Wednesday, June 26th, 2013
At 12.20 I receive a phone call at work telling me that "flowers are allowed on this ward" and that my sister had told mum that "I was going to order them today...", although God only knows where she got that idea from, and asking me whether I'd done it yet and whether I had the details and oh-for-f***'s-sake-will-you-just-shut-up-about-it-woman??? (Which I think, but don't actually say...)
She signs off with a cheery "Well, it's important to me and I want it doing! Bye!" [CLUNK!!!] which led to a lot of internal swearing and an almost pathological desire to dig in my heels and not do it.
Ever.
Two further messages await me as I stagger through the door in the late evening after crossing half the county to get the beloved to and from another urgent appointment with her osteopath.
The first concerns mum's former work colleague who mother suggests I should meet up with if we're going to Tatton this weekend (we aren't) because she's exhibiting some cacti. The fact that I wouldn't recognise this woman if I fell over her is, of course, neither here nor there.
The second is to tell me that she's now been put back on the main ward next to her friend the anorexic and that they're now talking about sending mum home again... "So that's all good news..."
Full of absolutely no joy whatsoever, I finally get to do the washing up that's built up since the weekend before staggering off to bed.
Thursday, June 27th, 2013
After lying awake half the night with a mind full of anxiety and worry, I finally just get up at 4.30am to face another working day almost belligerently determined to tell anyone from social services who might ring up about my mother to go and take a running jump, whilst pondering upon the "Flowers" situation and the further complexities it triggers when I think about online accounts, passwords and the legality or otherwise of using "third party" debit cards...
I ponder long and hard this morning upon whether being old and ill gives anyone the right to be rude to people, although I suspect that it's just me, because I couldn't imagine mum ever speaking to her other visitors (including the Minister) in quite the same brusque tones as she uses to address me. The prospect of her being at home again fills me with utter dread, to be perfectly honest with you, even though it ought to be our ultimate goal. Ah well, at least the washing is now in the car so I can't forget to take it next time I go.
The working morning gets interrupted by another lengthy "flower ordering" based chat, this time with my sister, and, as that conversation ends, the thought of driving to the coast and just drifting off to the soft chugging of Carbon Monoxide poisoning suddenly seems ever so appealing.
A brief (1' 50") call from my mother implies that the plan is that she's going to be sent home soon, that she doesn't want to go somewhere where she's going to be waited on hand and foot, but that will encourage her to fend for herself, that she's still on the magnesium every other day and they had three attempts to put in a cannula, and that "I might want to enquire" when I visit tonight, although she knows that I'm "not too fond" of the staff...
Mercifully, there's no mention of flowers...
Of course, after all of that build up, the Thursday visit passes almost without incident and is generally remarkably civilised. After I walked from the supermarket in the rain, carrying the washing in a bag, including her slippers which the staff, at least, were very pleased to see, and I arrived just as mum disappeared into the loo, after which she snapped at me quite loudly enough to draw the attention of the rest of the ward as she tried to get herself back into bed.
It's about her difficulty in moving her leg, of course, and comes from frustration, but it's still the same old problem that we're supposed to be telepathic when it comes to her immediate needs so instead of telling me what the problem is and asking for help, we end up in this pitiful situation.
After that shocking moment, things calm down and she tells me of the suggestion that she goes into rehabilitation for a while upon release, despite the fact that her "brain doesn't work" and about her visit from the now "lovely" other minister (she used to say that she didn't like him...) who she didn't even recognise at first, she said, and who (once she worked out who he was) then told her all about his adventures in both Amsterdam and Scarborough, and which led to mum's tales of visiting Italy both as a child and later on with an architect friend which was "the best way to visit Venice" apparently, so, the next time you go, be sure to grab hold of a passing architect...
I countered with stories of being shown some holiday snaps by the beloved's parents, although she just stated that "other people's photographs aren't really interesting" and so we moved on. I then tried to get her to explain the cacti show message which she left me, because she sees that as an opportunity for me to get to know one of her friends. I'm also cross-examined about why I don't go to Cornwall more often because "they'll be the only family you've got after I'm gone" to which my explanation of only having a limited number of annual holidays, many of which get chewed up by running around about family matters, doesn't seem to be an adequate reply.
I manage to discuss in more civil tones the wretched flower order, getting the missing addresses and whatever online password requirements there might be and promise to do it on Saturday... "I might be home by then!" she suggests, but I really don't think so...
In the meanwhile I read her a card she'd received, and was able to head back into the rain to meet the beloved who was waiting patiently back in the supermarket car park and report that "she's been worse..." in response to the question "how was she tonight...?"
Friday, June 28th, 2013
Nothing...
Instead, I have another busy day all to myself, although I do call in at mum's flat and pick up the post, I'm far too tired to actually run through it and add it to my planned "Do mum's admin on Saturday" pile...
It does appear, however, that mum was not sent home.
Saturday, June 29th, 2013
I struggle to get around to all the admin. It just stares accusingly at me and I stare back, like we're having a Mexican stand-off in one of those old westerns.
In the end, when I finally summoned up the energy to do it, writing the covering letter for the hospital and ordering the flowers only took fifty minutes, so it's just as well that I didn't try doing it at work, eh, boys and girls?
With that out of the way, I looked at the pile of mail, which includes another "overdue payment" notice from that wretched online card company who's bill I thought I'd cleared two weeks ago, which leads to another long and frustrating telephone call which I could have done without.
Later on, I drive in on a sunny afternoon, stopping to pick up the promised local paper on the way. She's asleep when I arrive but, unfortunately, someone wakes her up, and so forty minutes or so of unpleasantness was not avoided.
