasted past the initial serve and return. He never serves, and his return is often nonsensical. If I do bat it back, he can't follow, just ignores it. I hope he's not aware. I'm sure he's not aware, not all of the time - but I know he does still get flashes of clarity - I can see it in his face, moments when he knows what's happening, where he is and why. He's scared, he's lonely, he's bored and miserable. And it's fucking raining.

7th July 2008 - The Lion, the Witch and the Whatnow?

2008-07-10T17:38:00.002+01:00

I'd taken the kids to see Prince Caspian, a film adaptation of part of the C.S. Lewis Narnia series of books. Dad had been aware of these books - my sister had been a voracious reader growing up and I'm pretty sure he'd have remembered them. He didn't seem to be able to grasp the idea of cinema. I called it the films, the pictures, the Odeon, everything I could to try and convey where we'd been. But he wasn't having it, he couldn't get the idea.

"Prince Crisp Ian?" he repeated and looked hopefully for approval, searching my face to see if he'd managed to grasp it, to get it, to successfully navigate through to a conversational exchange. I nodded at him, unwilling to actually speak the lie that he'd understood. His face brightened a bit and he volunteered "Crisp toast. Ian Carmichael." and wheezily chuckled himself to a nap.

In Prince Crisp Ian there were scenes of the evacuation of children in the Second World War. Dad had been evacuated, with his brother and sister, to Dollar - a little town in Fife. I tried to imagine how that must have been. Your father away at war, you were taken from your mother, put on a train and shipped off to a place you'd never been, to live with people you'd never met, for an unspecified length of time. Can you imagine the outrage if that was attempted today? Is it any wonder the man has emotional intimacy issues? Is it any wonder this man, who had been an unhealthy invalid child for much of his youth, unable because of his chronic asthma to run about outside with other children and ostracised by classmates for his skin condition, would grow up to be incapable of showing warmth, or communicating his feelings? Poor Dad. A product of his upbringing like everyone else. I stroked his face when he slept and he smiled.

21st June 2008 - Primary 7 blues

2008-07-10T17:36:00.002+01:00

It's Mark's final year at primary school. Dad wasn't for being told about this turning point in his oldest grandson's life. The looked through me when I was talking about it, and fell asleep when I was trying to include him in my outrage at my latest bugbear. So, I'm gonna rant here as no bugger else ants to hear me, or rather everyone else I know has already listened to me and thinks I'm mountain making.

The school that he goes to - in common with many others - makes a really big deal about being a P7 and the transition to secondary school. The kids are given more responsibility during the year, they are given more freedom and at the end of the year they have visits to the secondary school they will attend. It's very well thought through, and considered, to help the transition be as smooth as possible. At his school they also stage a musical show and have a 'qually'.

I've had many arguments about the qually. Not with Mark. He's always been very clear, he wanted to wear a tux, he wanted to take Rebecca and he didn't want to dance. Unfortunately Rebecca didn't want to go with him. She didn't tell him right away though, she said maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Right up until Stuart Black asked her, when she said yes to Stuart and no to Mark. I wanted to kill her. I saw Stuart and Rebecca at the shopping mall a few days after she told Mark she wasn't going to go with him. I had to be reminded she was a 12 year old girl and my withering scorn might be neither appropriate nor entirely appreciated.

So, anyway, the arguments have been with friends and aquaintances about the fuss about the dance. In some cases parents hire limousines to deliver their pre-teen child to the event, host after parties, hire photographers, allow hair extensions, fake tan applications and acrylic nails. I heard of two girls whose parents allowed them to take the day off school to go and have their fake tan and nails applied.
What kind of message is being sent to these children? How important is school? How important is appearance? As a society we bang on about children wanting too much, not being children for long enough but on the other hand we give little girls Barbie dolls, Bratz and have bikinis for babies.

I don't want my pre-teen son, and in a few years my daughter, to be facing the disappointment of rejection. Equally I don't want them to be the person who is causing that feeling in someone else. I don't want them to be concerned about who is wearing what or going with whom. I don't want them to care about what they look like. I know I'm swimming against the tide, I know I'm not consistent and give into pressure on all sorts of other things, but it really pisses me off. And it pisses me off even more when I realise that I sound like a Grumpy Old Woman. But I am. Grumpy. Old. And a woman. Harrrrumph!

15th June 2008 - Father's Day and MoonWalk

2008-06-16T17:23:00.003+01:00

I did the Edinburgh Half Moon walk so I was very tired. The worst thing about the walk is the time. It would be a dawdle - literally - to do it in the day, but at midnight it totally knackers your body clock for a couple of days. Fathers Day was on the sunday of the walk and I could have not visited but I felt bad, so in I dragged my weary carcass on it's blistered feet.

Dad was sleeping when I went in and he found it difficult to stay awake for long. He didn't seem to be able to grasp the idea of Father's Day, he didn't know what to do with his cards or his present.

One of the more recent residents was being very difficult today. Francine took the brunt of it. He wanted a cigarette, but there was no staff available to take him for one. They seems to be short staffed again because it was only Francine doing the teas and coffees, with no-one else around. She'd reached the horseshoe of chairs that sleeping Dad and I were in and was blocking the open end with the trolley as she dished out the hot drinks. She was - reasonably politely - telling Bobby that he'd have to "wait the noo fur yer fag, pal, I'm short staffed here and this lot are wantin' their cuppa. Onyweys, it's no like yer going onywhere is it. You sit still and I'll git you a wee coffee fur tae huv wi' yer fag". I think that might have been what set him off - I don't think he saw the broad wink she gave me as she said this, or heard the gasping chortled whisper "Like he's go a buckin' choice in his buckin' chair" to me - I think it was the fact that he didn't have the bucking choice as he was stuck in his bucking wheelchair and stuck in the home. He needs a lot of care, but his mind is still pretty much there. He's in hell. His speech is not good, he finds it difficult to communicate, but he wants out of the home. He wants out of the home and at that particular moment, if he couldn't get out of the home, he wanted to have a fag. He rolled himself over to the trolley and started to try and tip it over. Francine struggled with him and he turned his attentions to pulling at her. She started to shout at him to let go. One of the other mobile residents got up to help - as I had - I couldn't get past her as she'd managed to manouevre the trolley to completely block the exit from the horseshoe of chairs. Bobby was screaming and screaming at Francine. Not words just "Aaaarrgghh" - comicbook screams. The old lady that was try to help Francine was pulling the trolley in such a way that it was about to tip all over her, so I managed to get her to sit, hemmed her in with a table on wheels, a tea and a pink wafer - that most sought after and effective of sops - and sped off to look for help. I shouted up and down the corridors as I ran looking for anyone to help. Eventually Candy came out of one of the toilets with Cecily, who is also very demanding, and asked me what the hell was the matter. I told her than Francine really needed help in the dayroom and she went to help. She released Bobby's grasp from Francine's arm and rolled him into the visitors room. The door opens inwards there and he can't get out. Hiatus over, Francine returned to teas. "Wit can ye dae, the pair bugger disnae want tae be here - and can ye blame him? Widnae want tae be here maesel. But it's no tha' though, I cannae huv tha'. I didnae git paid if am aff, and the sick pay disnae go far. I cannae afford tae huv the likes of him puttin' me aff ma wurk." I said that I'd never seen him like that before and she throws "That's cos your no here Jeannie, that's cos you dinnae come in every day likes ye used to. Not that I'm critising, likes, but it's been noticed , like, that yer no in as much. Yer Da's noticed tae, but that's no fur me tae say".

As I'm leaving I pass the visitors room, where Bobby is still screaming and ramming his chair against the door, frustratedly trying to get out or get attention, or get his fag. At the door Candy catches me, "Didnae you mind Francine - she was gist shaken - ye dae fine by yer Da. He disnae really notice yer no in as much. She's just lashing oot at someone and you got it this time. She feels fur the poor auld bugger. We cannae git him shiftit. The paperwurk we huv tae fill in tae git his social worker tae see he's in the wrang place is unbefuckinglievable. Her hearts in the right place though. It's just her wey uv dealing wi it aw." She tousles my hair from her 6ft 1inch vantage as I leave "You dae yer Da fine". She's 19. I'm 44 and feel even smaller than my 5ft 3inches - how did she get so smart so young?

11st May 2008 - Can't see the 'arm in it

2008-05-11T16:02:00.002+01:00

Today, Dad couldn't see me. Or at least, he couldn't see all of me. He could hear me, but all he seemed to be able to see of me was my right arm. He was very agitated because he could hear me speaking but not see me, just an arm. I tried to make him see me, I faced him, I moved back and forth but he just watched my arm apparently float around to the sound of my voice. He got more and more agitated and I had to leave.

As I left the day room I looked round at all the other residents - I was the only visitor in at that time - and each was in their seperate bubble of madness.

What can have been going on in his head? How frightening must that have been?

I met Karen and asked her to talk to him for a bit and say that he was agitated, but when I led her through to where he was sitting, he was asleep and peaceful.

Later when I phoned to check how he'd been, he had had a good day, eaten all his evening meal and played with the balloons in the early evening. The brain is an incredible thing. Incredible awesome and terrifying. I think I may pickle a bit more of mine right now. Cheers Dad.

1st May 2008 - Strap-on

2008-05-10T06:39:00.002+01:00

I took Dad for his mobile ECG appointment today. I took my own car, borrowed a wheelchair and the whole experience - although not pleasant - was much less harrowing than the previous hospital visit.

When we got back to the home Francine met up. "Hey, that you got yer strap-on then Jimmy - eh?" she screeched at Dad then over to Sal "Hey, Sal, I sed is that Jimmy wi' his strap-on, eh Sal? He'll git a lumber nae bother wi' a strap-on eh?". Sal cackled breathlessly as she tried to lift Nan into a chair "Dinnae make me laff Frankie, Uve got tae git aw these tae the shitter before lunch and Uve no hud a break. Um gaspin' oan a fag and ma feet ur killin' me. Uve no goat time fur laughin'. A strap-on. Frankie yer a scream. Hang oan there Nan, I'll go an' tell that yin tae hoosekeepin' Mags, she'll piss hersel" and she left Nan in the chair while she lumbered away to find Mags.

I tell Francine about what's to happen with the ECG machine and the diary that's to be kept to monitor what happens when in his day - to allow any fluctuations in his heart rate to be compared with what was happening in his day. She nods and "aye's" in all the right places but I can see in her eyes she's thinking it's pointless. Perhaps it is.

When I returned the following day to remove the machine, collect the diary and return them both to the hospital, the diary was empty. "Gist tell 'em Nothing of Note. He wiz neither up nor doon wi' it". No, but surely noting down when he ate, when he slept, when he toileted or was given medication might have been useful? So it was rendered pointless.

20th April 2008 - Watching my Mum grow up

2008-05-10T06:38:00.004+01:00

My daughter Ellie looks really like her Dad, Sean. Every time I used to catch them looking at the TV sitting beside each other or doing a puzzle or game together, I'd be struck by how much they were alike, how much my daughter looked like her father. Which was great. My much loved daughter looked like my much loved husband. Cushtie.

Then, one fateful day, I looked across at daughter, seated beside Sean, watching TV. And there was Ellie. My daughter. But it wasn't my daughter, it was a mini-Mary. A mini-my-Mum. My daughter looked like a little four year old version of my mother. Then I looked at Sean. And it hit me. Like a shovel. Like stepping on a rake in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Like a big wet stingy kipper in the face. I had married my mother. I rushed to the photo of her that I keep in the hall and checked my rememberance of her. Yup. Ringers. Bloody hell. Who knew? I kept the information to myself for ages. I was almost ashamed, I certainly felt foolish - how could I not have noticed before that Sean looked so like my Mum? What a cliche too, there I was thinking I was controlling my actions but in reality I was hotwired by conditioning and genetics. Eventually I told Sean and he told me not to worry about it, I looked like his Mum too.

Ever since my blinding revelation I am struck by the likeness. Half glimpses of my Mum, when I'm just moving focus to or from Ellie. It's astounding how similar they can look. I wonder if my Mum ran about like Ellie. Did she sing at the top of her voice songs she didn't know - Ellie's "Dancing Queen" - "feel the beat in a tangerine" and "You can dance, you can ji-high, having the tie mory live" - did Mum do that. Sing like no-one is listening, dance like no-one is watching and don't give a fuck if they are. I love that about Ellie, about all kids pre-school. Before they get self conscious, before they care that people will laugh, before they know that people will laugh. I love the way she'll chat to herself, or watch how she looks when she's crying or try and catch her sleeping face in the mirror. Did my Mum do all those things, before her Mum let her down, before she twisted her and hurt her. Before her Dad let her down, before he twisted and hurt her. Before her dirty old man, old John, before he hurt her, before she knew what he did was wrong. I don't know what's worse, the thought that she was like Ellie and all that was snuffed out, or that she was never carefree, never unhampered, never untrammelled. Her mother had never wanted her, never loved the man who she was married to - who wasn't my Mum's father - and had never shown her any love, any warmth, affection or kindness. Mum had never been shown these, and in turn did not know how to show them.

I hope, with everything I have, that I don't do to my children what my grandmother did to my mother, and what my mother did to me. I hope I'll never have to step up to protect my child the way they were asked to in their time. My grandmother did try to protect my mother from Old John but my mother was, by that time, so damaged that the nice things and kind words he gave her for her silence where more valuable than the favours she gave him. My mother didn't try to protect me from my 'Old John'. She told me she didn't believe me, that if I persisted in my lies I'd break up the family, that my siblings would be put in care because of my wickedness, and that no-one would love me. I hope I never have to, but I know I'd do better.

Maybe, if Ellie is happy and fulfills some of her happy dreams, reaches any of the peaks of her potental, maybe I'll feel like I'm laying down some of my mothers ghosts, making amends for the horrors of her childhood. Poor Mum, she didn't stand a chance.

I love you Mum.

11th April 2008 - The longest day

2008-04-11T16:08:00.005+01:00

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

5th March 2008 - Parkinsons

2008-03-19T20:46:00.002Z

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.

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

2008-03-01T22:45:00.004Z

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

2008-03-01T22:44:00.005Z

"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".

24th February 2008 - House of the flying tables

2008-02-24T20:20:00.004Z

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

2008-02-18T19:53:00.004Z

"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

2008-02-14T19:00:00.003Z

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

2008-02-14T09:38:00.004Z

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

2008-02-03T20:04:00.002Z

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

2008-02-03T20:02:00.003Z

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?"

27th January 2008 - Gwyneth is gone

2008-01-27T18:29:00.002Z

Gwyneth is dead. I know that I didn't really predict her death - I know that it's merely a coincidence that I thought "Gwyneth will be next" and she was. I know that statistically I would eventually be right. But it's a weird feeling.

I would really like to go to her funeral - when did I get to be the person who would genuinely say they'd like to go to a funeral - but it's my last day at work and I won't be able to.

I'll send James a sympathy card. Sympathy cards are weird things. What does the bereaved person do with them I wonder - do they display them like birthday cards, do they read them even?

20th January 2008 - Ellie's 4th birthday

2008-01-27T18:20:00.003Z

Went to see Dad in the morning. It was Ellie's birthday and a few rellies were coming to the house to see her, eat party food and drop off pressies. She'd opened all her presents from us in the morning and was duly unimpressed with each and every one of them, in the way that only young children can be - hugely enthused with "the best thing ever" one second, then the next completely oblivious to it.

When I went it I noticed that it was quiet, and had that feeling you get when there's something missing, something you can't quite put your finger on. Dad was ok, he seemed in reasonable spirits and not in any discomfort. I sat beside him but we weren't really conversing, he couldn't communicate, couldn't find the right words and knew he wasn't making sense, so he stopped. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. Looking round I noticed Annie's chair was empty. One of the housekeepers came hoovering past me and stopped to chat. Annie was dead. She'd gone the night before. But she told me Donald had died too - and then I noticed his chair wasn't empty but it was being sat in by someone else - it was that that had been niggling at me, that had been the itch I couldn't scratch. Donald wasn't there, his chair was being sat in by Tam. Donald was dead. My thoughts raced to Susie. Busy, bustling Susie. Friendly, cheery, devoted Susie. I remember when he first started living in the home. He was mobile then and could talk. He fell on the floor beside me once and I tried to help him into his chair. I struggled and struggled but couldn't lift him. He got so upset when Susie left - he thought she'd left him and wouldn't be coming back. Every day, every time she left, he'd weep like his heart was breaking, wailing for her. And she clearly adored him. Even once he couldn't walk, and couldn't talk, she'd be there every day - fedding him, chatting to him, massaging his hands and bustling.

Gwyneth will be next I thought - and caught myself doing it - why did I think that, what a thing to think! I looked over and she's still there, still twisted in her chair.

Amy toddled past, in a foul mood, cup of tea drooping in one hand. "I dinnae ken wit yer buckin' staring at, ye glakiit big lump" she said to me "Can you no away and dae sumthin useful like make me a cup of tea or fuck off" and she shook the tea cup at me. "Sure Amy, no problem" I said as I, rising, kissed my sleeping Dad. I took the cup and made her a tea. She was no where to be seen when I came back, so I went looking. She was in the quiet room when I brought her the tea "Oh, thanks luv. That's awfy kind of ye. Yer a good lass, I'll no hear a wurd against ye". As I walked away she shouted after me "Are there no buckin' biscuits in this shitehole now or are you just to buckin' stupit tae find them?". Ho hum.

17th January 2008 - Is it Noro or novo ?

2008-01-17T18:49:00.001Z

Well? Which is it? If you google either you'll get information about puke and diaorrhea.

I think it must be Norovirus because there are more hits for Noro than novo.

Apologies, then, for my past two posts - but you'll have got the jist - or is that the gyst.

The home phoned yesterday to let me know Dad had 'sat on an invisible chair' again and had been found on the floor. No-one saw him fall. Did he make a noise?

One of these days he's going to break something falling, a hip or a leg. Poor old soul - I hope someone notices and he doesn't try and walk on a broken bone. Why can't they have CCTV in the shared areas of homes? Even just from a security point of view - wouldn't it be better to know that any bullying by staff or by residents would be recorded. It would be safer for staff and a comfort for relatives.

I feel a suggestion to the management coming on..... now to think of the reasons they'll come up with why it's impossible and have some counter arguments up my metaphorical sleeve.

14th January 2008 - Novovirus 2

2008-01-14T13:02:00.000Z

I went to see him yesterday. Ellie had been very sick on the Friday night - the day I'd been in to see him. We'd had plans for the Saturday and Sunday but they'd all unraveled as she needed to be kept away from other people and to be coddled a bit.

When I went it I was met by big signs alerting visitors to infection control measured being in place, and my hands were duly squirted with antibacterial wash. The day room was virtually empty. Each of the residents that had been ill and who could be kept quarantined, was. Some of them it's impossible to quarantine because they wander and short of locking them in their rooms, which is distressing for them, or restraining them, which is illegal, or sedating them, which is ineffective in the case of projectile vomiting and diarrhea, there's nothing that can be done. Ina - who was one of the worst affected - was wandering but she was over the worst of it.

