As the year ends..

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring...except for me who was still fighting with cellotape and wrapping paper.  I signed all the stickers on dad's presents "To Dad, Love Santa."

I left my own little pile at the side of the chair and waited til morning...glass (or two) of Prosecco in each hand which only highlighted in my mind this year which can only be described as my annus horribilis (which is Latin for pain in the arse I believe).  If it's good enough for the Queen, it's good enough for me!

As I sat watching (again) the DVD of my parents 50th Anniversary party, wishing I could turn back the clock, I realised it was time to ditch the bubbles for coffee...and get a grip!

Christmas jumpers laid out along with a Santa hat for dad and a set of antlers with flashing lights for me, I had time to have my breakfast in peace while watching Ree Drummond rustle up bread rolls, soups and stews effortlessly before dad shuffled through the door.

"Good morning!" he beamed.

"Merry Christmas Dad!  Santa has been," I said, leading him to his chair.  I fetched his breakfast cereal and laid it on the table beside his recliner along with a cup of tea.

Quite baffled by the presents awaiting him, he sat down.  "Dear oh dear," he chuckled.  I sat on the floor in front of him as he unwrapped them one by one.

I caved in and bought him Season 4 of Columbo.  Peter Falk's image emblazoned across the front.

"A book!" he said.

"No dad, it's movies," I said.

He opened the next one.  A huge bag of assorted Walkers crisps containing all his favourite flavours.

"What is it?" he asked.

*I don't know why the next section highlighted itself.  I've tried to sort it out but am at the point where laptop meets the road outside via the window.  So I'll apologise...and leave it!*

As he continued to open his gifts, revealing a new jumper, shirt, slippers, after shave and nuts (which is ironically appropriate)...I began to open mine.

"Oh what a surprise!" I exclaimed, revealing the onesie and fluffy socks I'd bought myself some weeks ago.  Dad's attention was already lost to his cereal and Ree Drummond's baps.  I suddenly lost my enthusiasm for opening gifts I already knew the contents of.  Without intention of feeling flat that particular day, it crept upon me regardless.

Picking up my mood, I tidied up a little and got dad washed and dressed.  I knew the day would belong to Columbo.  Being a new series and watching it for the first time in years, I sat with my feet up alongside dad on the recliner and actually enjoyed it.  One movie after the other, and other....and....other.  Perhaps the copious amounts of Quality Street and crisps that were consumed during this period helped.  Who knows.  I survived didn't I?

Dad went off for his usual nap which left me to nod off also.  I'm still sleep deprived and dreaming up a storm despite the fact my dad isn't getting up as often during the night.  Somewhere down the line this pattern will settle.  I can wait.

Christmas night, I set dad's pyjamas on his bed and left his bedside lamp on low.  He didn't eat much of his dinner.  I didn't bother with turkey this year.  Instead I opted for chicken fillets.  I threw them into an oven dish and cooked along with a few pigs in blankets.  I added a simple gravy made from granules at the end to let it soak into the meat in the hope that it would be tender enough for dad to eat it.  I sliced his into pieces and laid everything nicely on his plate.  One little sausage, one roast potato and a scoop of mashed potato and veg.  A bird sized portion although there was a bit more variety on his plate than usual which I already knew would confuse him but I served it up anyway.  I watched as he played around with the bits on his plate.  Stopping occasionally, throwing his head back and blowing loudly.  I ignored him and carried on with my own.  He barely touched the chicken.  Didn't eat the sausage or roast potato.  In fact, the plate looked pretty much the same when I took it away from him as it did when I laid it out on his tray.  He had room later for a little trifle which always amuses me!

He made his way off to bed quite early in the evening.  I have always allowed him to get ready for bed himself, telling him as he makes his way to his bedroom to sit on the edge of his bed to get changed.

"Aye, okay hen," he'll say.

He folds everything that he removes and places it at the bottom of the bed on top of an ottoman.  I go into his room in the morning and throw most of it into the laundry basket but I let him go through these motions so that he feels he is doing something for himself and not to have me always fussing.

