Ashes to ashes

Yesterday I had a hair appointment.  Such an outing wouldn't be a problem in the past but taking my dad along required some assistance, so when it was offered...I took it.  While I was getting myself ready to go I took a phone call from the Social Worker who was checking in with me to see that all was okay for dad to be going to respite the next day.  I relayed the conversation to my friend and in the midst of it my dad overheard "...when he goes in to respite."  He looked at me puzzled and said, "Who's going in where?"  I told him, reminding him that he goes every month for a few days to get a break.  I'm careful not to say to give "me" a break and make it sound like a little holiday for him instead.  He nodded his head but still looked puzzled.  "How long am I going in for?"  he asked.  He made it sound like a hospital or something equally less inviting, but I reassured him as much as I could, telling him that he will have company and be able to watch TV as much as he wanted, show off all the new clothes he's been getting...anything that would make him feel okay about it.  Just when you think that conversation has been dealt with, the questions pursue.  "Where am I going?"  "Why am I going?"  "How long for?"

We got to Edinburgh and I left my dad with his designated carer with instructions to go for some lunch and perhaps a wee half pint of lager shandy.  I was going to be gone for a couple of hours.  I've never known two hours to be so slow!  As soon as I got to the hairdressers I started with the texts?  "How are you doing"  "How's my dad?"  "Is he okay?"  "Are you okay?"  "Know where the toilets are!!"

Christ Almighty Lorraine.  GIVE IT A REST!!

Halfway through my pampering, I got a message to say that my dad was in the Balmoral Hotel...in the bar!  "Yer faither's no a cheap date!" the text said.  (Translate: your father is costing me a fortune!)  It made me chuckle.  My humour was sorely tested as I left the hairdresser with beautifully cut, sleek hair and stepped out into the rain.  It was absolutely pis...pouring down.  I walked into the Balmoral with a head like a soppy mop, but there was my dad, sitting with his wee half pint of shandy and tucking in to salty pretzels.  He was absolutely FINE.

I needed him to visit the boys room before we left because we'd been out for some hours now and it is a bit of a journey to get home.  We wheeled him to the toilets and he asked me "What am I doing here?"  I told him I needed him to 'go pee' before we got on the road again.  "But I dinnae need!" he said, with more than a hint of annoyance.  As I helped him to vacate the wheelchair he continued, "I cannae make it come oot!"  I'm thinking, I bloody will if you don't get your arse into that toilet, but out loud I say with a concentrated calm, "Try!"

Success.

This morning I started getting his little suitcase packed and once again I was met with, "Where am I going?"  "How long am I away for?"  I can't bear the look on his face and I wish I didn't have to send him but by not doing so (I remind myself over and over again), I am not able to recharge my batteries sufficiently for when he is back in my care again.  Besides, I need to know life beyond Columbo!

I took him out for lunch before dropping him off at the Care Home.  We went shopping for bits and pieces for him to take in with him, mostly crisps and more crisps.  I usually buy a scratch card when we are out and always tell him, "Today is the day we win the millions dad!"  I joke about us packing our bags and flying off to somewhere hot and sunny and never coming back.  This always makes him laugh and he'll say, "I wish!"  I bought our usual ticket and put it inside my handbag for later.

I took him to the Care Home and sorted out all of his clothes for the days to follow, taking time to hang everything he needed for each day on a separate coat hanger, making it simple.  I know without the help of the girls in charge that he would still put on all of his dirty clothes in the morning and think nothing of it.  I made him a cup of tea and left him sitting outside in the sunshine that had thankfully showed it's face at that time.  He was quite content...and hopefully happy.

Before I went home I had another errand that I needed to do.  It was time to collect my mother's ashes.  I chose to do this without my dad as there is no point going over the event of my mother's death with him.  It would serve no purpose at all.

I walk into the Funeral Parlour and sit and wait while a box with a sticker bearing my mother's name on is put in front of me.  The Funeral Director opens a plain hessian carrier bag and places the box...on it's side...as if it should make any difference at all, but it did...inside the bag.  That's it.  Thanks very much!  

All that is missing is the noise of a cash register and a till receipt.  *Ca-ching!*

I went to the Cemetery with the intention of spreading some of the ashes beside her brother, and also beside her father...who is buried with her mother who she had a hate/hate relationship with.  But she loved her father, and he just happens to be in the same plot!  I sit in the car and take the box from the bag and open it.  I don't quite know what I was expecting to find but I was horrified to see a paper bag filled with her remains, folded over and stuck half hearted with cellotape.  I didn't open the paper bag.  (I still haven't)  I suddenly felt emotionless.  This is what it comes down to in the end.  A pile of rubble inside a paper bag...with tape that doesn't even STICK for Christ's sake!

I left my mother on the passenger seat and wandered off around the cemetery anyway, visiting those lost and still remembered, gathering my thoughts as I walked.

With a deep sigh, I returned to the car and took my jacket off and slung it over the passenger seat..on top of my mother!  I drove off and realised what I'd just done as I glanced back and forth to the seat...and the box.  I pushed my jacket aside and really silly thoughts started coming into my head.  Imagine if I was walking down the street with the bag over my arm and someone asked me "What's in the bag?" and I say "My mother!"  It isn't really funny, but I started to giggle which turned into hysterical laughter with tears.  "Stop being so stupid!" I chastised myself with no one else there.  The laughing subsided but the tears didn't.  I found myself sobbing, feeling sad...then annoyed.

I had left the radio on for Poppy...the dug...as I'd left her at home for a few hours.  Before going in to the kitchen to check on her, I went to my dad's bedroom and placed the box on top of the bed...the right way up.  I placed a teddy bear beside it and left the room.  I walked into the kitchen to hear 'Another One Bites the Dust' by Queen coming out of the radio!  Either there were no white feathers available or my mother has developed a sense of humour!

As I sit alone in the quiet, I'm thinking of my dad.  I left him at the Care Home telling him that I still had the scratch card in my handbag.  "Go and win the lottery!" he said, smiling.

I already have dad...I already have.