Dad was very grumpy. He'd been unaffected by the virus because he'd been in bed after his turn when the chaos was happening. He didn't know who I was - even after I called him Dad there was no recognition in his face. He was irritated by me sitting beside him looking at him and got up to go. I asked him where he was going "to the Cemetery" he replied. He wandered off towards a member of staff, with me trailing along behind trying to get him to come and sit down. She persuaded him I was a visitor for him, his daughter, and although he didn't seem convinced he came and sat beside me. When I spoke he looked beside me, making eye contact with an invisible someone and nodding at there conversationm unresponsive to mine. I brought a newspaper, made him a cup of tea and started to tell him about the football of the previous day. He lifted one of the lighter supplements and tried to drink it. He wouldn't be told that it was a newspaper, that his tea was beside him on the table. His face was blackening with newsprint. I took the paper away and lifted the mug into his hand - but as he didn't seem to have any notion that it contained liquid that he was about to spill in his lap I tried to take it away again. He wouldn't give it up but he wouldn't hold it straight. Impasse. I went to get one of those table that you can push under a chair - they are often used to pen someone into their chair if they are likely to get up but shouldn't. I pushed it in and his arm down to rest the cup.

He fell asleep tired of me and my strange tea ceremony. I left. Later that night I started to feel a little unwell. Much later I was crouched, holding my hair out of the way in one hand and cuddling the porcelain with the other. Much later I was lying on the bathroom floor, too tired and drained to move, my ribs aching from the force of wretching, my throat sore and the prospect of diaorrhea to come looming large in my mind. I snuggled under the bath mat and thought of those poor souls in the home who must have felt like this, but without the knowledge of what was happening, without the comfort of knowing it wouldn't last for ever. And my wee girl, she must have felt her stomach cramping like this. Wee scone. I lay and hoped that Mark didn't get it - or Sean. So I got up and started disinfecting every surface I might have touched - in between doubling up and retching that is.

God I hate being ill. What's the point of being off sick from your work if you actually are sick? It sucks. You can't even cheer yourself up with a jam doughnut or a theraputic bacon roll. I could never have been bulimic. I really hate being sick. It's raining, Ellie's off too so I'm stuck in CBeebies hell without the lifeline of tea and biscuits. Woe. In the Night Garden is on. It's one of my least favourite. I eventually warmed to the Teletubies, but Igglypiggle, Maccapacca and the gang really really get on my tits. Woe woe woe.

11th January 2008 - Novovirus

2008-01-12T08:04:00.001Z

I'd just been reading on the BBC website that the average life expectancy after diagnosis of a dementia sufferer is 'only four and a half years'. I was feeling vaguely guilty for reading the article - both because I was at work and because of the mixed reaction I had. Dad's diagnosis was almost 4 years ago. I wondered about the use of the word 'only' in the article - why 'only' four and a half year? Yesterday there had been an article about some wonderdrug that could reverse the effects of Alzheimers. But Dad doesn't have Alzheimers, I reminded myself. His dementia is different.

Just as I had finished reading and wandering down and back up my various tangents of thought that it sprung forth in my head, my mobile rang. My phone never rings. So infrequently does it ring that I'm never sure it's mine because I'm not familiar with the ringtone. I'm one of those dozy women you see in the supermarket, holding her handbag to her ear and going "Is that mine is it?" then scrabbling amongst the tissue fluff and crusty unidentifiables to see the "1 missed call". But today it was sitting beside me on my desk, illumiating the name of the home and playing it's unfamiliar tune. When I answered it, it was Karen. Karen's lovely. She really cares about Dad and knows him well. She seems genuinely fond of him and even if that is an act, at least she puts that act on. She told me that Dad had fainted. The doctor had seen him and was happy that's all it was, but Dad was in his bed and I should be told. It was just after 4, so I could leave work without comment. The home is on the way to the day nursery were Ellie miserably spends her Monday's and Friday's before telling me "I wish you didn't work Mum, and could be with me. I hate my new nursery, I've no friends and it makes me sad" - no pressure there then. Anyway, I told Karen I'd be in in 20 minutes and left work.

When I got to the home, and opened the door into the foyer shared by Dad's unit and the unit below his ( it's a two storey building ) the smell was almost palpable. It hit you in the face, in the eyes, in the back of the throat. "Jesus, someone's not well in the downstairs unit" I thought and opened the combination door into the inner foyer that leads only to Dad's unit. The smell didn't disappear, but I assumed it had just wafted in with me. As I climbed the stairs, though, the smell was strengthening. My eyes were watering and I was starting to gag. Through two more doors and I was inside. Retching. Staff were flurrying about, either ashen faced or red and blustery, all either donning or removing disposable plastic aprons and rubber gloves. "It's Ina this time Mags, in toilet 4 - all up the walls an aw. And Preti's needs help wi Tam, he's barfed over Agnes and she's no happy" said Francine as she scuttled past "Hi there Jeanie, it's a nice place in here today eh? 20 out of the 40 of them huv that novotel virus - puke and shite everywhere and I think I'm coming oot in sympathy oany minute".

I have a friend who's child has always produced - regardless of food input - the worst smelling wind and excrement I have ever encountered. The child's seemingly angelic face masks a body that manufactures noxious poison. Once, when tasked with baby sitting, I needed to change a nappy. At first whiff I thought I'd put it off - her mother would be back in 20 minutes after all. But it worsened, and there was no way I could suggest I hadn't noticed when she came back. Indeed when the mother herself did come back, with the offending article disposed of outside, the windows opened and the air artificially freshened, she was still incredulous as the strench. So, change the nappy I did - I gagged, I retched, I held my breath and at the time I thought I'd smelled the worst smell I'd ever smell.

I was wrong. Each resident that I passed seemed to bring a fresh onslaught of smell. The incontinence pad is not particularly effective in hiding the smell of pee, but at least it copes with the pee itself, it absorbs it and stops it from escaping. The incontinence pad is not designed to cope with diaorrhea. Especially not diaorrhea that is projected. I only saw one resident have an episode but it would appear that the bouts of diaorrhea are accompanied by a stomach spasm, and a huge burst of gas then projects it out of the body. No inconitence pad is a match for that. It requires an immediate shower and change of everything from the waist down.

It really was like a battle ground. The residents didn't understand what was happening to them, some were embarassed at sitting in their own excrement, some were trying to examine it, some were trying to get to the loo and some, like poor Agnes, where sitting unable to move as the person next to them threw up. It must be very frightening, very bewildering.

Dad's room was a welcoming haven to me that I doubt he's ever felt it was to him. He was lying in bed, securely tucked in. The room was dark and his TV was on. He was sleeping, grey in the face, small and frail looking. I pulled up a footstool to his bedside and sat down. It didn't really register to me that I'd put the chair on the pressure mat, and although I noticed the light on the alarm on the wall, I didn't connect it with my actions. Dad woke. I spoke to him but when he spoke he wasn't coherent - he made no words, just noises. He slept. I was thinking of leaving when he woke again. He realised someone was in the room, that it was a visitor, for him. He roused himself a bit and managed to say a few words. I quietened the TV and tried to understand him before giving up and asking him how he was feeling. He tried to tell me, but looking at him was more information than any words he managed to give me. Karen came in to cancel the alarm my chair had set off and told me more direct information. She said he was looking a lot brighter, and I wondered how bad he must have looked before. She left. Dad's eyelids drooped, almost closed and his eyes rolled from side to side underneath them. I had a huge sensation of deja vu - we've been in that room after he's fainted before and his eyes have typewritered back and forth under his lids.

"What time is it?" he asked. I was surprised he managed to ask. "It's almost five Dad" I replied. He expressed surprise. "If you ask them, they might make you a cup of tea" he said. "Not for me Dad, they're very busy out there and anyway I can't really stay, I need to pick up the kids and get home and make the tea" I started to tumble out excuses, any reason to avoid going back to those smells and sights. "I meant for me" he interrupted. It was the most coherent back and forth interaction of conversation we'd had in weeks. He had said something, I replied, he understood, he understood and followed on, I replied and he understood, corrected and made his meaning clear. I was really pleased. "Sorry, Dad. I'll make you a cuppa, don't worry. You stay here" I said redundantly "and I'll be back in two ticks".

A deep breath, and I lunged through to the kitchen, made tea and tried not to breath.

Dad drank his tea with alarming speed considering the temperature of the liquid, but he seemed to enjoy it. His lucidity had left him, though, he was back in his fug. "Cheese, cheeser, cheesly. Carmon isn't it? Or actually, point of fact, it's chchchonber."

I left soon after, with a kiss to his cheek and a promise to visit tomorrow. When I pick up Ellie she's pleased to see me and cuddles me loads. We go to pick up Mark. We go to M&S to order a birthday cake for Ellie's 4th birthday which is coming up. And we go home.

A few hours later, I hear Ellie shouting from her bed. When I go in I smell a familiar smell and see she's surrounding by piles of puke. Hopefully she'll not get diaorrhea too. As I calm her and clean her and tell her not to worry, my mind races ahead to mentally cancel the following couple of days events, replanning the weekend to ensure we don't carry infection to anyone. At least she'll be through it by her birthday. She'll be better by then. Should I stay away from Dad tomorrow I wonder? He's already surrounded by some kind of vomiting bug, if it's the same one surely it won't harm if I go in? But if it's not the same bug will I make things worse? Or am I just looking for an excuse not to go back in?

9th January 2008 - What me, with my reputation?

2008-01-12T08:03:00.001Z

I don't often go in to visit in the evening but I did today. I knew I had a busy weekend coming up - there was a family do in Sean's lot that we'd have to go to, ballet for Ellie, shopping for a variety of birthday gifts, and all the usual preschool, prework preparations - washing, ironing, housework crap. So, anyway, I thought it was unlikely that I'd make it in both Saturday and Sunday so I thought I'd better see him when I could.

It was odd seeing some of the residents in their bed things. It can't have been Dad's bath day because he was still fully clad and wearing, not only his clothes but clues to the day's menu on his shirt and trousers. He's taken to wiping his nose on his hand and then his clothes, so his shirt was encrusted with all manner of stains.
Lily was bathed and glisteningly clean. All wrapped up in a pink fluffy spotty housecoat. Amy too, in equally fluffy lilac. All new, christmas pressie pyjamas and dressing gowns.

Dad was surprised to see me. I thought his surprise was down to the lateness of my visit but no - "What are you doing here in this house of ill repute? There are half dressed women here - have you turned to that now?"

We sat down, and I tried to ask him about his day, his dinner, his feelings, tried to tell him of my day - but the noise was defeating us. The sundowners had arrived - and that's not a tray of cocktails but a term to describe the behavioural pattern that the demented show of becoming increasingly vocal as the sun goes down. The new lady was shouting "Wee Colin, away oot to play. Yer mammy's no weel. Git tae Mrs Munro's, she'll gie ye yer tea. Wee Colin. Wee Colin. Wee Colin. Mrs Munro, Mrs Munro, Mrs Munro. She's a guid wummin. Clean house. Mrs Munro. Mrs Munro. She's got the sausages".

Dad piped up at this point "Sausages. Yes, they were nice".

"Wee Colin. Yer mammy's no weel".

Bertha joined in "Mammy's deid. She deid. Da! Mammy's deid" over and over.

Lily screeches "Aaggghhh. You shut the fuck up you - she's naw deid. You wait 'til I git there, I'll show you whos deid" and sets off to thump Bertha. She's using her zimmer and it'll take her ages to get that far - she'll probably forget why she's going before she gets there, so the staff just let her.

All round the day room, people are shouting, dressed in their new nightwear, showered, bathed, powdered and soaped or in their dayclothes, crispy with the fallout of the day.

Karen is sitting, trying to finish her paperwork, completing all the handover documentation for the incoming shift. She's totally focussed. Doesn't flinch no matter how loud they get, doesn't register even the loudest shreik or yelp. Doesn't even look up. Occasionally she'll warn "Out of the kitchen Mabel!" or "Not on the floor Tam!" or "Keep the curtains shut Cammy" without even looking up.

4th January 2008 - Snow! Yes it is.

2008-01-12T08:01:00.001Z

It snowed a lot today. I managed to get in to see him because Sean was still off work with the kids, while I was working. I kept getting regular texts during the day about the snow and how they were playing in it. I was jealous. I love snow. Ellie was making snow angels, Mark making snowmen and pelting Sean with snow balls and Sean was defending himself in between giving sledge rides. They went to the park and bumped into a friend of mine and her son and had a lovely time.

"Did you see the snow Dad?"

"What snow?"

"The snow outside, it's been snowing. Sean and the kids having been playing in the park all afternoon - they've had a lovely time. Look outside Dad. It looks lovely - especially when you're all cosy inside - have a look"

"What snow?"

"The snow, outside, on the trees, over the cars and hills"

"What snow?"

I point out the window "Look, it's still snowing. It's just a flurry now but it was heavy earlier on, heavy enough to lie".

"What snow?"

"See, Dad, look out the window. See the snow, look how pretty it is."

"What snow?"

A penny drops with a clang - "It's frozen rain."

"Aaah. Sounds cold".

1st January 2008 - Happy New Year

2008-01-02T22:07:00.000Z

Linda caught me as I went in today. She wanted to know if I'd noticed how confused my Dad was lately. D'uh! Really?! She said they'd noticed a change in his personality. I had seen, lately, that he seemed to be hallucinating a lot, that often he'd try and pick up a cup that wasn't there and ignore the one that was - even manage to drink invisible tea from the imaginery cup and leave the real one. Linda said this is happening at meal times too, that he'll just stare at the food apparently unaware that it's there or unaware that he's supposed to eat it. I'd always assumed that hunger would drive him to eat, but I've read since that the brain signals that should be telling him he's hungry can get misinterpreted too.

"He's awfy stubborn, not like hesel at all. I wiz trying tae feed him his brekkie the morn and he wisnae huvin ony of it. Right bloodyminded if you dinnae mind me tellin ye" said Linda. I didn't mind. But, in truth, Dad's always been stubborn. When he was himself he was incredibly stubborn. It's only really since he was ill that he's been more maleable, more pliable, more willing to do stuff.

I sat beside him and tried to wake him. He kept almost waking but then falling back to sleep. I stayed for another 20 miutes and was just about to give up trying to rouse him, when the noise of the tea trolley woke him. I wished him a happy new year. He said "Happy? What's happy about it? Happy if it's my last. New year's resolution - not to see another". And then he said "Filled rolls. Disgusting. Will you work with hemp?"

25th December 2007 Happy Christmas

2007-12-31T17:51:00.000Z

I visited Dad this morning. I took him in his present - it was a new electric shaver. He didn't seem to know it was Christmas, he didn't know how to unwrap his present, nor what it was for. I went and put it in his room because quite often things won't make it that far, he'll not realise there his or someone else will take a liking to them and they'll disappear. His room was unlocked, which is unusual. He had one card - from the home. I wonder where my card and the cards from Ellie and Max ended up. I wonder if no-one else sent him a card.
When I got back he was sleeping again. I woke him and stayed for a while longer. It seemed wrong to leave but it seemed pointless staying. The new lady was shouting "£20 for a bacon roll and a cup of tea - that's day light robbery. They are stealing rainbows you know - can keep all but the blue for me. Bastards eh? Smoked salmon pasties? That's outrageous! Smoked salmon? Smells like fanny and I'm no eating that fur naebudy." I kiss Dad's forehead and tell him to enjoy his Christmas dinner and the rest of his day.

We went to Sean's sisters for Christmas dinner and stayed over. His cousin and her family where there too, so the kids had a good time, I get on with his cousin, she's lovely and although I don't really know him, her husband seems great too, so that blunted the rest. Someone asked how he was, when I tell them they say "Well, at least he doesn't know where he is, that's some comfort" but I don't listen I just want them to stop talking, stop talking about him and spouting platitudes. There's nothing anyone can say that's going to make it better, that's going to help, that isn't going to make me feel worse, worse for him, worse about me, just worse.

The following evening Dad's brother called to say their sister had died on Christmas day. She lived in Australia, had dementia and had been in a home almost exactly the same length of time Dad has. I wonder how that makes my Uncle feel, with both siblings demented. Scary.

I can't decide whether to tell Dad or not.

21st December 2007 - Full Moon

2007-12-24T07:39:00.001Z

It is getting near full moon time. I can't think why the phases of the moon should affect the demented. But they do. I can't imagine what kind of science is to blame, what kind of magnetic force or gravitational pull - but something goes on. Bertha, Lilly, Tommy, new lady that looks like YoungMrGrace - they all were louping. Shouting, cursing, screaming at each other, railing at life, climbing the walls. I could hear them before I got there - I could hear them from the moment I left the car in the car park. I hope I never hear a worse noise.

17th December 2007 - I could have danced all night

2007-12-17T22:18:00.000Z

It was the Christmas party today. The entertainer was an accordionist and he was really good. Not just at his instrument but in the mix he played. He played carols, Christmas tunes, Scottish ballads and Scottish country dance songs. Everyone laughed and clapped, and 'heuched' along.

Lily started the dancing. At the first skirl of the accordion - or whatever the hell noise they make is called - she was off. Dancing with her zimmer with an incredibly alarming ferocity and determination. Everyone clapped along with her. Cecily's son got up and danced with her. Through various tunes the staff got all the residents that were able up to dance. Dad refused. I've never known my Dad to dance. Cecily's son danced with the staff too, he was a really good country dancer.

One of the staff was working her way around the walls to administer each residents medication. She gave Dad his inhalers but when she tried to give him his painkillers she dropped one on the floor. I'd have picked it up and kept going, but she went to get another. I wonder if she'd have done that if I hadn't been there. Dad must have realised there was something missing because he got to his feet to go after her. I tried to persuade him to stay with us but he was off, so I followed him, grabbing to hold his arm. As I did this, the accordionist started a waltz. Dad started to dance with me. We were waltzing. He could dance really well. His feet took over and knew what to do. The medicine woman stopped us and popped a cocodamol in his mouth. Dad had forgotten about medicine and didn't know what he was supposed to do with it so started to crunch and chew. Even when she held the diluting juice to his mouth he didn't get the idea he was supposed to swallow it down rather than chew the pieces. She gave up and went on with her rounds. I asked Dad if he wanted to keep dancing "I don't dance" he said. What a shame. I wanted to dance with him more. I've never danced with my Dad before. Don't suppose I ever will again. Dad's feet knew how to dance - who knew? I wonder if he used to dance when he was young. I wonder if he had fewer inhibitions when he was a young man, than he had when he was the repressed, cowed, middle aged one I knew as I grew up. I hope so.

30th November 2007 - Joking apart

2007-12-16T21:13:00.000Z

One of the housekeeping staff - Allie - is very chatty, very inappropriate, very disrespectful - but she gets away with it. It's obvious she cares, that she likes the residents and that she has a good heart. She's also very lazy and would much rather sit and chat than hoover - but I'm with her on that one. I'd rather she chatted with residents than vacuumed around their feet. She knows everyone, she jokes irreverantly with everyone and I like her. One of these days, though, she's going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and her ass will be hung out to dry. Today wasn't that day though.