I went to the kitchen to start washing up the dishes.  I wasn't in there 2 minutes before I heard a clatter which had Poppy barking her head off and bouncing around like Tigger on steroids.

I ran to the room to find my dad with his jumper pulled up almost, but not quite, over his head and his back against a chest of drawers to which he was holding on to with both hands stretched behind him.  I knew he had fallen backwards and was just thankful that he had his back to the furniture when he stumbled.  He was okay.  Just a bit shaken, but that's it.  No more getting ready for bed on his own.  The only thing I don't have to do for him (yet) is take him to the toilet.

I did have a word with him about his latest meal time habits.  Not eating much of the little I put in front of him but demolishing crisps and biscuits no problem.  I tried to tell him that he needs all the goodness from real food so that he doesn't stumble so much.

"You're right hen," he said.  But I'll keep reminding him when he asks me "Is there any crisps?" tomorrow...and the next....and....the next.

Bit by bit his independence is leaving him.  Making sure he is alright with that will forever be my task.

........................................

Yesterday, dad woke up in a bit of a funny mood.  I watched him although I tried not to give him too much eye contact.  We made our way to the bathroom for his daily wash.  While he stood holding on to the sink, he started once again with the 'dizzy' spell.  Not before checking behind him first that I was within 'falling' distance.  I moved back at bit, folding a towel.  Far enough away from him to know that his actions were pointless but close enough to reach an arm out should it really be necessary.  I put the towel onto the toilet seat and told him to sit down and keep his head up.  All the while he was puffing and blowing, with an occasional "oh dear" thrown in, I carried on with putting his vest on and saying "tickle-ickle" in a stupid voice while applying his deodorant.  He wasn't amused.

He made his way to the bedroom on his own while I walked a few steps behind without issue.  He sat on the edge of the bed while I dressed his top half.  With his bottom half pulled up at half mast, he made to stand up in order to complete the task.  His backside was barely off the bed when he reeled (himself) backwards, calling out, "Oh!...OH!"

"DAD THAT'S ENOUGH NOW!" I said sternly.  "You're absolutely fine.  Keep your head up and stand up tall."

It's like dealing with a child.  But up he stood, allowing me to finish sorting his clothes before he led himself to the mirror to shave.  No issues.  No more drama.

Theatrics over!

He made his way to his recliner where I set out a cup of tea and a bag of crisps before going in search of a brick wall to bash my head off.

He was FINE.

It's bad enough when his moments of illness are real, but when it's hyped up for effect it has me questioning myself.  "Am I not giving him enough attention?"  "What more should I be doing?"  "Where am I going wrong?"

The thoughts don't last long because I know I'm doing all that I can and no more than I am able.  But the necessity to be stern isn't pleasant.  Thankfully these moments are few.  Let's hope it stays that way.

.......................................

I've already put away the Christmas cards and reluctantly leave the sparkling lights until the first day of January.  I have no intention of staying up to see the old year out and the new one in.  Dad will be in his bed at his usual hour and I will be switching off my phone and putting the lights out well before midnight.  I'll know when it's all over when I hear some eejit in the street blast off fireworks I'm sure.  The first of January is the day I'll be baking and creating in order to get a cake delivered for the 4th.  That's all.

This year has shown me exactly what loss means.  Nobody can tell you unless they have gone through it and no two experiences will be the same.  Instead of being sad I will find ways in which to better handle my melancholy.  I won't always feel bitter and hard done by.  Everything is a learning curve.  Some of us just need to hold on a little tighter getting through the twists and turns, but what the hell.

"Don't lose yourself trying to be everything to everyone"

I did my best Mother.  I'm still trying to get it right...and I will.  You'll see.

  

Two more sleeps..."what's happening again?"