Mum feels "not bad" today after having had low blood pressure yesterday and this morning, and she's been told that she should drink more fluids, despite her now being on food supplements again. I hand over the newspaper alongside some other free sheets that were in her mailbox but she doesn't want those because they take up far too much space. I then get asked whether I happen to have any crisps on me because I'm obviously a walking supermarket, and then get the inevitable "You never bring me anything" which leads to another great cheese debate, prompted by a patient in a bed opposite who I'd rather not bring myself to even look at.
Meanwhile mum "doesn't suppose" that I know whether they're sending her home because "they'll only tell you if you show an interest" or, indeed, when they want to send her. I do get her to read the letter that I was trying to sort out this morning, but this doesn't prompt her to take any action about it. Finally, I try to describe - in "light-hearted terms - the problems I had putting through the flower order, but that just turns into a long list of criticisms about my lack of common sense, and when I try to describe the flowers that I actually ordered, it seems that I've done everything wrong with that, too.
She decides she needs the toilet, so I take the opportunity to head off early and go home, part of me going to that place where I really think that I'd rather not ever go and visit her again...
A brief (1' 50") call from my mother implies that the plan is that she's going to be sent home soon, that she doesn't want to go somewhere where she's going to be waited on hand and foot, but that will encourage her to fend for herself, that she's still on the magnesium every other day and they had three attempts to put in a cannula, and that "I might want to enquire" when I visit tonight, although she knows that I'm "not too fond" of the staff...
Mercifully, there's no mention of flowers...
Of course, after all of that build up, the Thursday visit passes almost without incident and is generally remarkably civilised. After I walked from the supermarket in the rain, carrying the washing in a bag, including her slippers which the staff, at least, were very pleased to see, and I arrived just as mum disappeared into the loo, after which she snapped at me quite loudly enough to draw the attention of the rest of the ward as she tried to get herself back into bed.
It's about her difficulty in moving her leg, of course, and comes from frustration, but it's still the same old problem that we're supposed to be telepathic when it comes to her immediate needs so instead of telling me what the problem is and asking for help, we end up in this pitiful situation.
After that shocking moment, things calm down and she tells me of the suggestion that she goes into rehabilitation for a while upon release, despite the fact that her "brain doesn't work" and about her visit from the now "lovely" other minister (she used to say that she didn't like him...) who she didn't even recognise at first, she said, and who (once she worked out who he was) then told her all about his adventures in both Amsterdam and Scarborough, and which led to mum's tales of visiting Italy both as a child and later on with an architect friend which was "the best way to visit Venice" apparently, so, the next time you go, be sure to grab hold of a passing architect...
I countered with stories of being shown some holiday snaps by the beloved's parents, although she just stated that "other people's photographs aren't really interesting" and so we moved on. I then tried to get her to explain the cacti show message which she left me, because she sees that as an opportunity for me to get to know one of her friends. I'm also cross-examined about why I don't go to Cornwall more often because "they'll be the only family you've got after I'm gone" to which my explanation of only having a limited number of annual holidays, many of which get chewed up by running around about family matters, doesn't seem to be an adequate reply.
I manage to discuss in more civil tones the wretched flower order, getting the missing addresses and whatever online password requirements there might be and promise to do it on Saturday... "I might be home by then!" she suggests, but I really don't think so...
In the meanwhile I read her a card she'd received, and was able to head back into the rain to meet the beloved who was waiting patiently back in the supermarket car park and report that "she's been worse..." in response to the question "how was she tonight...?"
Friday, June 28th, 2013
Nothing...
Instead, I have another busy day all to myself, although I do call in at mum's flat and pick up the post, I'm far too tired to actually run through it and add it to my planned "Do mum's admin on Saturday" pile...
It does appear, however, that mum was not sent home.
Saturday, June 29th, 2013
I struggle to get around to all the admin. It just stares accusingly at me and I stare back, like we're having a Mexican stand-off in one of those old westerns.
In the end, when I finally summoned up the energy to do it, writing the covering letter for the hospital and ordering the flowers only took fifty minutes, so it's just as well that I didn't try doing it at work, eh, boys and girls?
With that out of the way, I looked at the pile of mail, which includes another "overdue payment" notice from that wretched online card company who's bill I thought I'd cleared two weeks ago, which leads to another long and frustrating telephone call which I could have done without.
Later on, I drive in on a sunny afternoon, stopping to pick up the promised local paper on the way. She's asleep when I arrive but, unfortunately, someone wakes her up, and so forty minutes or so of unpleasantness was not avoided.
Mum feels "not bad" today after having had low blood pressure yesterday and this morning, and she's been told that she should drink more fluids, despite her now being on food supplements again. I hand over the newspaper alongside some other free sheets that were in her mailbox but she doesn't want those because they take up far too much space. I then get asked whether I happen to have any crisps on me because I'm obviously a walking supermarket, and then get the inevitable "You never bring me anything" which leads to another great cheese debate, prompted by a patient in a bed opposite who I'd rather not bring myself to even look at.
Meanwhile mum "doesn't suppose" that I know whether they're sending her home because "they'll only tell you if you show an interest" or, indeed, when they want to send her. I do get her to read the letter that I was trying to sort out this morning, but this doesn't prompt her to take any action about it. Finally, I try to describe - in "light-hearted terms - the problems I had putting through the flower order, but that just turns into a long list of criticisms about my lack of common sense, and when I try to describe the flowers that I actually ordered, it seems that I've done everything wrong with that, too.
She decides she needs the toilet, so I take the opportunity to head off early and go home, part of me going to that place where I really think that I'd rather not ever go and visit her again...
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