"I think I'm as mad as they are sometimes. Really I do. I'd forget ma heid if it wisnae tied oan. Eh Bruce? Wit am I like? I think I'm gittin' that dementia off of you lot".

Bruce laughed and said "I thought I had that once. I went to the doctors and told him but he tellt me I should jist go away and forget aboot it".

21st November 2007 Harbinger of Doom

2007-12-09T18:07:00.000Z

Moira visited Dad yesterday, so I went in today. I took Ellie with me because Sean had taken Mark and a couple of his friends to the cinema and on for a meal - it had been Mark's 11th birthday and this was his treat. Dad knew Moira had been to see him but said she kept falling asleep during her visit and had nothing much to say for herself - didn't seem very likely but you never know. He looked very tired, very dishevelled. He said he was 'hanging on by a stem' when I asked how he was. He fell asleep not long after we joined him, so Ellie drew and I looked round the room. There were three new faces amongst the residents. A relatively young looking man - probably 50's I'd guess - who stares at his feet while walking and shuffles, talking nonsense. If you saw a photo of him you'd think there was nothing wrong with him. A man who appears to be in his late 60's, but is very together. He has a fine head of hair - one of those wavy 1950's do's that he's never changed and even though there's grey in it, it's still dark. I like him, he has a lovely, kindly face and he looks like he's laughed a lot.

And then there's the third new resident, who was sleeping beside Cecily. A very dapper figure, well trimmed hair, gold rimmed specs, thick brown cords and co-ordinating jumper. But below the cords, thick fluffy stripy socks and pink slippers. The sleeping figure must be a woman. I checked again the sleeping face - and still wasn't sure.

But then the sleeping figure woke. The voice was definitely a female one. It was deep but still feminine. And very alarming. "Aaarrghhh. Aaaaarrrggghhhh. Aaaaarrrrrghhhhh! I can hear the voice of God. He's telling me to come to him and bring everyone I can. I can speak to God. You do believe don't you? You do believe me don't you?" she implored of everyone around her. The only response she got was from Cecily beside her who took up her usual tack "You're in a nursing home. You're going to die. Soon. Unmourned." New lady howled at this. Howled and howled. "No. You're wrong. You're wicked. I'll tell God" and howled and howled.

Dad's voice tore me back to him. He was sitting with his hands in his pockets. For the last few minutes he'd been slipping down his seat and was now very close to the edge "I'm about to land on the floor if you don't do something about it" he snarled at me. I leapt up and got behind his chair - he was tucked into the table so I couldn't get to the front of him. I hauled and hauled at his underarms to get him back up - a task that would have been eased considerably had he taken his hands out of his pockets. In fact had he taken his hands out of his pockets he'd have been able to stop himself sliding down out of the chair. Once I got him back upright I sat back down, and he took his hands out of his pockets. He fell asleep again, woke for tea and cake, then dropped off again. I kissed him and told him I'd visited during the week if I could. I probably won't. I do try to, but after working all day and then picking up the kids, cooking for them, then Sean, I just can face it. I should go at lunch time, and I think I'll have to but up until now I've been trying to avoid meal times - and even more trying to avoid thinking of it as feeding times. But I do. I had the cheek the other day to correct someone when they called residents "inmates". They are inmates though, it is a prison. And many of them do get fed. But it's still not right, they deserve to be given more respect, to be dealt with to respect their dignity - and I do try and remember, try not to be callous.

As I left I heard Lily shouting at the new lady "If ye can talk tae God gonnae ask him where the fuck I've left ma top set 'cos I cannae find the fuckers onywhere." and as I turn she said to me "Mind ma french though, luv, sorry infront of the bairn, I'm fuckin' terrible so I am". When I look at her, smile and tell her not to worry, I see her "top set" quite clearly in her left hand, but I didn't think it right to point it out.

11th November 2007 - Back to work II

2007-12-02T16:52:00.001Z

He was much as I expected. He was pleased, but very surprised to see me. He couldn't remember if Colin had been in to see him. He thought I was dead.

We sat in the day room. The floor was littered with dodds of food. Angus was on - he'd a lovely guy - he's very helpful, very friendly, very caring and very black. Ever seen Blazing Saddles - "The Sheriff's a ni" - well Dad often has a problem with Angus. He has - in the past - called him a negro in hushed terms and even once mouthed "nigger" at me as he passed. Angus must be used to it, must have incredibly thick skin and saintly patience as today Bertha was screaming at him "Leave me alane, ye black basturt that ye are. I'll git a constable, ye see if a dinnae, noo fuck awa aff ta the jungle". He was trying to move her through to the toilet. He continued despite the abuse and kept up his cheery "Now you don't mean that Bertha, I know you like me really".

Dad started talking - or he could have been talking already and I didn't notice - but I couldn't make out what he was saying. I might have stood a chance of understanding, even above the hoovering, screaming and extractor fans but for the fact that it was gibberish. If there had been some thread of sense to follow I could have done it but the words I managed to get made so little sense it evaded me. "Fankle, he was grown. Not up, you understand, but she had seven or eight. Grantedly she hives pink but muddle." He finished his chat with "But, then, you never was very good at picking up new things". Ho hum.

I'll try and see him during the week. I can't face him not having any visitors for a week. It must be so bleak. Even if he doesn't remember I've been, surely some comfort must be drawn from seeing a face he knows.

11th November 2007 Back to work

2007-12-02T11:38:00.000Z

I went back to work on Monday. I've been a housewife for almost 4 years. I am a shite housewife. My house is always a mess. My ironing is always piled high, my washing similar. Even the garden is a wilderness. It looks like one of those places left wild to try and attract butterflies. But it's not, it's just a midden.

So I've given up trying to be a housewife. The kids - who I'd fondly thought rather enjoyed having a stay at home Mum - are perfectly happy. Ellie has taken to full time nursery without a backward glance. She is now comparing me with her childminder on basic mummy skills and I'm coming up short."When Elsa's mummy brushes my hair it doesn't hurt", "Elsa's mummy's carrots are crunchier than yours", "Clean hands are happy hands, that's what Elsa's Mummy says". Does she. Does she indeed.

Mark is at after school club and loathe to leave it went I pitch up to get him. "Maybe you could do the shopping before you come and get me so I can stay a bit longer?" he suggested.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad they are happy. I'm glad they are well adjusted and secure enough to be able to mix well. That is exactly what I wanted for them, exactly what I tried to instill in them. So, maybe I wasn't such a bad housewife.

And then there's Dad. I feel terrible for not seeing him too. I've not been to see him for a week. I'm going to go this afternoon. I'm dreading it. What state is he going to be in? Will he think I am dead, like he did when I was on holiday? Poor soul.

4th November 2007 - Almost very nearly

2007-11-08T10:55:00.002Z

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.

3rd November 2007 - Self harming - what's that all about?

2007-11-03T17:39:00.000Z

I don't know about you but I've always thought that people that self-harm must - at best - be a little odd. Visions of angst-ridden, attention-seeking goth teenagers hacking away at their arms with sharp things. Never really saw the appeal. Until today.

When I got in today Karen caught me and told me that Dad had been found lying in the corridor. She says he didn't fall, he was just lying there sleeping. She says he just slumped to the floor and fell asleep, but no-one saw it. If a tree falls in the forest and no-one sees it...... how the fuck does she know Dad didn't fall? Dad said he did fall but it was a gentle fall and once he was down he just went to sleep because he "just wants this all to stop".

We sat at a table and he kept drifting off to whereever he goes, his eyelids half shut and his eyes rolling from side to side like he was reading something. He'd burst into the room periodically like a struggling swimmer coming up for air, only to be pulled back under again momentarily afterwards.

I was watching him, trying to wake him, trying to engage with him, trying to speak to him, to reach out and give him some human contact - a rope to his drowning swimmer. And failing. And, as it turned out, absently picking a hole in my arm with an unfolded paperclip. I don't remember having unfolded the paperclip. I don't remember having thought "I know, I'll scrape my arm until it bleeds". But I do remember looking and seeing I was doing it and thinking "that doesn't hurt, it's almost pleasant, and it's real, it's alive, I'm alive". I got a bit scared and stopped immediately, blotting the blood with a tissue and putting the paperclip away. I didn't dare look round the room in case one of the other relatives had been watching and was staring at me, aghast at the attention-seeking angst-ridden goth teenager mascarading as a woman in her 40's.

So, all you self-harmers out there, I can understand a bit more why you do it. I'll no longer generalise and bunch you handily in my head into the 'freaks' box. I'm sorry, really sorry.

31st October 2007 - Halloween 3

2007-11-01T17:09:00.000Z

The third Halloween party we've been to at the home. Someone must have been 'lost' during the day because the 'Private Ambulance' visited and all the residents were coralled in the dayroom while they disposed of the body. Very appropriate I suppose. I had a look round the room to see if I could spot who was missing but I couldn't. I thought it might be Lily but then I saw her dancing with her zimmer. I was relieved it wasn't Lily, she's a hoot. I looked for the people I hoped it might be, hoped not to see their relative sitting round the walls beside their uncommunicating twisted shell, but they were all there. Susie, James, Paul, Robby, Becky's son - the relatives I always see.

The staff have made an effort - they always do for these events - Christmas, St Andrews day, Valentine's day and the like. They come in on days off, they decorate the place, they smile and laugh and joke and create an atmosphere of surreal festivity. Some bring in their children, their siblings or parents to join in the party.

I made an effort too, dressed up and dressed Ellie up. Almost scared the bejezus out of Dad but there you go - it is Halloween after all. I really tried to enjoy it, to laugh along and make out it was a fun party. I tried to ignore the drool, the real life skeletal forms sat beside the full size cardboard one with the "This is what you look like after 6 months in here" postit stuck on it's arse and flashed conspiratorially to some residents relatives. And it wasn't as appalling as the previous two - I wonder if I'm getting better or worse. Am I becoming more or less human, humane?

24th October 2007 - Talking ballocks - there's a novelty

2007-11-01T16:50:00.000Z

"There's something wrong that trams going way too fast! There's going to be a smash!" Dad shouted at me pointing at an imaginary disaster he was watching play out just for him in the day room. After I convinced him he didn't need to dodge the flying wreckage and that it was safe to walk over the 'burning fireness' we sat down - with our backs to the twisted metal and carnage - obviously - unless it put us off our tea and cake.

"Marshmallow ground polish windows forget-me-not, don't you think?"
"Twig twig twigle my foot. Often over and green. Don't you agree?"

I wish I could just say "you're talking ballocks Dad". But I don't. And in truth ballocks wouldn't have much to say I'm sure. They wouldn't be high on the conversationlist league, perhaps - afterall they see very little in their 3 score and ten on the planet. Most of their lives they spend in the dark, emerging only briefly to dangle perilously close to being doused in all manner of unpleasantness.
So you'd expect them not to have much by way of small talk or chat, but they couldn't fail to make more fucking sense that he did today.

But, once again, the only sense that came out of his mouth were the words "living nightmare" that he spoke as he rubbed his hands over his face as he held head. Please let those just be two more words, please let them have as much meaning to him as "twig twig twigle my foot". Please, don't let him mean them.

16th October 2007 - Living nightmare 2

2007-10-16T16:41:00.000+01:00

Today - again - the only words I managed to understand in 45 minutes. "Living nightmare".

Jesus Christ! Dad, what can I do to help you?

15th October 2007 - Living nightmare

2007-10-15T22:40:00.000+01:00

The only two words that Dad saide today that made sense were "Living nightmare".
I could be reading too much into them. He said other words, he said "red crab", he said "pudge flower", he said "often we crunkle".

The 2nd in command entertainments lady was in again. Having a sing-song over the hoovering. She's one on the worst singers I've ever heard. And that's coming from someone who's 18 month old child used to ask her not to sing to her. "Mummy, please don't sing any more" - I was stung - but 2nd in command really really is shite.

She was trying to get Carol to sing, and she wouldn't. but she kept on at her "C'mon Carol - ye know this one, everyone knows Roll oot the barrel" and "Yer missin' aw the fun Carol, it's Tie a yelly ribbon - that's a braw tune".

After much goading, Carol stood, and with great dignity and grace said "I do not wish to sing" and sat back down. It had taken a lot out of her to do it, she's a frail and gentle soul, but I was two tables away and I heard her loud and clear. No ambiguity.

"Right, Carol, ye'll know this one though - join in ...Happy days are here again......."

8th October 2007 - Sitcoms

2007-10-11T15:32:00.000+01:00

I had a daydream today - well everyone else was sleeping so I didn't feel too guilty - I was dreaming of taking Dad out to the foreshore of a sunny autumn day. All wrapped up, and tucked into a wheelchair. The sun warm on our faces and Dad cosy in the blankets. Seagulls circling and squalling above, watching the waves choppily roll towards the coast. But then I loose control of the chair and he runs down the hill, careering away infront on me, like a sketch from Victor Meldrew - I don't believe it - me running after him trying to slow him, trying to catch him, stop him plunging over the edge into the sea.

Funny thing the subconscious.

6th October 2007 - Huns huns huns huns

2007-10-11T15:30:00.000+01:00

Gwyneth was sitting - I'd not seen her for a few days. But I really looked at her today. She was so twisted, so gnarled. Her pink fluffy slippers where the only clue to her sex, to her previous life as a much loved wife, and mother. Poor Gwyneth.

Dad was opposite her. Sleeping too. Lily and Bruce were fighting, throwing insults at each other. Why do the demented never forget their swear words I wonder.

Anna was sitting with two tumblers in front of her on her wheel in table. She was overturning them, one at a time, like a Tommy Cooper magic turn - Glass bottle, bottle glass.

Rachel paddled past us all, trouser legs rolled above the knee, edging her way tentatively round the chairs, checking the depth of the water carefully before plunging her foot, the leg into the sea.

Bertha trilled in the background "Hun huns huns father father father DWEEEEPPP
hun huns faither dweeeep" over and over again until climatically shrieking "TWANG YA BASTURD" and waking the room.

Dad blustered into wakefulness and asked me if I'd seen his pen because he needed to finish the crossword to catch the post, then immediately fell asleep again.

30th September 2007 - I'm not racist but.....

2007-10-10T17:31:00.000+01:00

Remember when you were wee and playing tig or something similar you could shout 'keys' and that meant you were immune? "I'm not racist but..." "I'm not being cheeky but..." "No offense meant but...." even "Far be it from me to cast aspersions but " - as soon as you hear one of these verbal 'keys' you know that something racist, cheeky, offensive is in the offing or an aspersion is about to be flung.

Tweedle greeted me as I came in with a loud whisper "Thur's a new staff nurse. Canny miss her - she's anither paki - sorry - mind my french, I mean Asian. I'm no racist like but it's turning intae Little India here - or mibbes the Eurovision Song Contest wi all they Poles. I dinnae mind the Poles, at least they wurk, but oor Asian friend's are lazy fur one and I cannae understaun them fur anither. An' thur aw liars. Lie til thur black in the face - eh did ya hear me there - lie til thur black in the face! You couldn't make this up - whit am I like, I crack mesel up sometimes! But they ur though but, lazy , liars and cheats - see thur shops - the prices! Nae wunner they're aw sending money hame and got aw the flash cars and fancy schools." I wondered what I should say. I didn't agree with her but I smiled and rolled my eyes "Karen's a gem" I said and she agreed with "She's ok aye, she's like us though, you forget she's Asian half the time". Should I have said that I think she's wrong, that she is being racist? I suppose I should.

Just inside the day room I meet the new staff nurse. She comes over to talk to me about Dad but - fuck it - I can't understand what she says. I saw Tweedle mouth "See, tellt ye" as she passes.

Dad was sitting in a comfy chair in an arc of comfy chairs in the conservatory bit - where it really was like Little India because it was stifflingly hot. He was sitting beside Molly on one side and Cecily on the other. Molly was tapping her false teeth on the food infront of her and appeared bemused that they weren't eating it. Cecily was speaking to Dad - when I got closer I could hear her "You're a disgusting old man. You don't know who I am, you are disgusting. I'll be glad when you are dead you old bugger". She was pushing and poking him as he looked in bewilderment at her. Directly across from them one of the carers - Agnes - was reading the Daily Record. When Dad saw me he tried to get up. Cecily shrieked "Get away you disgusting old man!" to which Agnes responded without looking up "Leave him be Cecily, he's a harmless old man". I helped Dad to his feet and spoke for the first time saying to him "Come and we'll get away from Cecily and sit up at table. I'll make you a cuppa". Agnes looked up at the sound of my voice "Ohh, it's you Jeanette, I've jist sat down, you wouldn't believe the morning I've hud. Dinnae mind Cecily, she's harmless." Harmless huh? So I didn't just see her poking Dad, and Tweedle doesn't regularly complain she gets beaten black and blue by her? From somewhere I develop a bit of backbone "I'd rather she didn't poke my Dad though, all the same" and she says "Of course, but that's a one aff tha'. She's usually ok and yer Da's no often wi' her". I don't know for sure that Dad doesn't harass the hell out of the other residents but I'm sure all it would take to avoid residents being bullied, badgered and harangued is for the staff to be more numerous, more vigilant and more aware of the need for residents to be treated with dignity and respect. And this home is a good one.

13th September 2007 - Your Dad's bigger than my Dad

2007-10-04T14:17:00.000+01:00

When did Dad become so small? He looks so fragile. He is so fragile, in so many ways, but so relentlessly, pointlessly robust in others. His eyes are sunken, his cheeks too. The whites of his eyes are snaked with red, clumpily cloudy, and his once rich, Cadbury velvety brown irises, ringed with milky blue. And his teeth seem blackened too - but maybe that's a side effect of his anitbiotics. I must remember to ask Karen next time I see her. He used to have lovely eyes, now I think of it. He always wore glasses, NHS ones at that, and he was never seen without them. His eyelashes were like a cow's,or giraffe's, or llama's - or any other animal that has straight eyelashes really. I suppose he would have been quite a handsome man had it not been for his skin, which was always a problem.

Immediately you see him now, you feel sorry for him. He shuffles, staggers, and slumps. I remember the first time I really felt deeply sorry for him. I was in my sister's house and I was trying to persuade him to come back to live in a care home. I had to tell him he had multi-infarct dementia. Moira, Colin and, to some extent, I had decided he should be told. I wasn't really convinced he should know, but I've never been very good at standing my ground, I usually assume that I'm wrong, that everyone else's opinion is more valid than mine. I told him about the tiny strokes he was having in his brain, that he needed help in day to day living and that he couldn't live alone anymore. He took in all in, he tried to keep himself together. His eyes - much brighter then - filled with tears but they didn't spill. Mine did, although I desperately tried not to let him see them. I didn't want him to know how serious it was, how awful his future was, but I need him to know it was something we couldn't ignore. Moira joined in and Dad listened more to her, and took it in better. Poor Dad. He tried, quite understandably, to come up with alternatives, but we didn't have any. I spend hours looking back, thinking what we could and should have done differently, how we could have prolonged his quality time. Horrible thing hindsight.