This week has probably been one of the most restful weeks I've actually had so far since looking after my dad.  Apart from a couple of nightmares and stupid dreams where I wake up angry in need of coffee to determine fact from fiction, I've actually slept for longer than I've been awake...I think!  The medication he now takes before he goes to bed is certainly working as he has gone from shuffling back and forth to the bathroom up to 6 times during the night to 1 or 2 at the most.  He is also going to bed a little earlier and sleeping a little later, with a nap during the day which has gone beyond 10 minutes and can last up to 2 hours.  It sounds selfish really but I am so grateful for these moments of relaxation.  I am still getting used to not being showered and dressed before 10 a.m. most mornings as my dad's personal care comes first.  If I can manage to grab a shower as he eats his breakfast and be out before he finishes then it's a bonus.  There is laundry every day as he likes to share his lunch time soup with his jumper.  Every morning I ensure he is pristine and crisp with a slick of Brylcreem and a splash of aftershave whether he is going out or not.  I on the other hand am washed and dressed with a dash of perfume, no make-up, hair pulled up and off my face and STILL manage to look like the love child of Ken Dodd and Phyllis Diller.

One of my new tasks is to always make sure there is a disposable hanky laying on the arm of the recliner for him...BEFORE I give him his cereal in the morning.  It's only one little thing to add to my list as leaving the box of hankies beside him on the table is proving not to be enough of a clue.  Dad sneezes a lot, and mostly during and after eating.  As long as he has a tissue covering his nose and mouth I can live with it.  But when he just blasts out a sneeze that almost blows the glass out of the windows and the dug bumping into walls in her hurry to escape then my patience is severely tested.  He always has a hanky in his pocket but he can never remember which one and by the time he struggles to find it, it's too late.  As much as I love him, he's not quite as adorable with soggy crunchy nut cornflakes flying from his mouth like an explosion of confetti and beating his personal best every day for distance upon landing.
I thought using paper tissues would stop him from laying his cotton hanky over the arm of the recliner to dry it out, or from putting it on the radiator which is even worse.  Well it worked.  Now he lays the paper tissues out flat instead!
I've practiced the sentence: "Dad, put a hanky in front of your mouth before you sneeze please, " over and over again in the gentlest of tones.  When I get to perhaps the 10th time of having to repeat it, I feel my teeth grinding together and my jaw lock as I force a sweet grimace.  This is also an improvement.  Previously I'd get to around 5 times and I was already at the "FFS!" stage.  I'm getting better.  😁

Coming up to Christmas, there's been a bit more TV that we can both enjoy in the evenings.  My Uncle Columbo gets a rest and I regain part of my sanity.  I sit beside dad on the recliner.  (It's a double...ye cannae hide money!)  He is more chatty the closer I am to him although if I sit on my bed chair and endure the numbness setting in on my arse, he'll still look towards me now and again and ask "Are you okay darling?"
"Yes dad," I'll reply.  "I'm tickety-boo."  This is usually followed by, "Do you want a cup of tea?"
"I *widnae mind," is his usual response.  *wouldn't
He's been heading to bed just after 9 p.m. of late.  The other night he rubbed his eyes then turned to me and asked, "Shall we just go to bed now?"  I'm not Mum.  I'm so sorry.
"You can go to your bed now if you want dad," I said, making no attempt to explain.  "I'll just fetch your last pill."
With that, I went off as usual and turned down his bed, set out his pyjamas and left his bedside light on low.  I have no tears, only a dull ache in the pit of my stomach.  No matter how much effort I make to ensure each day is bright, my heart is heavy.

I took dad out this morning to buy him a Christmas hat and me some antlers with flashing lights.  I'm determined to bring Christmas into this house and not let our glasses be half empty.  Dad laughed as I tried on various hair bands with silly things attached.  The shops were so busy and I wasn't planning to hang around too long.  Before leaving I took him for coffee and cake.  As I stood in the queue I watched dad sit at the table, nosing at everyone who passed.  There was plenty to see in the hustle and bustle.  The noise was getting a bit much.  I could see his face starting to contort.  By the time I got to the table and poured his tea, I could see him trying to get my attention with the corner of my eye.  The 'dying swan' was about to be unleashed.  I tried to ignore it and kept chatting away as I poured the tea and cut up his cake as I used to do for the kids.  Finally I couldn't avoid eye contact.
"Oh," he swooned.  "I feel dizzy."
"You'll be fine when you have a drink of tea," I said, sounding unsympathetic and trying to be encouraging instead.  "Your ears are probably buzzing with the noise in here too.  You'll be fine."
....and he was.  Perfectly.