Careless Carer

2007-10-04T12:11:00.000+01:00

Mostly, due to my liberal use of the 'f' word, the people who visit my blog ( you know who you are! ) are searching for something very different by way of content that what they find. And mostly - judging by what they where searching for that I see in the web hit tracker my lovely husband pointed me towards - it serves them right. They visit, realise that it's not porn, and off they go.

But, earlier on in the week I had a visitor who was a carer. She opened a whole new blog world for me to read via the portal of her's as she's linked to lots of other people who have relatives and loved ones who are ill. I've put her blog in my links and thoroughly recommend anyone that's here because they are interested in any aspect of caring to go there.

I am not a carer - I don't put in the hours, I don't have the grinding slog, the wearing down, the tedium, the seemingly endless burden of care. But loads of people do, and they have my genuine profound admiration. The job they do is awesome.

11th September 2007 - Are you dying?

2007-10-04T11:52:00.000+01:00

Cecily sat with us today. Lily too, and Amy almost joined us. She pulled out the chair from the table, angled it and squatted to sit but her compulsion to move on kicked in before her arse even hit the cushion and she was off on another circuit. It's no wonder she's thin. As she was leaving I noticed two rice crispies stuck to her chin. Yesterday there was one rice crispie. I wondered absently if tomorrow there would be three and that one of the two was yesterday's.

I was surprised by Cecily - for months now I hadn't seen her walk of her own accord. She's been sat in an easy chair and then hoisted into wheelchairs and wheeled to 'the lav' or sometimes to the hairdressers, only to return with a glistening grey silver helmet of set curls. All the women come back looking exactly the same. Cecily used to be a doctor. Her flashes of self bring with them a deeper realization of what's happening to her than most. Her husband used to come to see her. He was in a wheelchair and cranky as hell. He used to get cross with her because she couldn't understand or wasn't communicating with him. She'd be so pleased to see him, she'd pat her hair into place and smile like the sun rising. He doesn't come any more. I don't know if he's alive or what. She still smiles these days but is a rigor smile - a demented smile that isn't warm, it's a baring of teeth and it's fixed. It doesn't reach her eyes. She's very difficult. Screams and shouts at the carers and 'batters them black and blue' according to Tweedle. But today she was using her zimmer. Walking round the residents having what looked like a nice wee chat with each of the waking ones. When she reached our table she sat down and asked Dad, Lily, Ellie and I "Are you dying? I'm not dying. I've got a wheelchair. I'm not dying. Don't believe them. I'm not dying. Are you dying". Ellie didn't like this - she's tenatively over the last few weeks been trying to get her head round death and what it means. "I'm not dying - am I Mum? And you're not dying are you? You're not going to die ever are you?" Thanks Cecily. "No, Mummy's not dying and neither are you. Nobody here is dying and we're not going to" I tried to reassure her. Dad's brain decided that this was an appropriate time to have his lucid 5 minutes and ventured him into the exchange with a blustery scoff "Of course you're going to die. Every one dies. Even you". Thanks Dad. Today couldn't be a day when he said nothing but elephants could it. Today couldn't have been a "We're on the Queen Mary sailing to Largs" day could it?

Lily diverted us with an enormous belch, one which shook her tiny bent frame. "Oh, pardon me hen, that's awfy rude of me - and infront of the bairn too. Canny take me anywhere eh? Still, I'm glad that came up the way - would of be a bastart if it came oot my ither end".

Ellie giggled at the burp - she does appreciate a burp - and was cheered for the while but she won't forget what Dad said. She forgets nothing.

7th September 2007 - The relatives are the worst

2007-10-02T21:06:00.000+01:00

I spoke to Tweedledum today. I'd noticed a new resident - she's called Katie - and was asking her name so I could speak to her when I got a chance. Tweedle told me but the went into one of her monologues "She's jist been sleeping since she came here from the hospital. A lot of them dae tha'. The notes we get wi them are useless. We jist bin them, nae wurth the paper thur printed on. Might as well gie them tae Lily tae wipe her erse - and she wud an' aw, she's nae fussy that yin - so we jist ignore what the notes sez and gits tae know them oorsels. The relatives are the worst tho'. They'll tell ye all the shite aboot their relative but they've nae goat a clue aboot them." She must have had a flicker of consciousness or maybe seen a flicker of something cross my face because her next was "No you though Janice" - my name's Jeannette - "you're no one of those that's mouthin' aff, wantin' this and that fur thur Maw or Da and clueless aboot what thur like. You're one o' the one's we like". I don't think I'd be pleased even if I thought it was true. Maybe I would. I don't know. I know I could not do the job she does - if I could he'd be at home with me now - but I don't think I'd be like her doing it. Am I wrong in thinking it's important that vulnerable people like Dad, like Lily, like Amy, like 'Stinky Susie' - Tweedle's name for her - or 'Creepy Callum' - Tweedledummer's name for him - should be treated with more dignity, more respect?

I want to take him home. I want him to live his life with me and my family. I want him to have birthdays, holidays, Christmases and Hogmanay's with us. And I want him to die with me. I want to be there. But I can't see how I can. I don't have a room for him, I don't have a downstairs loo, I have 2 kids, one not at school yet, and I need to return to work pretty soon to help take the financial burden off my husband. To get a bigger house, I need to work and then I wouldn't have the time to be there. He needs 24/7 care - or at least 24/7 on call. He'll get up and wander - who knows where, who knows when. He'll need changing. Up until recently, I thought I couldn't face that, but I've done it now, and it's not that bad. The worst thing isn't the smell, the shite, it's not even the dealing with the feelings about 'changing' Dad rather than a baby, it's Dad's face, his demeanour, his humilitation when he knew what I was doing, knew that his daughter was wiping his arse. I know he doesn't want that.

I need to take him out more. I need to make time, between the school and nursery stuff. I need to take him out. I'll try for the once a week outing idea. If he'll want to go, he doesn't always.

5th September 2007 - The elephants are back

2007-09-27T21:19:00.000+01:00

Dad looked ok when I went in today. He seemed ok too for the first minute or so, But he wasn't. The elephants were back. He was trying to tell me about why he was leaning against the "red giver wall machine" ( radiator ) but the word elephants just kept popping out of his mouth. Every time he said the word, it would annoy him, almost as if someone else was making him say it, it would distract him, defeat him.

I hope the elephants are gone tomorrow.

3rd September 2007 - Yer in an fucking nursing hame

2007-09-25T12:05:00.000+01:00

I went in to visit on my own, jut after lunchtime. Dad was very sleepy. Maybe it was because he'd just eaten but I think he's fighting off another dose of infection because his arm seems swollen again, and hot to the touch. I sat beside him while he slept, and even managed to hold his hand for a while. That seems to please him because he woke to my touch and didn't take his hand away, but looked at me, held my eye contact for a few seconds, then fell asleep again.

Cecily was shouting at Lily "Yer in a fucking nursing hame ya daft auld bat, yer naw 19 and yer Da's long deid". Lily was obviously surprised to hear this and thought it over until she returned with "And yer aff yer heid, if this is a nursing hame, why I'm staunin' here waitin' on the 21 bus tae take me up the toon tae the dancin'? Eh? Cannae answer tha' can ye?"

Dad mumbled from his sleep "It's a train station, she's not the full shillin' that one".

30th August 2007 - Diditdiditdiditdidit

2007-09-23T17:36:00.000+01:00

I went in on my own today. Ellie was at nursery, which was just as well as Mary latched on to me as soon as I go in. She kept repeating "Diditdiditdiditdidit", constantly, while hanging on my arm and grinning at me. She stroked my hair, like a pony's mane, "Diditdiditdidit". She appeared to be looking for some response to this and I couldn't give one other than to smile, say hello and ask how she was. She tired of me and let me go with a final "diditdiditdidit it's lovely".

In the dayroom Lily was doddering round the room trying to find cups to wash up - obviously she wouldn't be allowed to but she seemed to think this was her job. She was hampered in this by her need for a zimmer. She'd forget to use the zimmer and toddle off, find a cup, then realise she didn't have the zimmer so put the cup down again, go back for the zimmer and return for the cup only to realise she'd not be able to carry it and use the zimmer.

Tommy was screaming and screaming, cursing incomprehensibly and convulsing as he screamed. No-one was even flinching. All the other residents were in their own worlds were the outside sounds, smells and noises hardly ever seemed to permeate.

Dad let out a deep sigh. "That's a big sigh Dad" I commented redundantly, pointlessly. "Aye, I only wish I could do a bigger one" he said. He was, again, aware enough to want to die.

In the background I heard Lily let out s scream at Rab "Hey, whit you doing ya bugger? How come yer haudin' her hand? Ye never haud mine?" Fiona - one of the carers - shouts over with a laugh "That's his wife Lily, that's why he holds her haun". Another scream from Lily "Yer marrit ye sly bugger! Well, ye can keep away fae me - I'm no that kind of girl - and if I see you up the dancin' ye can keep away or I'll tell ma pals, and then I'll tell ma Da. Leadin' me oan like tha' - I'm no a wee daft lassie even though you might think it!"

I really want to take Dad out some time soon. With a chair or whatever. Get him to see some scenery, the sea, some something. Maybe this week. Fuck knows how long it is since he's been out of those walls for any length of time. Had fresh air. Seen some birds, felt some rain, felt the breeze. It's coming into autumn. A nice autumn day, lots of sunshine and red orangy colours. I think he'd like that. I hope he'd like that. I'll try for this week, but that's unlikely, next week is more likely. Maybe that's what I should do - give myself a weekly task of making a difference to his quality of life. I'm sure that would help me, if I really felt that I was making a positive impact on how he felt, on how he's living in these last months, or years, or maybe even decades. I really do want him to be untroubled - I think happy is too much to ask for - but I don't want him to worry, to feel sad, to feel lonely.

25th August 2007 - Whacky races

2007-09-18T21:33:00.000+01:00

Surreal. Overused word - and misused too. Like ironic - how many times do you hear someone say 'and the irony was....' when there was fuck all ironic about it. Surreal is the same.

"characterized by fantastic imagery and incongruous juxtapositions"

Remember Whacky Races? The Dick Dastardly, Penelope Pitstop show? Came to mind today when I visited. Amy, Bruce, Callum, Tam, Aggie, Mary and her Frankie shadow. All of them, today, were wired. Wired and circuiting, like some kind of whacky races cum slow motion 'Benny Hill Show' title sequence.

It was hot today, which maybe accounts for some of it, but they were circuiting, circling, at a pace that would be hard for an able-ish bodied 40 something to keep up with. Chasing, following, circling, round and round. They'd wave and smile on each circuit, completely oblivious to their previous circuit and the previous interaction. They'd all sit down in a different chair each time, sit for less then a minute, then rise and continue their laps.

Where they co-ordinating this? Was it some wind up on their behalf? Did Bruce gather them all at breakfast and gigglingly hatch a plan to drive the carers 'roon the bend' - which was the effect their laps were having according to Tweedle. It would be great to think of them doing just that, of having enough of themselves to devise this way of irritating their carers and enough of themselves to enjoy the effect their actions were having. But when you saw their facial expressions, their eyes peering out bewildered and scared from their sockets, it was obvious they were following some compulsion, driven by something over which they had no control.

The irony of it was that yes, it was surreal but the tradegy of it was that no,it was real.

Dad didn't seem phased by his fellow residents circling him, didn't bat an eyelid as he'd have said. I wonder if he ever does it? He's often wandering the corridors when I come in but I've never seen him do this repetitive pattern of behaviour. He'll pick up tiny invisible specks of something, he'll arrange invisible cutlery on the table infront of him, he'll talk to invisible people and occasionally - and painfully for him - sit down on invisible chairs, but he doesn't seem to follow this particular trait of dementia. Maybe it's his type of dementia, or his type of underlying personality. Does his personality still exist I wonder - if his personality is coded in his brain, and that's dying off in bits and pieces, does his underlying self still remain and come through? Is he not joining the circuiting because of his previously imbued lack of 'socialness' - he would not have be someone to join in - is that still there? Poor Dad, still a lonely misfit even now. I'll try harder tomorrow to be kinder. Maybe it'll be warm and we can go for a walk in the gardens.

23rd August 2007 - Losing the point, the plot, the will

2007-09-16T21:52:00.002+01:00

He couldn't talk to me today. He didn't manage to make eye contact and he couldn't make sense. He didn't know who I was. He knew - as he usually does - that I am connected to him but he didn't have a clue I was his daughter (even if I'm genetically not). He seemed pleased to see me, but that quickly left, replaced by iritation, trying, and failing, to tell me something. He regularly fell asleep and when he woke had forgotten I was there. Sometimes when he woke from his minute, or two minute, brief nap, he'd be so clueless that I was there or who I was that he'd get up to go on another wander and be annoyed when I brought him back to me. He'd sit back down and we'd try to talk again until he'd get frustrated and back down into sleep again.

What is the point. What is the fucking point of going to see him. Does he enjoy it? I don't think so. Do I just remind him of the life he's leaving, the life he had? Given that 75% of the time, maybe more, he thinks I'm my Mum, and that I leave him there on a daily basis, just what does that do to his conscious head? The woman he was married to for over 30 years,comes to visit him in a place that constantly confuses and hurts him, constantly gives him pain and degrades him but she, she of all people, leaves him there. She leaves him, smiling and waving as she goes, and backing away, dodging his proper kisses to give him her cheek and an air kiss.

I'm losing the plot. I need to keep going, of course I do. It's not just for him it's for Mum too. She'd have done more, but I'm doing what I can.

I do have the will to go - most of the time - but that's sometimes going too. Usually I can guilt myself into it. I can look at Mum and Dad's photo by my front door - they smile out at me and show me people I didn't really know. But recently I look at that photograph and see two strangers, two people I've never known who are long lost to me.

I'm self-indulging. I'll stop it. I'll see him tomorrow. Of course I will. I keep thinking of Patricia's husband, who visited every day for 5 or 6 hours for 15 years. It's not "What would Jesus do" that bothers me. "What would Alan do". He'd visit. He visited, rain, snow, hail or shite.

Sorry Dad. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm sitting here, typing this crap, and you are there sitting in yours. I'm glib, I'm vacuous, I'm useless. I'll be there tomorrow.

21st August 2007 - Tweedle fucking dim

2007-09-06T18:41:00.000+01:00

Well, I did try to visit Dad today. Me and Ellie got there, got inside the door, even got to see Dad dodder towards us but Ellie's scary woman - Margaret - pounced at the door. We were trapped - Ellie and I - in the corner. She just wouldn't go, she was pawing at Ellie, stroking her face, stroking my hair, trying to kiss her and actually kissing me. We couldn't get around her, couldn't get away from her. Nothing I could say to Margaret was making her back off. Nothing I could say to Ellie was calming her. I shielded Ellie as best I could but she was petrified, shaking, rigidly trembling. She started to scream through her fear "Get her away from me Mummy, keep me safe!" We'd been trapped, dodging kissess and cuddles, floating like a butterfly as I bobbed, ducked and weaved out of Margaret's southpaw reach, for almost five minutes. I could see Tweedle at the office door not more than 8 feet away - she'd been watching us all along. She was smiling over at me "She still feart of Margaret then? She no grown oot of tha' yet?" Ellie was in full blown tantrumic flight and I had to shout over to Dad that I was going to go. He was completely confused as to what was going on, but I had to leave. As I turned to enter the code into the keypad, Margaret got a grip of me and Ellie, not painfully, but very firmly, she was holding on to us and we were going nowhere. We couldn't move. I could see Bruce, Alice, and Callum coming towards us, sensing the open door, sensing the possibility of escape. Their faces turned towards us, their arms slightly raised and outstretched. Zombie film. Ellie was frantic and I had to be mean to Margaret, I had to push her out the way, had to man handle her put of the way to let us free. I pushed an old demented woman, whose only crime against me was to try and touch my daughter. I'm so sorry Margaret. So sorry. And Dad, God knows what you made of that through your befuddlement. Tweedle, you are a fat, lazy cunt. How dare you just stand and watch. All it would have taken was for you to come and lead Margaret away - she'll go anywhere on a promise of a pink wafer - but no. You were on your break, and "God knows I deserve it, the amount of shite I put up wi' in this place. There's no buyin' a bed in heaven but if I've no got wan when I gits up there, I'll no be happy, I kin tell ye tha' fur nuhin'". Fuck you. Fuck you and all who sail in you. You don't deserve a medal, a sainthood, a blessed or a candle lit for you. I know you can't help being stupid, but Jesus Christ can't you be a bit more human? More humane?

17th August 2007 - Patricia's gone

2007-08-26T18:57:00.000+01:00

Alan's been coming in every day for 15 years. Spent every afternoon there, came in at 3 for tea and biscuits and left at 8 in the evening. His whole life is gone now she has. Susie told me Patricia was gone and then Alan's history. She was wondering what he'd do with his life now. I was thinking "15 years, 15 fucking years. Please don't let Dad hang on for 15 years". Am I thinking that because I don't want to keep coming in for 15 years, do I want him dead so I'm released from my self-imposed obligation to visit him everyday? Or do I really have compassion for his situation.

I think I made the right noises. I hope so. Surely Susie must be looking at Donald and wondering if this is her life for the next decade and longer?

She talked to me without even looking at Dad or trying to hide what she was saying. She woudln't have done that a few months back. I looked at his face as she went away. He didn't take in what she said. He won't have known who we were talking about anyway.

Not a good day. Poor Alan. I hope he finds something to live for. He's done his time.

16th August 2007 - Elephants and fish

2007-08-26T18:55:00.000+01:00

Dad kept saying elephants today. During what he was trying to say, every now and then, he'd say elephant. It was not aiding understanding. He's also started talking very quietly. It's very difficult to hold on to what he's saying, to try and keep listening to him while the cursing and cleaning and interjections go on around but when he speaks so slowly, so quietly and smatters the sentences with elephants, all hope of understanding is lost.

Tweedle was banging on about her mother's goldfish. "Honest, ye should've see the pair thing. It'dve made yer heart bleed, so it wid. She'd hud it fir 10 year noo, but
towards the end it wiz a sin. It would jist swim roon and roon" ( what did it do before I wondered ? ) "going naewhere. Hud fin rot, some big swelling on it's erse, it looked manky. Ma big sister hud to flush it. I couldnae dae it. But someone hud tae, it wiz inhuman jist watching the pair soul swimmin' roon and roon like tha', I canny see an animal suffer like tha' and I hates them that can". Tweedle?! Have a look around you love! Watch Amy, watch Bruce, watch Margaret, Tam and Callum cicuitung in their own orbits of the place. Fucking hell.

15th August 2007 - the Ides of August

2007-08-24T14:12:00.000+01:00

I went to see Dad this afternoon with Ellie. I'd decided a few days ago to try and wean myself off going every day - or at least not 6 times a week. I'd decided to start going every second day or to leave if two days without any visit. So, I hadn't been in the previous two days. He looked awful. Grey in the face, haggard and drawn, wafer paper fragile. When we found him he was in one of the corridors, leaning against the handrail, his head in his hands. He didn't react to my shouts of "Dad" nor Ellie's "Grandad's". When we reached him I touched his arm and he looked at me, focussing his mind on trying to interpret what he was seeing. I don't know if he knew that I was me and that Ellie was his grandchild but he knew he recognised us, his eyes filled with tears and they rolled freely down his face as he raised his arms to try and embrace us. He was unsteady and almost fell, so I steadied him and we got through to the day room for a seat. When I spoke to one of the staff I was told he'd not been himself the last couple of days, and had even refused all food and drink from that morning. It was as if he was protesting, he'd thought I'd deserted him, so he was shutting down and giving up. I can't cut down how often I go, I'll have to go back to going 5 or 6 times a week.

9th August 2007 - "It's PCness gone mad"

2007-08-09T20:28:00.001+01:00

Tweedle was complaining today. She was complaining that "pc'ness had gone mad" because they had changed the Happy Meal to have healthier options. "Ma bairns dinnae want any of that PC crap. Why mess with a happy meal fur chrissake - excuse ma french - but can they no leave a buckin' bairns meal alane?". I rolled my eyes and shook my head to display I agreed in the madness of providing a fruit option instead of chips. It reminded me of an ex-sister-in-law who once complained loudly and long about how the new PC world meant that there were no wolf-whistles any more. Used to be every time she walked down the road she'd hear a whistle or two, these days men were too frightened of being accused of assault or sexism or something to whistle. I marvelled at the confidence of this woman. How come the idea that it was her ageing looks that didn't elicit the much sought after affirmation of her attractiveness not enter her head? Why - in her heyday - did the confirmation from total strangers that they found her attractive mean so much? This wasn't sour grapes on my part, I was once the recipient of wolf whistles myself. I was never very sure what I was supposed to feel or do when I heard one. Did you ignore it? Did you look round and try and see who it was whistling? I supposed I was always slightly afraid I'd look round and see some stunning blonde who was really the recipient, someone would notice that I thought it was for me and then I'd be cat called instead. Wolf whistles, cat calls.

Anyway, I had time to think all this pish because Dad wouldn't wake at all really today. It was very warm in the home today, which doesn't help the drowsiness but I think he was tired, fed up and bored. Can't blame him.

5th August 2007 - The utter fucking pointlessness of being

2007-08-09T20:27:00.000+01:00

I was having one of those days. One when you are overcome with ennui. Or maybe overcome with rage. Overcome by the smallness of your own life, the utter fucking pointlessness of existing in the first place. One of those feelings when you are aware - with stoned like clarity - of the odds of you existing and the irrelevance of your every action, every decision, every breath.

I still went to see Dad, which probably wasn't the best idea. When you are already in your melancholic, self indulgent wallowy depths, the last thing you really need is further evidence of life's suckiness. And a good measure of kick-up the arseness at the same time - "At least you're not here" my mind kept telling me while the wallower half answered "Yet".

So, I wasn't much use to Dad today. If I ever am any use to him. Tomorrow I'll feel better. Tonight I'll drink too much so that tomorrow my fuzzy mind will behave tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow Dad. I'll be gentle tomorrow, and I'll be kind. Sorry Dad.

3rd August 2007 - Bridge between Holland and Belgium

2007-08-03T15:51:00.000+01:00

We saw Dad at the window, from the car park. It's months, maybe years, since he would go to the window to wave us off. He waved down at us as we came out of the car. I was really surprised, I didn't know he could see and recognise at that distance. As I look back at it though, I think we maybe started waving first. I wonder if he'd have waved if we hadn't done so first. When we left he didn't go to the window and wave us off.

When we met him, he was pleased to see us - me, Ellie and Mark. We were ushered into the revamped quiet lounge. Revamped in that it's not the smoking room anymore. They've changed the visitors room into the smoking room and told Amy she's not allowed to smoke in the quiet lounge any more. Amy seems to have some sort of incident again because she's declined rapidly - her path seems to be stepped, not a gradual curve but huge downward steps. Poor Amy. She seemed to have taken in something about not being allowed to smoke because she told me over twenty times in the 45 minutes we stayed that she didn't have any cigarettes so there was no point asking her, and anyway she didn't smoke any more.

In the ex-smoking room there were three TV's, two of which were on but only the sound of one was audible. The one you could both see and hear was a cookery program, the other cricket without sound. Doesn't really loose much in the enjoyment stakes without sound. Fuck of a boring with sound, fuck of a boring wihtout sound. Dad didn't say anything for the first 20 minutes we visited, so Mark and Ellie entertained themselves with colouring, snap and general brother sister goading. Then Dad spoke. "That's that male model isn't it?" I looked at the screens. Unknown anonymous cricketers on one and Anthony Worral Thompson on the other. "Who Dad?" I asked. "That cooking man, very handsome man. Especially for a transexual". I tried to think of a way to answer this, or even just to continue his venture into conversation when Amy came over "I don't have any fucking cigarettes, so there's no point looking at me for one. And anyway, I don't smoke, so you're out of luck on the scrounge here" and she shuffled off, stooping and walking in a arcing path. She should have her zimmer, so I go after her with it and she thanks me. Often she'll tell you where to put it but today she's kind. When I got back to Dad his foray into the conversational field had finished and he was sitting with his eyes half closed, his eyeballs moving from side to side below his half closed lids. Teleprinter, the movement always reminds me of the teleprinter that used to print up the results of the football matches on the Saturday afternoon sport show. It used to scare me and I'd hide from it. It would scare me even more than the Dr Who that would come on not long after it. But his eye movement really freaked me out so I got us all ready to leave. Tweedledum came into the room in a flabby flurry of friendliness. When Dad stands up she started hauling up his trousers telling him he's not decent "You're no fit fur visitors like that auld yin, eh? I say, yer nae fit fur yer visitor like that! Who you got visiting you today then eh? Who's them?" she asked him. He looked at her without any flicker in his face that he knew who she was, why she was talking to him, if she was talking to him. She kept on. "Wha ur they then eh? Who's tha' wee lassie - is that yer niece? Is that yer auntie? Eh?" she kept on and on at him. "Are they visiting you or Amy? Is that yer family? It's naw is it? They're nae here fur you ur they?". Eventually Dad pulled himself together enough to say "This is my wife and those two children are here on a school exchange". She cackled into life again "Git away, that's no yer wife, you daftie. Yer soft in the heid, that's yer daughter and yer grandbairns!" Then to me she said "Dinnae worry aboot tha'. They eyeways forgit their relatives. They dinnae forgit us though, see us day in an day oot, they dinnae forgit us. He's fine though, dinnae worry aboot him. He's no one of mine but I keeps an eye on him all the same. I'll keep an eye on him, don't you worry aboot tha'. You git off then, we'll be fine here - eh auld yin? We'll be jist fine". Dad's face didn't seem to agree but we need to leave and we do. And I'm glad to go, but then I can go.

As we left Dad followed and asked "So you are just going to leave me here are you?" and as I was trying to think of a sop he followed with "On the bridge between Holland and Belgium. I suppose I can always get a train. I'll see you tomorrow".

What the fuck was going on there?

31st July 2007 - Well, it sure ain't teen spirit

2007-07-31T12:19:00.000+01:00

We visited this morning. Dad was just outside his room. Standing, shirt tails flapping. As we approached him the smell of shite became stronger and stronger. "What is that smell?!" Mark asked me as we walked slowly towards Dad. "It smells like, it smells like, like..." he left the sentence hanging but we both knew what he was thinking. Ellie was hopping and skipping between us. "What smell Mama? That poo-ey one? Oh look there's Grandad. Do you smell the poo Grandad? Smelleeee isn't it? Pooooeee!" Because we were so near Dad's room we went in, rather than turn and go back to the dayroom. In the confines of his four walls, the smell was gaggingly strong. Where he walked he left prints, smudges of dirt. "Oh, there's mud all over the floor kids you sit up on the bed." and I cleaned the floor. I tried to get hom to give me his shoes to clean them, but he was tugging his incontinence pad out the bottom of the leg of his trousers. He couldn't get it pulled through, so I helped. A big dod of shite tumbled out on to the floor. It just sat there, smiling up at me. I picked it up with the pad I'd freed out of his trouser leg and removed it and the pad to the loo. I was wondering if there were more dods in his trousers because the smell didn't go right away, but eventually it did, so I reckoned I must have got it all. I put on some Beethoven for him because Miora had said he'd perked up last time she'd played him some music, but it didn't work this time. I think he was too embarassed, too mortified to brighten up. His daughter had just removed his nappy. I was aware that he didn't have a pad on, so I found a fresh one and put it in the toilet. "There's clean things in the bathroom for you Dad, when you are ready" I told him. He'd nodded but didn't meet my eyes. I hadn't realised he was doubly incontinent. I knew he'd lost his bladder control, but not his bowels too.

We left him in his room. As we were leaving I pass one of the staff and tell him were he is. I'm not sure the residents are allowed to be in their rooms on their own. And I want to be sure he gets his lunch. My poor Dad. I suppose they'll turf him out of his room to wander about on his own again. I hope he puts his pad on.

30th July 2007 - Bedlam

2007-07-31T07:37:00.001+01:00

It was the first time I'd seen him since we went on holiday. He looked just the same. I say looked because I couldn't hear anything he said. Hoovering, extractor fan extracting, TV and CD blaring, three sets of relatives visiting deaf residents, two of the screamers screaming and the 2nd in command entertainments lady playing bingo very loudly. She would shout the numbers, making up the 'clickety click' or 'two fat ladies' term completely at random. "Number 10, Lion's den" she shouted, then looked at each of the cards of the three ladies she'd wheeled around a table to play. If they had the number she'd tell them, mark it and go on. Two of her players she needed to wake to tell of their luck. I fought my desire to shout over "Your IQ" when she yelled "49, wit's that then?" although I did quite like her "Number 12, ma bus hame".

But Dad looked the same. And he did seem pleased to see us. When we left Mark said "I know I'm going to regret asking this but what does Grandad do when we go away?". "What do you mean?" I asked, hoping he didn't mean what I thought he did, hoping he wasn't realising how bleak and awful Dad's life was. "Well, when are not there, what does he do, how does he spend his day? He doesn't just walk around all day, sitting down every now and then for a cup of tea or something does he? Does he?" His face was frightened, he knew he was right, that that was exactly what happened. I tried to tell him that there was entertainment provided, that he watched the TV and there were day trips, but he knew I wasn't being truthful. "I knew I'd regret asking. Mum, can we go and see him every day? I don't mind spending more time there, especially during the holidays". I hugged him close. I tell him that his Grandad wouldn't want him spending all his school holidays cooped up in an old folks home, looking after him. Which is bollocks. His Grandad would want precisely that. Mark hates going into the home. He finds it terrifying, always has. My son is fabulous.

21st July 2007 - Happy Holidays

2007-07-21T20:36:00.001+01:00

We are going on holiday tomorrow. Only for a week, but I feel like crap. Dad was trying to understand how long I would be away. He said "So, today is Wednesday" and I interrupted with "No, it's Saturday today Dad. Sunday tomorrow". "Right, I knew that, so you are going away from red through to blue are you or are you back by yellow ? I know I hardly see you but it would be nice to know when the next time will be. There's very little to look forward to in prism, even your visits make a righter day". I told him we were away for a week, that I would see him as soon as I came back and that my brother Colin would try and come and see him while I was away. "You have a lovely time, don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Colin will be here, he'll not go away. I don't see much of you anyway, which is fine. You go off and leave me here. So you'll be back when it's blue?" and I was glad he said the 'blue' bit because I was back in angry child mode, I was fighting fit for a teenage angst argument that was never voiced when I was a teenager, I was ready, I was poised...and then I was deflated, he was mad, he was sad, he needed me and I was going away for a week. He needed me and I was ridiculous, I was struggling to get past the past, to deal with the reality of Dad as a vulnerable old man. Silly cow.

20th July 2007 - Dr Who?

2007-07-21T07:10:00.000+01:00

I finally managed to talk to Dad's GP yesterday. His GP had wanted him to get an xray a few months ago, so I'd taken him - with the kids in tow - to get one taken. It took in total four and a half hours, with a demented father in a wheelchair bumping across a building site of a hospital and two very very bored weans. It was the first day of the Easter break and it was far from being their ideal way of spending it. Anyway, an appointment came through to follow up on the xray. This apointment was missed - the home never received a confirmation of the appointment time to let me know when to take him. His named carer phoned me to apologise for him missing his appointment - rather odd because I wouldn't have thought they'd have known he'd missed it if they didn't know when it was. She asked me if I thought there was any point in him going to the hospital and if I'd phone them and get a new appointment. I suggested that I'd phone his GP and find out what he was hoping to find out from the xray, what course of treatment the results might indicate - to see if it was worthwhile. I asked his GP's name and she told me she'd seen Dr yesterday and it was Dr Greg. I asked her if Dr Greg was a man or a woman and she confirmed he was male. It took a while to get through to the right GP when I phoned the practise, mainly because Dad's GP is Dr Grieve and she's female. The named carer's English isn't faultless and she'd obviously read the Dr's name wrongly, but I really wish she'd been honest enough to say that she didn't know who his Dr was. It would have given me more faith in her and her interest in Dad. But she didn't.

Dr Grieve obviously didn't know my Dad and thought it very odd that I'd query her. I explained that he also had dementia and she said "Oh, I suppose it would be a bit bothersome for you to take him to an appointment". Bothersome or not, I told her, I'd be happy to take him if there was a point but he'd been seen at hospitals at either end of the country and told, in no uncertain terms by the last incredibly unpleasant consultant that he'd have an infection in his arm for the rest of his life that could be controlled by a constant low dose antibiotic or he could take his arm off. He also said he didn't want to see him back there. The man really was obnoxious. He talked to Dad as if he was deliberately wasting his precious time, as if my Dad was a malingerer, some whinging hypochondriac who really should be greatful he had an arm at all. No recognition of the fact that his arm was in such a state partly because of the NHS treatment he'd received, the infection he acquired. He had made him move his arm to show the range of movement and pronounced that it was as good as he was ever going to get and what did he expect as his age. And what was he ever going to be doing at his age that would need more mobility than the 75% he'd got. At the time I was still a little in awe of medical types, but even then I managed to point out that it wasn't the range of motion that was the problem it was the fact that it would ooze puss and was very painful. That'll be controlled by antibiotics he snarled at me, and left.

Anyway, Dr Grieve took a few reminders to recall Dad, but once she did she softened a little. She told me that one of the 'other' Dr's had changed Dad's antibiotic and taken him off it on one occasion 'just to see how he'd get on' but that she'd note on his file that this shouldn't happen. She said that she didn't think there was any point because the request for the xray had been put in by one of the other Dr's and would only show up what we already knew. So I resolved to be tougher and more vigilant when the home call a GP and ensure that they don't fuck up his drug regime. I should have been more on top of this all along. Sorry Dad.

Earlier on in the week I'd spoken to his dentist. Dad's had a broken tooth for over a year and I kept asking the home to get a dentist to take a look at it. The dentist confirmed that the tooth was broken, and so were a number of others, he should really have the roots removed. He suggested that he'd just leave them and it wasn't really worth it - putting 'them' through the dental work. I asked the dentist if they'd be causing him pain and he'd said no, I asked if they'd be affecting his eating and he'd said no, so I agreed that there was no point in treating them.

No point in doing anything about his arm. No point in fixing his teeth. No point.

16th July 2007 - Keep your shirt on

2007-07-16T12:12:00.000+01:00

I hadn't seen Dad since Friday. The weekend had turned out to be really busy and I hadn't managed to make time to see him. The kids are on holiday so I do't get a chance to go in during the week without them and don't think it's right to make Mark and Ellie go at the weekend too. They both - on different levels as they are 10 and 3 - find it so scary to see the residents with dementia. Ellie has been visiting since she can remember, she's never known an un-demented Dad. Mark remembers him before he got ill, when he could play football, do jigsaws and be snarly and grumpy.

Today he was shuffly, small and baffled. He kept wanting to take his shirt off and I kept trying to get him to keep it on. "Keep your shirt on" I was saying as he tried to unbutton it and untucked it from his trouser. "I'm not angry" he tried to say, dregding from his memory the saying but not connecting his actions with the actuality of him keeping his shirt on.

Tweedle was on, but so were my favourites Andrea and Mary. They are such great carers, so good at their job, so kind and patient with residents and relatives. They are simply good people. Unfortunately it was Tweedle who talked to me, but she wasn't too bad. She said she knew why he was taking his shirt off, "So's he can git at tha' bandage. Pick, pick, pick, scratch, scratch, scratch. That's him". I told her that he has very senstive skin, eczema allied with his asthma, and that there was a good chance he was allergic to the adhesive in the plaster. She was sympathetic, she has allergies herself and can't even use Head and Shoulders - and don't start her on the food additives and her two. The wee one can't tolerate anything orange - not even a Wotsit. Really tricky to feed that one.

Nothing will happen, nothing will change. If I write a letter, it'll get lost or a measure will be put in place that won't work, because it won't be implemented because it won't be believed necessary merely a pandering sop to an overfussy relative - but then they can say "We've tried everything".

8th July 2007 - Antibiotics II

2007-07-16T07:55:00.001+01:00

Yup, his arm has flared up again. What a surprise! The named carer approached me today to let me know that his arm was inflammed again. Rather redundant information 1) because I knew that'd happen after they gave him antibiotics the other week when 'there's obviously something up with him' and 2) because I could see the puss soaking through his shirt sleeve. Her eyes followed mine to his arm and she rushed in with "I've bandaged it up three or four times today already but he just takes it off". She's maybe telling the truth but I've seen him trying to do a button. It's almost impossible for him and this shirt has three buttons at the cuff that would require to be negociated to allow the sleeve to go high enough over the elbow to permit him access to remove a bandage.

Dad, I don't know what to do for the best for you. I don't want you to be in pain, I don't want you to be sad, I don't want you to be lonely. I don't want people ruffling your hair as if you where a child or shouting at you as if you are deaf. I don't want other residents telling you to fuck off and treating you like you are stupid because you don't understand them. I don't want you being scared. If I was on my own, I'd bring you home. But I'm not. I have other people to care for too. I'm sorry, so very sorry.

28th June 2007 - Rotate weekly to prolong life

2007-06-28T17:31:00.000+01:00

I got a text from my brother to say he'd visit but I was worried about Dad's state the previous day, so I went in anyway. When we got there - Ellie and I - he was asleep in a 'comfy' chair with a support cushion hugged to him. These cushions are dotted around the place, used either under the seat cushion for extra height, used as a regular cushion in supporting the back or occasionally as props for the residents that can not hold themselves upright at all and will slump without support. They are square, covered in blue plastic and stink. They are also emblazoned with advise for use of the cushion. As I looked along the line of residents sleeping in the armchairs I realised some wag had positioned each of them to hug a cushion to themselves, and arranged their arms so you could read the cushion care advise "Rotate weekly to prolong life".