Although dad loves to get out of the house with me, he is better in less busy places.  It never fails when there are too many people around and more especially in a café or restaurant, these 'dizzy' spells along with feigned lethargy arise.  It's worse...for me that is...if he does it while he is walking with his stick.  I've had to raise my voice in order for him to stand up and take his own weight as he has pushed himself onto me, knowing that I'm there to catch a fall, even if it meant him landing on top of me.  I know the difference between this attention seeking behaviour and reality with him which is just as well on my part.  To others I might appear heartless, but if I 'fussed' around him he would not be co-operative at all and with the attention of a doctor he would be acting the comedian.  Frustrating as it can be, I try and predict and therefore avoid.
If it was just me, dad, the dug and these four walls...dad would be happy as a pig in shi muck!  But I need to get out.  Even though he's coming along with me, I need to get out.  So feign away daddy dearest.  You won't pull the wool over my eyes.  I'm too feckin' smart for you!

"Aaaaaaaa-CHOOOOOOO!"

DAD!  USE A FKN HAAANKYYYY!!

"Dad, put a hanky in front of your mouth please."  😬😷🙈

Every day I've made mention of Christmas, counting down the sleeps "til Christmas dad."
"Is it?" he'll say.
"Then it'll be your birthday...in January." I continue.
"What age am I again?" he'll ask.
"89 dad.  You'll be 90 on your birthday," I tell him.
The last time I told him this he asked, "Does that mean I'll be a hundred next year?"
"No dad," I replied.  "You've got another 10 years before you're 100."
"Oh," he said smiling.  "That's alright then."
Meanwhile, I released my hair from my grasp and decided not to pull it all out just yet.
There is still time!

I'm still me...older...not old!

For the last few weeks my dad hasn't quite been himself.  His mobility has given me a lot of cause for concern along with nausea and tiredness.  After spending one night in hospital due to a very low heart rate he was sent home.  I wasn't happy, with the hospital or my dad's behaviours.  As the days went by it was obvious that he wasn't improving at all so once again I called the doctor.  He immediately called for the ambulance to get my dad back into hospital.  Over the days that followed I found myself repeating to various nurses and doctors the same story.  I felt like a broken record.  I know my dad is almost 90 years old.  I don't expect him to be tap dancing his way across the floor but his movements had changed so much lately that it was becoming a major concern for me at home.  Dad ended up being moved from one ward to another for whatever reason but this time around it all seemed for the good.  Every ward had their purpose and I was beginning to finally feel that he wasn't being ignored.  I had excellent conversations with the nurses and a one to one with a female doctor.  Instead of being given more medication to fix dad's problem, he's actually been take off his patches.  Transdermal Rivastigmine patches are applied every 24 hours, their purpose being to help improve the ability to think and remember.  They aren't a cure for Dementia but they are used to slow down the loss of these abilities.  The necessity for them varies from person to person.  I have always wondered exactly what use they are to my dad as I play the 'hunt the patch' game every day.  He never has one on for the time required as he feels his skin itching and goes in search of the culprit and removes it, carefully folding it in half before he tucks it under his pillow, or places it neatly on his dinner plate among the leftover food.  Or...I may find them stuck inside the rubber on the window of the washing machine as the wash removes them from his pants or socks!  The patches can alleviate aggressive symptoms and have an almost calming influence so there is a reason why some families wouldn't want their loved one to be taken off such medication.  The patches can slow the heart rate.....BINGO!  As my dad is neither aggressive nor in need of any more calming influences other than myself, he was taken off the patches and observed over a short period of days to ensure that he suffered no adverse effects.  He is also on a nightly tablet which helps reduce the amount of visits he makes to the loo overnight.