26th July 2007 - Antibiotics

2007-06-28T17:18:00.000+01:00

Dad was not well when I saw him today. His voice was raspy, he was very tired and he was completely barking. He has got a cold so maybe that was knocking him for six. His nose kept running and he'd wipe it on his cuff. It seemed wrong to be chastising my father for wiping his nose on his sleeve as I do so often to my son and daughter. But it was really grossing me out. He stopped but instead of using the tissues I'd brought him just allowed the snot to run out of his nose and drip into a stain just to the left of the stain of the drool from his mouth, running then dripping down his chin. I don't think he knew what the tissues where for. Didn't even call them wipers any more.

After I left the home called me at home to let me know they'd called the doctor to see him. The doctor pronounced that his chest was clear but prescribed an antibiotic "as there was obviously something wrong with him". He's already on an antibiotic to control a hospital aquired infection in the bone in his arm. Pratting about with his medication can have a huge impact, not only does it rob him of any proper sleep pattern, it often makes him hallucinate wildly and can knock out the effect of the antibiotic maintaining his bone infection and make the wound flare up again. How can anyone prescribe any drug without knowing what's wrong - how can you cure what you can't diagnose? Maybe I'm wrong - I often am - but is that no a bit arse about face? And potentially dangerous considering the fine balance of this man's chemistry? His arm will flare up - again - soon I suppose.

21st June 2007 - The longest day

2007-06-21T19:55:00.000+01:00

I spoke to Rab today. He's lovely. His wife is a resident and he comes in every day to see her. He says hello to everyone, he remembers everyone's names, he takes time to speak to everyone he see's on his path from the door to his wife. He's amazing. He obvious dotes on his wife, she has terminal cancer and her memory has been affected by the disease and treatment. Normally he'll just ask how I am, how Dad is or chat to Ellie, but today Dad was sleeping and his wife was seeing a social worker in her room, so he sat beside me and asked how I was. For some reason I didn't come back with fine, I looked at Dad, my eyes filled and I said that I was ok. He understood. He asked what I thought of the home and I gave him a few of my gripes.

When I asked how he was he told me how he was cheery in the home, but depressed in his home, he keeps it together for his wife, but he's only just hanging on by a thread sometimes. The latest treatment for her cancer took a lot out of her and she's in a lot of pain, his family aren't coping well with losing her and he's finding it difficult to support them. And then this week he found out he's got cancer too. But there's no point moaning is there, just shut up and get on with it.

Fucking hell. Moan. Moan a lot. I'll listen, I'll understand. Moan all you like Rab. You've earned a moan.

Dad woke, Rab asked how he was, squeezed and patted his knee and told him he was 'no a bad old soul' and Dad smiled, pleased at the contact. He winked and waved as he walked away to see is his wife was finished "It's the longest day today Jeannette, tomorrow will be shorter". It is the longest day.

20th June 2007 - Tommywatch

2007-06-20T16:57:00.000+01:00

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.

14th June 2007 - That man Barrymore again

2007-06-14T20:14:00.000+01:00

When I first saw him, he was sleeping at a table after his morning tea, sat with Lily who was awake and chatty, despite her 92 years. When I woke Dad he smiled and laughed with pleasure at seeing me and I was glad I had come.

I hadn't been going to go. I was tired, there was loads of stuff to do in the house and I was vaguely hungover. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to see Amy who'd been depressing me. She'd been very trying, she'd taken a downturn lately and she was driving everyone round the bend. She can be so vicious and so tragic. She was crying all over me yesterday because she was frightened, literally scared rigid of Bruce when he approached her. She turned to me, her eyes filled with tears that burst the floodgates and flowed saltily down her freckled wrinkles. She was so small, so fragile and said "He scares me so. He's a bad man. He comes in to the toilet and does things. Make him go away". This is Amy who thought the day room was the toilet the previous day to that and had pulled down her trousers and pants in the corner of the room just before Tweedledum shouted her to "Don't be dirty this is the day room, no the bog Amy. Put it away, ye willnae get a lumber showing these guys that! I say, ye'll no get a lumber that wey, girl, I should ken, I've dun enuff in my time tae try tae get ma Nat King - zat no right Moira? Eh? Ye'll dae onythin' sumtimes tae git a lumber?".

But Amy was scared, so I put my arm round her shoulders and told her not to worry, she was safe, no-one would hurt her. She stared me in the eye, kicked my ankle and said very low but very clearly "Git yer fuckin' hauns aff me. I'm no a fuckin' nutcase - there's many of them in here thit are but no me. Yer fuckin daft auld cunt of a faither - he's one of them. Bastard is fuckin' mental. And stinking. Stinks of shite. Yer faither stinks o' shite. So you away an' fuck off".

So I didn't want to go, didn't want to even more than usual, but I was glad I did. And Dad was glad I did.

I mentioned Michael Barrymore's arrest to Dad. He'd been arrested in connection with the death of Stuart Lubbock at his house in 2001. The news came on a bulletin that was on while I was in the home visiting - I hadn't seen the news that morning or a paper - so I was very surprised and exclaimed some sort of "Oh". Dad couldn't remember who Michael Barrymore was. He and Mum used to sit and roar with laughter at "My kind of People". The mirth always escaped me - but then I am a humourless drone as my Mum once pointed out. I always felt it was cruel. But, the point was, he watched his programmes for years and yet couldn't remember him at all. I shouldn't be surprised, I know I shouldn't - a few weeks ago he couldn't remember his own name. I was surprised though, and saddened once again. But he'd been gad to see me, so it was a good visit.

11th June 2007 - FeeI the benefit now though

2007-06-11T22:43:00.001+01:00

Dad was very depressed when I saw him. He's feeling ok, his drug regime has settled and he's pretty 'with-it'. Unfortunately that brings with it an awareness of his situation, he knows he's measuring out his life in coffee spoons, he knows where he is and he knows he's dying. He called the home a zoo today. He apologised for it right away saying that wasn't what he meant, but he was near enough. I was so lost for something to say, I couldn't think of anything to give him comfort, give him hope or solace. I could see Lily over at the door of the day room. She'd noticed us and was zimmering her way over to us. "Hullo hen, how are you the day?" I told her I was fine and asked how she was "Better than I wiz the morn hen. I wiz dog rough this morn, pished and shat mesel and I feel a lot better fur it - once I was cleaned up like, I'm no an animal. I really felt the benefit of a good empty oot. Do you enjoy a shite yersel hen?" she finished by asking. I confirmed that there was nothing like it, but quietly as I knew my Dad wouldn't approved of such coarse talk. "Maybe zoo was the bright worm after all" he said as she went towards the other end of the room to tell the residents there of her upturn in wellbeing brought on by her incontinence.

5th June 2007 - Robert Mitchum

2007-06-05T17:51:00.000+01:00

Dad was sitting at a 'comfy' chair when I went in. There were two housekeepers in the day room - the older one hoovering and the younger one using a carpet shampooer. The noise was incredible. The distruption of the two machines made Bertha kick off, and she made Derek start to cry and moan. He set off Tommy and the Lily started screaming at Bertha. Dad didn't seem to mind though. Probably because he thought he was watching a film. He seemed to think the part of the younger housekeeper was being played by a young Robert Mitchum. Granted she wasn't a bonny girl but the similarity to big Mitch was lost on me.

3rd June 2007 - Lying not Lion

2007-06-04T18:42:00.000+01:00

"I've been telling lies" Dad blurted out when I met him today. "I've got to tell you. Lying to the three. Making up stories. To the three. But mainly to you. You're Jeannette". I am Jeannette. I rather liked being part of 'the three' though - it sounded vaguely Star Trekky and mystical. I was part of 'the three' - three siblings - my Dad's children.

I got him settled and asked "What do you mean you've been lying? What stories have you been telling?" I asked him. I tried not to be ingtrigued, I tried not to guide him or harass him into continuing that line of thought - both for his sake and for mine. I've known many times in the past when he seemed to be about to tell me something important only for it to be hoovered away with the dust of the housekeepers persistent,pointless, distracting vaccuming. Or to be be changed mid sentence to follow the theme blared by the commercial on TV - "Your Mum and I didn't mean any harm we just got on to Sheila's wheels. No hang on, who's Sheila?".
He stared at me and I could see him searching and searching his mind to try and find the thread he'd dropped. But it was gone "Lion? There's no lions here - you want the zoo for those" and then his face eased a little and brightened as he thought he'd got back what to his point "I meant Lyons tea house - that was it, that right isn't it?" he implored, nodding me into agreeing "Yes, that's right Lyons tea house" and he smiled, happy to have sorted that one out, and dropped off into another catnap.

He's less and less able to communicate at all these days. He still uses all the 'filler' words in conversation so that he will start off saying "I've been trying for a number of days - perhaps even a week - to tell you something. Every time I get to the point, I lose my train of thought" and by the time he's finished that - or something similar - he's knackered and can't remember the actual 'thing'.
So much of conversation is pointless - not just my Dad's. I hate it when people talk and talk but say nothing. "Well, actually,in point of fact, it's like this Jeannette, I turned round and I just said to the boy I said......" instead of "I said....". Wasted words. And when your words are measured out in rations of five or six at a time, there's no point wasting them will fillers, with crap. I want to tell him just to say what is important. But it's pointless. He won't understand. I looked at him and he's fighting his way to wakefulness again. His skin is very dry, the antibiotics he's been on are making his skin very itchy, his skin is "anty" which I took to mean that he felt it was crawling. He's used to having dry itchy skin - he's had asthma and eczema all his life. He's been taken off the cream he'd used for the past 30 years for his skin to alieviate the itching "because of the long term detrimental effects". Aye right. His skin is dry, his eyes are yellowing, bloodshot and his irises are constricting with a bluey white ring. He's losing weight too, he looks so small. Small and helpless. And hopeless. But he doesn't need to be itchy too - long term detrimental effects? Fucking Doctors.

1st June 2007 - Making her feel special

2007-06-04T18:41:00.000+01:00

I talked to my Dad today about the wee girl that went missing in Portugal - Madeline McCann. I wish I hadn't. I was leafing through the paper and her picture was in it and that of her parents with their other two children. I was telling him how horrble it must be, wondering how anyone could take a child. I was meaning that I didn't know how what state of mind you'd have to be in to take - and keep - a child from it's parents. He took what I said rather differently. He said he supposed it would be quite easy to take a child. He surmised that the abductors probably told her lots of lies about how pretty and clever she was to make her feel special, then she'd go with them willingly she'd be so full of herself. It was such a Dad thing to say, so typical of the things he'd have said - the attitude he'd have had to me when I was growing up - that I was fuming. Pointlessly, frustratingly angry with him. My eyes smarted with redundant never to be shed tears "Of course she's special, she's pretty, she's clever, she IS special. Every child is special". "Well, you would say that. I hope you don't go telling your two they are special. Turning their heads. Making them think they're more than they are". Well, Dad, I'm rather afraid I do. Daily and then some. I tell them they are clever, they are gorgeous, they are wonderful, they are loved.
Why did this flash of self have to be THIS flash of self? Don't get above yourself, don't think you're anything special because you're not. We are all living in the gutter - some of us might be looking at the stars but others are blindfolding us and telling us it's where we belong.
I know it's not his fault. I know it is his old self peaking through, untrammelled by the dementia, but how he came to be the person that would think like that is lost. What turned him into the bitter soul that would want his daughter convinced of her ordinariness, her mundane abilities, her average looks and lack of wit? No, Dad, my children are special. And so is Madeline. And so, I suppose, are you Dad. Except your potential is behind you, is that what made you so bitter?

The making of my Mum

2007-05-27T07:48:00.000+01:00

My mum wrote this autobiographical short story, which we found after she died. We had no idea this had happened. It explains so much about how she was towards each of us. When I read it, I started to be able to understand why she did what she did. Or rather didn't do what she should have. She must have lived with the feeling that she was responsible for all of her life.

Her story was never published - or even talked about - during her life. So I've copied it here. I know she'd want it to be published - and this blogging thing can lend a certain amount of anonymity. Everyone involved in it is dead - it's titled "The making of Teri".

Sale was a small town in the south of Scotland. It had known its hey–day in the 12th century and somehow managed to convey a dark medieval atmosphere even in 1930. The ruins of an ancient monastery brooded over the main street. Old trees cast a dappled shadow over the rustic seats provided for the convenience of shoppers. The seats were as usual well filled by the town drunks and youthful unemployed.

Old John sat and talked to the little girl who played nearby, a pale faced child about seven years old with straight, lifeless brown hair. It was a summer day but the child was wearing a long sleeved woollen jersey over a dirty floral dress. Her thin legs were sheathed in long black stockings. The child was dirty and she smelt sour.

From a shopping bag John produced a birthday card. It was of a style popular about the turn of the century. Set into the front of it was a real lace handkerchief, white and frothy and smelling of flowers. Inside the card it said “To mother with Love”. “Come and see the nice card Teri”. John leaned forward extending the card in both hands to display the full beauty of the delicately painted flowers and the little handkerchief set like a white rose in a little golden basket.

Old John laughed as he raised the card above his head and moved with surprising agility to place his legs apart and catch the girl between them as she launched herself at the card. His other hand slipped quickly under the filthy dress, into the top of the woollen stockings and down between the soft white little legs. His hand was warm, gentle and caressing. He’d done this before and Teri had survived the first shock of it happening. She giggled, snatched the card and pushed herself free of John’s legs. At a safe distance, the card held close to her face where she could smell the scent and feel the satiny smoothness of the glossy card, she looked back, smiled, waved and ran off. John stood up, shopping bag in hand and began to move off slowly. He was very fat.

Teri’s mother lay on the kitchen floor; her lover pumping above her. She heard Teri coming into the house. “Mum, Mum, see my card old John gave me”. Teri pushed on the kitchen door. It would not yield. “You can’t come in” called her mother “I’m washing the floor”. Teri heard the body noises, the man’s chuckle. The laughter in her mother’s voice. She became conscious of a feeling that would grow with her through life, a cold searing isolation. She went into the bedroom and sat down to look at her card and wait till the feel of it and the smell of it would put away the bad feelings. Nice things always did.

Teri’s mother loved to be in the limelight. She also loved David., the young man who availed himself of her favours. David was engaged to a very respectable girl, one of the few people in David’s experience capable of exercising any self-control. You wouldn’t catch her giving it away on the kitchen floor when he was out working to keep her.

David treasured another totally erroneous notion. He believed Teri to be his bastard and never failed to tell anyone prepared to listen. Teri’s real father did not seem to have the heart or interest to do anything about this situation other than to say that it was all nonsense. What bound him to his marriage it is hard to say. He spent most of his time working, when there was any work and ended his days in an alcoholic haze.

After some time when David had had a smoke and a good wash, he was particular in matters of hygiene, he left the house, in some haste it must be said, since Teri’s mother had launched into a tirade against his determination to marry another woman. Teri heard him leaving and ran into the kitchen, card in hand. Mother was usually in a good mood when David came. Not so today. She snatched the card from the child.

Where did you get this? From old John? And what did you give him for this and the scraps and the doll and the sweeties? I don’t know what it is that anyone sees in you to give you anything, I’m going to get to the root of this. You won’t play with the other kids. You’re always on your own. Some man is always giving you something. Seven years of age and you’re going with men. I’m going to report this to the police and get you put into a home. You’re out on my control. I’m not the only one responsible for you. The tirade continued without let-up. Teri, choking with tears and fright was dragged along the road. Had she been able to speak, had anyone been listening she would have given an honest account of her actions. She did not ‘go with men’, whatever that meant. She did not play with the other children because they ran away from her.

The scene at the police station made no sense to Teri. She was drowning in fear. She thought her mother was accusing her of stealing things from men. She knew she could not trust her mother but she was not aware of her mother’s hatred because frequently she was told “I’m your mother and I love you”.
She felt hot and sick. Her eyes were burning and her head ached. She could not stop shaking. She lost control of her bladder. The hot liquid filled her stockings and made a pool on the floor. This new humiliation brought forth a torrent of tears and accusation from her mother but a surprising gentleness and reassurance from the police officers.

Two policemen brought in old John. He was crying too. He swore he had never touched Teri. He gave her a few toys for a kindness, He often spoke to her because she was a lonely child. He was a lonely old man. Teri took her queue from John. They were both in the same trouble. Despite endless questions and repeated allegations Teri stuck to her story. “He didn’t touch me, he didn’t touch me. Please can I go home. Please can this stop. Please Mum take me home I wont talk to John again….”

After a very long time the police interlude came to an end and a police car took then home with her mother chatting affably to the officer, telling him how careful she was. How much care she took of her daughter. How diligent one had to be.

“You’ll have to wait until Teri goes to the chip shop for your tea” May told her husband, who had arrived home from work looking to be fed. “You won’t believe what that thing” gesturing towards Teri “has put me through this day”.

Teri was told to get two fish suppers and a pie for herself. She was told how much it would cost, told to count her change and take good care that she wasn’t cheated. After tea her father told her to forget all about the events of the day. It was all a lot of nonsense. He went off to the pub and May sat down to read a copy of True Romances “Get washed and go to your bed”. Teri made no protest. She stood at the sink and the a piece of rough soda soap she washed her face and hands at the cold tap, for it was a cold water flat. “Will that do for tonight?” she asked. “I suppose so” said May without raising her head “Go to your bed”. It was one of the few nights that Teri slept straight through. She wasn’t wakened by heat spots or nightmares or the activities of her parents when they joined her in the bed some hours later.

Next morning Teri rose and performed the same scant ablutions and found some clothes to put on in her drawer. This was no guarantee that the clothes were clean. May hated to see things lying about and she kept all the clothes in drawers , clean or dirty.
Teri spread some jam on a thick slice of bread and asked her mother if she could go out.
“Go where you like” said May, then as an afterthought she said “Go and see old John. See if they’ve let him out of the jail yet”.

Teri did not want to see old John. She wanted to be by herself in the cold clean air. Soon she was engaged in one of her favourite games, seeing how far she could run before the stitch in her side made her stop. It must have been about an hour when Teri found herself surrounded by a crowd of people, some of them trying to attack her. She was being called filthy, a liar, other names she did not know. Once again she was rescued and escorted by a policeman.

“Teri’s had a little bit of trouble in the street” he told May. Mr John Maitland must have been very upset by yesterday’s business. He took his own life last night”. May looked at the young policeman, then slowly a calculating look entering her eyes, she said, “If Mr John Maitland took his own life then I was right, He had been up to something with Teri”. “Teri cleared My Maitland. We fully accepted his story. It was a very upsetting business for both parties, Maybe you should try to get Teri away for a while – get away yourself. Have you any relatives you can go and visit till things cool down a bit? Mr Maitland was very well thought of by a lot of people”.

“Well, a lot of people thought wrong then, didn’t they? An innocent person will stand their ground. As for going away, I don’t see why I should. I am an innocent party here. Nobody would offer to take care if Teri. The place for Teri is one of these homes for correction of wayward girls.”

“Teri is far too young for one of these institutions” said the policeman, “There is no where we can place her even for her own protection. She is going to have to be looked after for a while. Don’t let her out on her own”.

“Teri is just going to have to take her chances. She is out on my control. She’s the one who told the lies. A home would be the making of her. Her lies will cause real trouble one day”.

The End

25th May 2007 - Bedroom arrangements

2007-05-25T17:45:00.000+01:00

He tried to fondle me today. I know he thought I was my Mum, I know he wasn't trying to fondle his daughter but as he leered into me, licked, then puckered his lips and raised his hand towards my left boob I was appalled. I hope my disgust didn't show in my face - I hope he didn't think his wife was recoiling from him, revolted by his touch. I hope he didn't realise it was me too - he'd be disgusted with himself.

Earlier in the visit one of the housekeeping staff had been talking to us at our table. Shouting questions at him "Who's this then? Who's this come to visit you?". She knows who I am, but seemed to think it helpful to quiz Dad about me. He couldn't remember my name or who I was so she shouted answers for him "This is your daughter. Your big grown up daughter." He looked at me through his foggy eyes, trying to focus, not focus his eyes so much as his brain. Trying to place me, trying to slot my face into his hall of memories, his mental portait gallery. Unfortunately the older I get, the more I look like my Mum. Not remarkably so, but the underlying resemblance is more marked the older I get.

When the housekeeper left Dad asked me "What are we going to do about the bedroom arrangements?". With a certain degree of trepidation I asked what he meant, but before he could formulate an answer I said "You have your bedroom here Dad. I have my one at home. All your things are here, in your own room". "And you want it to stay that way do you? That's fine by you from now on?" he asked he face showing the all too familiar expression of resigned disappointment he often wore when I was growing up. He'd always let me know he was disappointed without actually saying so.
"Yes, that's fine by me" I said. I felt I was being cruel but what could or should I have done I wonder.

But I do hope he knew on some level that it was me who had visited. I think he did as as I was going out the door he said "I want to say truck but that's not it... Van... no lorry. I want to say lorry". He was sorry. I kissed his cheek and patted his face "It's ok Dad, it's part of the illness. I'll see you tomorrow".

17th May 2007 - Take her to the piss house

2007-05-20T07:04:00.000+01:00

Frieda was on day room duty today - with Graham. Graham looks and speaks like he's ex-army. He's obviously hard as glass but he's had discipline somewhere because he's very moderated in what he says, to whom and he's got the smarts to judge his audience. Frieda doesn't have that level of ability - or she just doesn't care who hears her, or who she offends. "I'll no change fur anyone. Like me or lump me".
They deal with their jobs and the things it throws at them - sometimes literally - very differently.

Frieda's manner is that she sort of flirts with people. It's almost as if she flirts with an unseen beau, as if she's putting on a show for someone she's really trying to amuse. Normally. But Graham was with focus of her flirt today. He shouted on her to help him put Annabelle back in her chair after her breakfast - an hour and a half after her breakfast but better late than never I'd have thought. "Gie it anither 10 minutes an' all take her tae the piss hoose any roads" she shouted back. Graham either saw the fixed face on me or is genuinely a carer because he shouted back "That's a bit selfish is it no?" And because it was Graham she acquiesed without a murmur. Anyone else would have had an earful.

When she got back Anne-Marie accused her of stealing the banana she'd put aside for lunch. "A banana? Wit would I want wi a banana ? A banana's no big enough, ye need a cucumber. Eh girls? Eh Graham? Are you hiding a banana or a cucumber? Or are you more of a gherkin man ? Ye need a cucumber, banana's just don't have the girth. Eh Lily? You need a cucumber no a banana eh Lily?" Lily responded "I'd like a banana hen, that's awfy kind of ye" and as she goes to get one "She's one fucking filthy bitch that yin, thinks I'm daft, but at least I'm getting a nice banana oot of her - an I'll see an gie it a wash too."

9th May 2007 - Cbeebies

2007-05-09T20:04:00.000+01:00

I found a calendar the home had given me - just after New Year - today. It's like one your pre-school child would make for you - a big photo of them and one of those little two inch by one inch date calendars glued onto a piece of card. It's tragic. It's hideous. My Dad's gaunt, worn, confused face, so scared, so sad, and below that the days of the next year of his life. Will he get to the end of this calendar? What, in the name of any fucking deity in the Uni-fucking-verse, would make anyone think that it was a good idea to make these things for relatives?

Just now I can't go in to see Dad. Ellie's been ill, contagiously so, and even when she sleeps, I'm not sure that I might not be carrying germs that would be unwise to introduce into a hothouse full of very vulnerable lives, a big draft of germy cold air into an orchid house. It's not a good idea. I've told him. But he won't remember. He'll feel deserted, he is deserted.

When I found the calendar I felt so sad. I want to go and see him but I can't. But the calendar made me so angry, and it did when I was given it. I can't understand why anyone trained to understand about dignity, about personal rights, about human decency would think that making a calendar with a photo of a shadow,a fragment of a living ghost would be a "nice wee gift for one of the family".

There's a corridor in the home where the walls are adorned with pictures painted by the residents. Or at least the residents of about 2 years ago. They are framed. Someone else has written on what the painter had given as a title. Some of the painters are dead. Most of the paintings are colourful splodges, but even with artistic license, look like the scrawls of a child younger than Ellie. She can make a flower, she can make a house, she can make a person - with tummy button - and she can make a car. It's just horrible to look at them. I don't understand why they are there. Maybe I should the home administrators why they are there, because the only reason I can think of is that they are there so they can be pointed to, with a "we do painting for those that are interested" on the introductory walk round. The folk that painted them are either "deid" or "awa' tae the moon" and wouldn't even know their own picture. I'm annoyed that more isn't understood about dementia. I'm not annoyed, I'm furious, it's a huge and growing problem. And I'm feeling hugely guilty because I can't go and see him just now. And I'm feeling even guiltier for the slight relief that I feel for not having to go in to the home, for not having to smell, not see, not be there.

29th April 2007 - Are your shoes working hen?

2007-04-30T11:29:00.000+01:00

"Are your shoes working hen?" Lily asked me as I came in. I replied that they were and she looked with bemusement at her slippers. The tongue was flapping out of the left one but she'd zimmered away before I had a chance to tell her.

Dad and I sat at a table and Margot brought us tea and coffee. Which was very kind as the trolley had been round already. Dad didn't acknowledge her bringing them over but I thanked her and she knew I appreciated her kindness. Her face is very easy to read, she is a person that can not hide how she is feeling. If she is in a thunderous mood, her brows collect above her eyes and you can almost see her own personal 'little black rain cloud' just hovering above her head. When she's in a bad mood, you know. And it's always the same cause. The management of the home. Not the residents, not even the equally demanding relatives, but the management. She can handle batting away "The dodds of shite that they fling at me, it's the keich fae above that gets ma goat". Sod cloning sheep, they should clone her. Clone her over and over again and sack the Tweedles.

Anyway, Dad was a million miles from planet earth. "Away ta-ta" as my mother would have said. Every foray into conversation I tried went nowhere and was confusing him and - latterly - just irritating him. So I stopped talking, read him a few bits from the paper and sat back for a while. I sat without much interaction for 5 minutes - I could see the huge wall clock from my post - and in that time the wanderers circuited the place. The residents that walk round and round and round. At differing paces , some with zimmers or sticks, some unaided, but all to no place, to no end, to no purpose persevable to the undemented eye. Amy went round most. In five minutes she came and went 14 times. Came in, sat, got restless, rose and walked off with a "I've lost me handbag" or a "Jist wait 'til my husband comes in" or a warning "Look out fur that yin love, she'll have yer purse quick as look at you".
Only to come back seconds later, apparently oblivious to the previous encounter.

Lily had sat at the table next to us. She was staring at her slippers, the tongue of which was still flapping around. She was bent over trying to fix it, then took it off, turning it over and over trying to make sense of it. One of the staff was watching her do it, and watching me watch too, he was smiling at me in a "Aren't they funny sometimes" kind of way as she'd swear at her "Fucking bastard shoe, will ye no go oan and stay on!". After a bit I kneel down in front of her and fix her slipper for her. "That's awfy kind of ye hen! Are you a doctor or tha? Ye must be awfy clever to fix tha jist like tha!"

When I had got back up to our table Dad asked "Is it usual for a woman to propose these days then?" and I realised he mistook my dropping to my knees infront of Lily the wrong way. "I was fixing her slipper Dad, not asking to marry her". "Ah, that makes it better then, I would think you'd be better to marry a man". Lily screams from the other table "It's no a man I'm looking fur it's the buckin' lavvy. Aw, hen, Doctor, will you no tell me where the lavvy is?". On my way out I showed her where the lavvy was, while the staff member read the Daily Record and waved me a cheery goodbye.

28th April 2007 - They've got me playing a Rock Star

2007-04-29T07:30:00.000+01:00

I visited on my own today. When I found Dad - he'd been wandering after his afternoon tea. He always "gets up and goes" after a meal or a cup of tea - which I suppose is natural - after you've stopped what you were doing in your day to have a meal or a break you would get up again to start back doing whatever it is you do. Dad still gets up to start back with his day, but there's nothing to do, he wanders off until he forgets where he is or where he's going.

Anyway I found him and brought him back to the day room to sit down. I ask him if he's had his afternoon tea and although he says no I see Karen assuring me with a head movement that he has. There's a few other visitors in - it's a Saturday - so we all nod to each other and smile. It's very noisy in the day room - Bertha mainly, shouting over and over at everyone that passes her. I asked Dad how he was and he launches into a story "Not too good. They've got me playing a rock star in this film." "You're playing a rock star?" I echo as it seems pretty unlikely casting "No don't be daft, I'm the man organising the prison break, why would I be a rock star? Anyway there's this underground driver and his father of the bride - no hang on what do you call the father of the bride?" He was looking at me wanting an answer, I was wondering if I'd drifted off and missed a bit of the question because I've no idea what I'm being asked but reply "The father of the bride" and he nods gratefully that I've cleared up that little grey area of confusion "Yes, that's it the father of the bride, all very smart must have been quite a do, very hoity toity". At that point one of the housekeeping staff passed and my Dad watches him pass "See that what I mean. That big negro could have brought me a tea, we're sat at a chairable, it's obvious what we want. He never brings the tea, must think it's beneath him." "It's not his job Dad, he's a housekeeper not a carer" I tried to tell him. "Shush, he'll hear you, you can't call him a housekeeper anymore, they don't like it". I made him a mug of tea as I fight off the mage of Jonesy in Dad's Army "They don't like it up 'em those Fuzzy Wuzzy's".

The creation of the 'chairable' word is something I've noticed creeping in lately. His words are sometimes coming out chopped up, joined together or with sound or even spell alike substitions. A chairable is chair and table run together. It's almost as if he's reading what he's about to say - maybe he is in a scripted film, although obviously not cast as a rock star that would be daft.

25th April 2007 - Yer shite still reeks love

2007-04-25T17:04:00.000+01:00

Amy was in a bad mood today. Normally she's in a reasonable frame of mind - or rather temper - she's obviously in no frame of mind or she wouldn't be in there. Ellie and I were playing snap, sitting at a table, with Dad watching. Amy joined us at the vacant chair at the table and asked to join in. Ellie was pleased and handed her a pile of cards to play with. The game started with Ellie, moved to me, then to Amy. Amy didn't play a card so Ellie said "It's your turn, you need to play a card". "I know I need to play a card, I'm no that far gone that I need a bairn to tell me how to play cerds!" but still no card. We waited a bit longer. No card. I played my card and she rounded on me "You're jist taking the piss now. Away and fuck off, snap my arse! And you mind your language in front of the bairn!" and she wander off cursing me and my card sharp cheating ways. I was bemused. She looked back and turned to spit at me "You think you're better than us don't you? Yer shite still reeks love, same as mine" and off she went again. In the corner of my eye I see Tweedledum smirking. She's of the opinion that I think I'm better than her too. Couldn't be further from the truth really, I don't think I'm better than anyone, far from it. If I were to measure myself against anyone else I'd come up woefully inadequate. For all I inwardly mock the Tweedles, I know I couldn't do what they do, I'm not enough of a person and they are. No, I don't think I better than you Amy. Saner yes, better no. And the saner bit isn't a definite, not necessarily a permanent fixture.

22nd April 2007 - Friday 13th April Have a nice day!

2007-04-24T12:32:00.000+01:00

There's a new man. He looks lovely, he's so smiley. He's very smart, very dapper. His hair looks like a wig, even though it's not, but it looks like the wig Stepoe's Dad used to wear when he was trying to be posh. I saw his family bring him in, he was smiling, fixed smile, being told all the same things. "It's just until you are feeling stronger, and if you don't like it we can see about something else. The food is great - you have to watch you don't start getting fat! And there's lots of outings and trips. They even have entertainment brought in special - I wouldn't mind a few weeks convalescing here myself". Talk talk talk - I did it when I was bringing my Dad in all those months ago. Anything to avoid him being able to ask, to question, to make me have to tell the truth. I smiled feebly at the relatives, they smiled back at me, but our eyes meet and I know they are hating this, and they know I've hated it too. And he smiles.

But if there's a new resident, there must be one gone, so I looked around the day room doing a mental tick list. There's no Jinny. And I listened and I couldn't hear "ohohohohoh". And I thought back and realised that over the last couple of weeks I hadn't had to rescue Ellie from Jinny, only from Margaret and Cecily.

I saw Tweedle on the way out and I asked about Jinny. "Deid. She woke up the next agin morn to a heart attack. Aye, woke up to heart failure, took a heart attack. But as I ayeways say "Thats' the way to go" - it is though eh but ? Ok one minute then wake up deid the next through the night". I agree with her but I'm thinking "But she wasn't ok was she, she'd been off her trolley for years you daft tart" and I feel guilty for being so uncharitable until Tweedle tells me "I didnae mind Jinny, she wiz annoying but harmless - apart fur the smell of shite - but the one I'm waiting fur is Dolly. I canny wait for Dolly to pop her clogs - no fur her sake, she's no so bad - it's her buckin' husband. Yisterday I wis gieing Moll her yoghurt and he comes up tae me - all nicey nicey, nice as ninepence - and asks if I'd make them a cup of tea when I wiz finished with Moll. Like I've got nothing better tae dae? I let them wait I can assure you of that. He's a pain in the erse that yin, I'll no be sad tae see the back of Dolly. That's one funeral I'll no be going tae." I wonder if she'll come to Dad's. I wonder if you can stop them coming. I wonder if she talks like that about me and Dad to other people. I suppose she must. No reason to suspect she's any nicer about us to other people. Just when I'd started to like her, or at least to get used to her ways and manage to convince myself they were ok.

16th April 2007 - Don't-give-a-fucker

2007-04-17T11:25:00.002+01:00

It was a sunny day - much sunnier and warmer than you'd expect for the time of year. British obsession with weather. Anyway, as we left - Dad was too hot so dehydrated and completely sensless - I saw Tweedledee who asked if we ( me and Ellie ) were away to enjoy the sunshine. When I said we were she rounded with a vicious but vaguely joking "It's alright for some eh? I say it's alright for some! I'm stuck in here they lot, wiping the shite aff the bloody wall's, but that fine, you away and hive an ice cream an a walk on the beach". If you asked her what her job was she'd say "Carer".

What does that make the rest of us then - don't-give-a-fuckers? Carer, my arse as Jim Royle would say. Carer!

13th April 2007 - Friday 13th indeed

2007-04-17T11:25:00.001+01:00

There's a new lady. She's finding it hard to settle in. She's pretty together and some of the staff are treating her as if her dementia were further progressed than it is. And probably soon will be, especially if she stays in there for long. She's not being asked meal choices, being fobbed off when she asks to go out or when she wants to go to her room. So she barricades herself in, stacks chairs behind the door. She's on her way to being labelled as difficult and shipping off to a hospital. Surely each of the homes should have someone experienced or qualified above a checklist level to assess someone's level of care need? The needs of the residents change on a day to day basis - usually they worsen but not always. Sometimes dementia looks worse than it is due to dehydration, drug regime change, other illness, depression, all sorts of things. And sometimes, just sometimes, people play up. I would. If I knew everyone around me thought I was off my trolley, that I was locked up and was going nowhere, if I knew I was dying, I reckon I might play up just a tad too. I'd barricade myself in, I'd swear and shout, not waving but drowning. Go on yersel, new wummin. Barricade yersel in, cuss and swear, gie it laldy.

Friday the 13th and the new wummin will be hauled out once the handyman and the male orderlies move the obstacles. "I cannae dae it, I've got ma monthlies and I walked unner a ladder this morning - this morn of aw morn's I ask ye. It's no that I believe aw that, but there's got tae be sumhink in it. You every watch that Derek Acorah? Now you tell me there's no sumhink in it. He's amazin' him is he naw?" Tweedle tells me. "An Annie cannae dae it n'aw. She's on light duties efter that wummin in the other unit wi the one eye bit her on the nose".

6th April 2007 - Good Friday

2007-04-17T11:24:00.000+01:00

"It's Good Friday today Dad" I ventured at one point. "What's so good about it?" he met me with but Ellie explained it pretty well I thought "Well, Papa, it's like this if you are good all day this friday the Easter Bunny brings you chocolate on Sunday".

1st April 2007 - April Fools Day

2007-04-17T11:22:00.000+01:00

It was April Fools Day. Having always been considered - or maybe that should just be having always been - a miserable cow, I've never really seen the mirth in April Fool's Day. The problem has always been for me that a 'joke' is something that should be funny. Most April fool's jokes are just lies, not funny lies, just lies. So anyway, April Fools Day usually passed me by. I am probably often duped by the jokes but just don't care. But this April Fools Day it didn't pass me by.

In the home there's a chalk board on the wall where some staff member or other is tasked with writing the day and date - sometimes with a wee smiley which makes all the difference. Often it's misspelled. I used to think this was due to the number of Eastern European staff until I saw Susie - Embra born and bred and proud of it - write up Satarday 13nth Febry. Frequently it's forgotten about for a couple of days, which must defeat the purpose surely - keeping the residents aware of the day and month is a good idea but the Groundhog Day effect must be a problem. Even worse sometimes it just wiped clean. Lily once cornered me in front of it "Is it no a day the day then hen?" I looked at the board "It's just not been written up today Lily. It's Saturday today". "But that's no wit it sez up there. Maybe I've no woken up yet, is it still yesterday? Naw that canny be right. I'm no in ma goonie, I'd be in ma goonie if it wiz yesterday. I'm jist gaunae wait here until it's a day. I might be daft but I'm no risking walking about in between days". A reasonable enough precaution in the circumstances I supposed.