He has been home for two days.  The first day he was overly tired but I put this down to the fact he wasn't sleeping soundly in a hospital bed.  Last night he had a solid sleep...AND SO DID I!

Dad is looking more stable than he has for a wee while so I can only keep my fingers crossed that he has regained his 'normal'.

As bad as it sounds, despite going back and forth to the hospital every day, I was truly glad of the respite.  The nurses were so understanding and I know that they kept him in for one more day than was necessary.  To be fair, they weren't organised enough to allow him home the night before he actually did come home so I did them a favour too by not insisting.

"Go home and put your feet up and relax," I was told.  So I did! 😄

One thing I did get to take part in while my dad was in hospital was attending Daniel's Christmas sing-a-long at his school.  (For those who don't already know, Daniel has Downs Syndrome and is now a very cheeky little 11 year old)  The children sat on benches and eagerly watched the door as their parent or grandparent entered.  Daniel flew off the bench as soon as he saw me.

"GRANNY!" he squealed.  Looking around at all his friends and teachers he proudly showed me off. At the same time he was strangling me with his arms wrapped tightly around my neck, pulling my head down to kiss it.

"IT'S MA GRANNY!  LOOK!" he beamed.  "AH LOVE HER!!"

I almost keeled over when he tried to get his favourite teacher's attention.

"MARGARET!" he shouted.  So close it seems that they are on first name terms.  I laughed out loud.

"Are you the famous granny who makes mince and tatties, steak pie and curry?" she asked.

Among other things...yes...I guess so.  My heart was fit to burst that day.  Daniel's cuddles were so welcome even though they came with bruises!

My birthday was nearing.  I'd bought myself a card from my dad earlier in the week and had managed to get him to sign it.  He didn't know it was for me but knew it was for his daughter.  I tucked the card in a drawer until my birthday arrived.

I also bought him a Christmas card.  To Dad.  I signed it and left it beside his recliner for when he got home.

"Where have you been?" was the first thing he asked as I entered his side room.
I ignored this as he clearly wasn't able to appreciate the visits I'd made to him every day, taking him drinks and snacks and sorting out laundry.  I decided to smile and get him ready to go home.

I put the kettle on to make him a welcome cup of tea while he settled himself on the recliner with his feet up.  I pointed out the Christmas cards on the table beside him that had started to arrive.
"There's one there for you dad," I said.
"Oh," he said, as he started to open it.
He looked at the front.  'Dad' was clear to see in big letters.  Inside I'd written 'To dad, Lots of love...Lorraine xxx'
He read it to himself and smiled, saying nothing.
"Who is it from dad?" I asked.
Opening the card again, he pointed to the name.  "Lorraine," he said.
"Who is Lorraine?" I asked.
He looked at the front of the card again, reading 'Dad' on the front.  He opened the card again and with an almost annoyed tone, he pointed to my name again and said, "Lorraine!  It says it there!"
"I know," I said.  "But do you know who Lorraine is?"
"Yes," he said.  "It's our daughter."
"Dad," I started, "the card is from me.  I'm Lorraine.  Your daughter."
I'll never forget the look on his face.  If I described it as disappointment I wouldn't be far wrong, although it wasn't aimed at me.  It was more of a realisation that he hadn't recognised me in the first place.
"Oh what am I saying," he said as he shook his head.
"It's okay dad," I said trying to be comforting.  "You just get a wee bit mixed up sometimes."

Another birthday has come and gone.  How everything has changed and will continue to do so as this path takes on its own twists and turns.  I have yet to come to terms with all of the changes but I try not to dwell.  There is no point in throwing my toys out of the pram waiting for them to be returned in the right order.  Life has given me my biggest challenges this year, emotionally more than physically, although a combination of the two could be lethal if I didn't draw on the last ounce of strength and determination to get me through to the next phase...whatever that may be.