But, this day, the board was emblazoned with 1st April - APRIL FOOLS DAY. But someone had hung the board upside down in a 'comical' way. Anyway, a couple of the residents passed the chalkboard, tilted their heads in a budgie-like, birdy fashion, then stopped and stood, staring at the upturned notification of the year's most jocular day.

My Dad, as we passed the board, looked at it, snorted himself into an asthmatic coughing fit and then looked me in the eye and asked "So it's all a joke then? I'm not going mad, not going down the pan and I can go home with you now? It's all a joke. I knew you wouldn't leave me here! To Moira's, or Colin's, my house or even your house, but we can leave now - yes?" "No Dad, we can't. You are still not well enough. You still have your bad turns" I try to fob him off. I might have imagined it but I think I see his spark return to his eye, the one that would flicker in there before he would send out a barb, a veiled barb, a "you took me the wrong way" barb, but a heat seeking, heart seeking, target guided, sidewinder barb all the same. "Bad turns? Is that what you call dying? Dementia's a bad turn is it? It's April Fools Day but I'm not buying it". I tried to think of something to say but couldn't find anything but Tweedledum came thumping through with a red nose on and a cowgirl hat with attached blonde pigtails "Aprils Fool - got ya" and tickled him with a feather duster. Thanks Tweedle, you saved my ass. It annoyed him so much he forgot his irritation with me, forgot his realisation and lost hold of that spasm of loquaciousness and clarity. "I lost my glasses over the side of the Queen Mary you know" he tells me again. Poor Dad. I hope he doesn't remember how I let him down.

30th March 2007 - Put them away then!

2007-04-05T07:43:00.000+01:00

I've always been irritated by women with big breasts. It's not the breasts themselves that annoy me but the women behind them. Generally - and I do mean generally as I also know a few mammary heavy women that are very nice people - they really get on my tits. My ordinary sized tits. This may be sour grapes. I am probably jealous of my melony friends but my bug bear has always been this. If you have big boobs and claim to hate them, claim to hate the way clothes hang because of them, claim to suffer all manner of indignities as men ogle them and talk to them rather than you, and claim not to be able to sleep on your front and have terrible backache because of their pendulous weight, can I send you these pieces of advice. Firstly, buy a decent bra, one that supports the weight, therefore stopping the backache. Secondly, put them away then! Thirdly, stop talking about them all the time. And lastly, if you have big boobs but are also overweight, then the boobs are just fat, that's all, lose some weight and hey presto! your problems will be solved.

This rant was brought to you via Tweedledum who decided to confide in me today the perils of being a bigbreasted woman. She's not, she's fat. And she has them out on show whenever she can. And she talks about them all the time, drawing attention to them in case her saggy blubbery cleavage hadn't already caught your eye, or the michelin man effect on her back caused by her bra straining to circumnavigate her girth.

"Ma Rickie loves 'em. Can't keep his hands off them. But I've always suffered at the hands of ma boobs". I reckon her Rickie throws himself into the gorge of her cleavage to muffle the sound and keep away from that face.

Put them away. Shut up about them. Buy a bra that fits. Lose some weight. And if all else fails, surgery is always an option.

Rant over. Me and my average sized boobs apologize to all those women with nice large boobs. Look after them, love them, don't flaunt them too much, don't complain about them and I'm sure they will serve you well and give years of pleasure.

25th March 2007 - Licked the bowl clean

2007-03-26T17:46:00.000+01:00

We went in a little later than usual today - after picking Mark up from school rather than before. It must have been about 3:45 when we got there. The staff were already getting ready for the evening meal. Each resident has to be 'toiletted' prior to their meal, so each person that can't go themselves is taken there, then escorted back to sit at the dinner tables and wait for their meal. Presumably the theory is that if you've used the hoist to get them out of their sitted chair into a wheelchair you might as well leave them in it rather than transfer the person again. So the person will be sat in the wheelchair, tucked into the table, bib on ready for food for anything up to two hours depending when the food comes and when they are removed from the table. Sometimes, though, one of the more mobile residents will either mistake the wheelchair handles for a zimmer, or have a wicked turn and decide to take the poor unfortunate for a hurl. Still it maybe beats staring at the same knfe, fork and spoon for a couple of hours.

Jinny had been persuaded to sit at a table. There were four place settings, set for three courses and with a thick glass tumbler at each one. Starting with her own, she picked up each piece of cutlery and ate an imaginery meal with them, licking them clean and replacing them. She drank imaginery juice from each tumbler and set them back too. She was being watched by my new least favourite staff member. A poisonous wee woman who resembles Roz the sea slug thing from Monsters Inc. She had just finished shouting at Dilys - the youngest resident who is very able bodied and often very lucid - shouting to tell her to sit down in case she fell. Dilys sat "There, I'm sitting doon - are ye happy noo? So huv I jist to sit here until teatime huv I? Oh yer fuckin' jokin' are ye naw? Jist sit here fur hoors? Not bloody likely" and she went to get up. I've never seen Roz move more quickly, darting over to stand over her and force her to sit down again. "I'm only thinking of you Dilys, I don't want you to fall". "I'm no going to fuckin' fall, why should I fall? I'll use one of those daft zimners if you want". "You won't fall because you'll sit there. I'm just thinking of you" and she throws me an expression of careworn resignation, casting her eyes skyward and slightly shaking her slug head. Tweedledum appeared and they both walk away to continue laying the tables. "She's fuckin' stinking of shite by the way" Tweedle tells Roz. "Aye and she can stay that way an aw. I'm off on ma break in a hour and I'm no changing that before I huv ma tea".

Jinny noticed them pass her and stood to be face to face with Roz "Oh oh oh oh oh oh toilet". "Sit yourself down Jinny, yer cod in parsley sauce will be here in a bit" then to Tweedledum "And I'm no getting her piss all over my shoes again either, I'm going to the Weavers straight efter".

16th March 2007 - Kenneth Williams

2007-03-22T20:46:00.000Z

The entertainments lady - 2nd in command - was around today. She was reading through cards with questions on them "Did you have a favourite teacher at school?", "Was there someone who influenced you in your life?" and the one that caught my notice was "Did you have a favourite singer?". Even while I was noticing that all the questions were in the past tense - like she was asking exit questions from purgatory's waiting room - I heard her turn to Lilly and say "You used to like music. Did you naw like Kenneth Williams? He was a luvly singer in the olden days wis he naw?" There was a Scottish singer - Kenneth McKellar - and I'm assuming she meant him. I can't imagine a "Ooooh matron" to the skirl of the pipes. But she knew she was wrong and corrected herself to Kenneth Branagh, to Andy Williams, to Alexander Brotherson, to Moira Alexanderson, to Magnus MacMagnus but she kept returning to Kenneth Williams. Her little group of entertainees were not saying anything. I understood why. I didn't want to be an arse and shout across the room but I can't tune her out. She moves on to another question "What was your favourite food?". Lily decided enough was enough "What the fuck do you mean 'was'? Wur nae deid yit ya silly bitch and it's Kenneth McKellar ya daft cunt. Can ye no have a word wi yerself and dae a bit of wurk at hame. It's nae fur me - I don't gie a fuck I'm only 23 and I'm leaving soon as Wullie gits here - but these dat auld cunts dinnae huv a clue wit yer own aboot" and she stumbled of towards her zimmer.
I look back to Dad and realise I've been ignoring him and he's asleep. Shame on me. Ignoring my Dad to listen to that. Shame - again.

8th March 2007 - That's one way of keeping the loo clean

2007-03-08T12:46:00.000Z

Only managed to visit for a short while today. More truthfully could only be arsed staying a short while. I could not think of anything to say. Nothing. Not a single thing. I'd started well with a run through of the previous night's football - Man Utd had won against Lille, and Celtic had lost but I couldn't remember the name of their oponents. I knew it was one of the big teams an AC Milan or Madrid or Bayern Munich or something, and I knew it had gone to extra time and that Celtic were out of the UEFA Cup but couldn't remember the team. That was what Dad latched on to - "It's not much use if you can't remember the team is it?" he cranked. "No I suppose not but I can remember my own name" was my less than charitable mental retort while my mouth said "I'll go and see if I can find a paper and get the results". When I leave the day room I see Mary in quite considerable distress - and a shitty pair of trousers - she's very upset and banging on a door in the corridor. When I got a staff member to help her it turns out she was banging on the toilet door, not because someone was in, but because the door was locked. Saves on the cleaning when they are short staffed. Unfortunately for Mary this particular loo was the one she always went to, the only one she'd use, the only one in her mind.

Twenty minutes afterwards I heard one of the staff berating the one I'd fetched to help Mary. Although she'd helped her change, she'd left her trousers, pants and pad lying in the bathroom and he was brandishing them at her as he shouted in his eastern European accent. Mary watched her soiled trousers and pants being flourished like MacMillan's piece of white paper. Held aloft in accusatory truimph. He'd scored points over the other staff member.

I hadn't managed to find the newspaper so I couldn't confirm the teams playing for Dad, but by the time I'd come back to him after 2 minutes away he said he remembered watching it now and Colin Montgomerie had blown it at the last hole. Well, it might not be accurate but at least it's probable.

6th March 2007 Weighing day

2007-03-06T12:21:00.000Z

I wanted to thump Tweedledum today. She was making fun of Donald. He was - in truth - being very noisey, very woefully noisy. Moaning loudly and long. She kept shushing him initially and then asking him "wit's wrang ye auld moan? Eh, wit's wrang?". Then she started to imitate him moaning a few inches from his face "There's nufin wrang wi ye, yea just like the attention dint ye?". I wondered why anyone would do anything to get themselves attention from her. Dad eventually managed to get the wrods he was scrabbling for "How can she ask what's wrong. He's in here". I knew what he meant. It's more surprising that there aren't more residents moaning and moaning.

She later noticed I was in visiting and confided that she was having a bad day. "One of them battered my heid against the sink the morn, but wit can ye dae - it's all part and parcel isn't it". While I was still wondering if it was a resident she was talking about or one of her own family she clarified "Wit can ye dae - it's all part and parcel of the job that's what I ayeways say" and just to be sure "Made sure he git his breakfast last right enough though - I'm wicked though eh - ye huv tae though, ye'd go as daft as they are in this place if ye didnae".

Her day worsened when she was told to help Dilys bath and toilet - "We all hate that job. She's stinking though, by the way. Really stinking. I ken it's no her fault or anythin' but I spray her wi the air freshener afore I go anyway near her".

Then Dad surprised me by saying "I was trying to say something 4 years ago, no 4 days ago, no that's not it, that's not it, 4 weeks ago - yes definitely 4 weeks ago. I was telling you something about the exit. I've been trying every day to get the words to talk more". It's 4 weeks ago he talked about suicide. So he did know what he was saying. And he did remember saying it. And he's spent 4 weeks of me visiting trying to get his words in enough order to be able to communicate again. I started to ask him more but the housekeeper switched on the hoover and his eyes flickered with resigned annoyance and then he feel asleep.

2nd March 2007 - Another record low

2007-03-02T17:19:00.000Z

When we arrived - Ellie and I - Dad wasn't in the day room. Two of the staff were sitting at one of the tables doing paperwork and nodded towards the corridors. At the end of the first corridor I saw Wally, but down the second I saw Dad. Ellie ran towards him and he turned towards us as he heard her, focussing his eyes on the image appearing, then his mind on the relevance to him. As I neared him I focussed too - on the wet patch on his trousers. We were quite close to his room so I said to Ellie that he'd spilled his cup of tea on himself and we needed to go to his room to change them. I directed him there and looked through his wardrobe for a clean pair. I was still hoping that maybe it was tea, or juice, or anything, just not piss. In the toilet he struggled to remove his trousers, so I helped him, and I saw the pad in his pants, but didn't look to see if they were wet, didn't ask if they were wet, didn't clean him up, just helped him into a dry pair of trousers. Ellie kept asking what I was doing and I kept answering that I was helping him get a fresh pair of trousers because he'd spilled tea on the other pair. Every time he'd try to say something I'd bustle him past it.

By the time I'd got him into a fresh pair it was time for afternoon tea so we went to the dayroom. I was hoping the piss on his pants wouldn't soak through to his clean trousers making it impossible for me to ignore. One of the staff brought us tea for him, coffee for me and milk for Ellie. Ellie the granny magnet. He'd brought us three pieces of fruit cake too. But Ellie the granny magnet worked her invisible forces again and brought first two Cecilys, then Mary, then Jinny, then Amy, then Lily to the table. Toilet brush Cecily picked up each piece of cake and licked it before putting it back on the plate. Then she tried to brush Ellie's hair - before I rescued her - and left her ringside stand to another wrinkly oestrogen free female form. All of them talked at once, stroking and pawing, ohohohohing like Beyonce on Xanax, questioning, marvelling and eventually fucking off. They'd been corralled round us for fully five minutes while the two staff members sat and did paperwork. Another tick in the box - two staff members in the day room at all times. Never mind the fact they sit and read the paper, or fill in the day sheets, the residents records, work out the menage or the lottery syndicate - there's two of them there. That's one more than there needs to be by law you know.

His forehead was covered in fine stratches the previous day that I thought were probably caused by a sharp fingernail so I'd bought some clippers and an emery board to manicure his nails. As I was clipping his nails, he was trying to tell me that he needed his knickers changed and I was being deliberately obtuse. No-one listening in would have known that was what he was saying - "The other ones are boiled" doesn't immediately translate but I knew what he was saying. I knew and I ignored and I left him sitting in pishy pants. So I turned back and went upstairs to tell a staff member. Tweedledum as it transpired. "Don't you worry about that hen, I'll git him cleaned up. All part and parcel of the job. Would dae the same for ma mither so it's no different that's what I always say. We're aw Jock Tamson's bairns efter aw. That's wit I eyeways say". I've always hated that expression - we're all Jock Tamson's bairns - it's one I've only heard in Edinburgh and I get the sentiment but it always pisses me off. Particularly when delivered by Tweedledum. She has told me in the past that she'd never let her mother come into one of these places. What does that mean she thinks of the people that do place their loved ones in their tender care - or of what she thinks of the tender care provided? Many of the staff subtly let you know that they think you have failed your family member by putting them in there. It's horrible because you know you have, you don't need reminded of it. Or maybe you do, maybe you should be reminded, and often.

28th February 2007 - My Jeannette

2007-03-02T17:18:00.000Z

He took my breath away today. I was stunned. He was talking about how he'd felt when he saw me that morning - I'd tapped him on the knee to wake him. He said "I was sleeping and dreaming badly and then I woke up, and saw my Jeannette smiling down at me and everything was alright" and I wanted to weep. I'm not his Jeannette, but it doesn't matter, he needs me, or rather he needs someone and I'm the one that's around to be there. He's sad, he's lonely, he's dying and I'm his Jeannette. Sometimes I'm Viv Lumsden, occasionally Jackie Bird, regularly my Mum, but I'm his Jeannette sometimes. It's awful, it's achingly sad that it's taken him dying for us to get to a point where - sometimes - we love each other.

Today I knew my Dad loved me, and I loved him. Today was a good day.

22nd February 2007 - Tams gone.

2007-02-22T17:32:00.000Z

One of the staff met me at the door with a hushed "Tam's gone. Last night. Pneumonia. It's a wee shame" And I covered myself in caring humanity again with my response of "Which one is Tam?". Jesus,what a dumbfuck thing to say. So much for wanting the residents to be treated as individuals, with respect - am I just all lip service to those ideas too then? Which one is Tam. But the answer was worse than my question - although to be fair in a place full of old people it might be difficult to differentiate verbally but I think something better than "The bald guy in the corner - nae teeth and very dribbly - I'll no miss that I'll tell yea, I'll no be missing aw that drool".

In the day room people seemed unperturbed and there was - indeed - an empty chair in the corner where Tam used to sit. I remembered him then, of course. He'd always been quite far through his dementia when I knew him, so I'd never talked sensibly with him. He had a really kind face though. A gentle face. Might have been a total cunt I suppose but I'll never know.

After a few minutes the fire doors at either end of the dayroom were closed and all the wanderers were ushered into the room. This was very difficult for the residents who want to wander, they don't like to be confined, Bruce's polar bear back and forth had to stop. Those that were able to keep asking the two staff in the dayroom why they were not allowed out, why they had to stay put. If there was ever a time for doling out tea and cake it must have been then - but it wasn't tea time. I must have been having a slow day because it didn't dawn on me for quite a while that the private ambulance must be there. Private ambulance. Those black vans. Why ambulance? I suppose it's better than Dead Van - the Deadford Bedford. Just after I realised it one of the staff stage whispered to me that the Funeral Directors where in and they didn't want to upset the other residents by letting them see them. Would it upset them? I wonder. If they were aware enough to know what they were doing would they care? Bruce was trying to stir up a rebellion within the tottering ranks of the able and the zimmer enabled - a charge on the doors. He got diverted by a staff member who he quizzed about why he was not allowed out and was told she couldn't tell him he'd have to ask the senior staff member. They must have known though on some level, because despite everyone being in the same room and unable to go out, and despite there being a limited number of 'comfy' chairs, Tam's remains empty.

Lily was sitting at one of the tables, gazing lovingly at a single photo of a baby girl. Or at least a baby dressed consistently in pink. Various passersby are shown the photo of (interchangeably) her son, her granddaughter, her wee nephew and her husband. She's very lucid in her descriptions of each of these babies and shows off the photo proudly. "Look at my wee nephew, isn't he gorgeous - he's got his da's eyes and aw. Gorgeous". "See the pretty wee bairn - there lovely at that age are they no?" When the embargo is lifted on leaving the room she gets up slowly and starts to thump her zimmer out the room. One of the staff members went after her with her photo
"That's no mine doll. It was just lying there. Thank fuck tae - hell of an ugly bairn that is it no?"

20th February 2007 - NHS24

2007-02-20T20:26:00.000Z

"Don't even bother if you're dead". That's what Francine told me told today. She was talking - over Dad - to me about NHS24 and their lack of response when her son had gastro enteritis. My Dad was talking to me at the same time but he's now considered so far on that no-one bothers with what he says, when he's talking or not. No-one listens, they shush him, seat him, and if it's the right time give him tea, if it's not they dangle the carrot of promised tea, promised land, tea and a biscuit. So we were seated at a table and Dad was looking at me talking, Francince was standinga couple of feet behind, both of them speaking to me at the same time. Dad looking puzzled when I looked over his shoulder and talked.

She said "When we've had a resident death" whispering the word death obviously "if it's in the evening or night we just leave them there. There's no point phoning NHS24 they'll no come oot unless you keep on phoning and stay on the phone for ages. That music does yer heid in. We jist wait til the morn and git their ain GP's in to pronounce them deid."

Why does she think it's ok to tell me that. Does she think I'll be sympathetic to the plight of the staff? Does she not think I might be a bit more concerned that they leave a dead - or potentially just dying resident - lying there until the GP's surgery opens - and if it's a weekend? My mind goes back to a recent death and an A4 notice sellotaped over the residents name on their door "Keep Out, No Entry" like a 6 year olds bedroom fortress. That notice had been up for a weekend. Surely not.