Thank God for friends who have gone through the same and who know what it's like when I sometimes forget who I used to be and need reminding that I still am that person.  I am not looking forward to New Year and intend to sleep over into 2019 and not give the old year a final 'cheers'.  It is not worthy.

What IS worthy is how I choose to direct myself  for the remainder of this life and appreciate all that I have and expect no more but especially no less.  I hope all the complications my mother's death has brought and the Guardianship of my dad will be resolved quickly next year and give me a chance at least to move forward with the freedom of choice I deserve.

I'm so glad you're home dad.  Just keep being who you are...and I'll be whoever you think I am today, tomorrow, 
and the day after. 
x

Weighed down

The past few days have been fraught with memories, good and bad.  Overthinking the future.  Misinterpreting the past.  Trying to give my brain a break, but every time I sit quietly, the little residents in my head compartments have a meeting and never reach a conclusion that will allow me to close my eyes and switch off the inner lights.

Other peoples doctors and carers perception of my dad bothers me more than I let on.  His ability to seem 'normal' giving the impression that his capabilities are more than they are is an accident waiting to happen.  I'm a bit fed up hearing that looking after him can't be "too difficult".  He isn't in a wheelchair 24/7.  He doesn't need a hoist or any other moving and handling aid.  He isn't incontinent...not all of the time at least.  He can feed himself.  Easy peasy.  I don't know why I'm so tired....and emotional, perplexed and powerless.

The weather has played some part in keeping us indoors most days.  It's only a short walk from the door to the car but with slippery pathways and a dad who doesn't take instruction immediately, I've saved him from being caught in the car door as it's blown shut in a fierce wind, stopped him from falling backwards as he kept his grip on the wooden gate while the wind took over as soon as the gate was released from it's latch and swung in his direction without a care.  Of course, instead of letting go of the gate, my dad's senses were telling him to reach further towards it and try to bring it back into position to close.  With me behind him trying to direct his hips in a forward motion with my hand over his to ensure his walking stick remained on the ground taking some of his weight off of me.  Going outside is much easier on a sunny day!

Dad has slept an awful lot more since he's had his heart checked.  It gives me a little space to sit peacefully by myself with 'dug' but I remain on alert. I have a beautiful Poinsettia plant which is doing quite well since I bought it and hasn't reduced to a pile of shriveled leaves like every other real plant I've ever owned.  So far so good.  I watched as a single leaf fell from it onto the floor.  I also watched my dad's attention drawn to it from his recliner.  He looked at the leaf then looked away, then looked back at the leaf.  Moments later he was wriggling around and trying to get his feet onto the floor in the most awkward way.  He hasn't mastered the art of swinging his legs around to the side of the foot rest before trying to stand.  I've caught him sliding forward until his weight dropped the foot rest to the floor but it doesn't click back into the chair unless you push it back with your hands.  I watched in horror as his feet reached the floor from the front and he pushed himself up...or tried.  The more he tried to get up, the more the foot rest tried to spring upwards into a resting position again, catching the back of his knees and would have knocked him into next week had I not been there to grab his hands and help him regain some balance.  I've thought about a reclining chair for him with a hand control.  The ads are on the TV all the time.  But I already know that he wouldn't make sense of the controls and would still do his high dive off the edge no matter what.  I'll make use of money on better things...like plasters, bandages and paracetamol...and maybe a baseball bat!

I could see that the fallen leaf was drawing itself to his attention too much.
"Just leave it dad," I said, foiling his recliner escape.  "I'll pick it up later."
But later...I forgot.
Dad went off to have a lay down on his bed for a couple of hours.  I sat back and caught up with all the reality TV rubbish on my laptop that keeps me going, scunnering myself (good old fashioned Scottish word meaning annoying) with how the other half live.  As it grew darker outside, the living room lit up like Blackpool illuminations and cheered me up.  We don't have a Christmas tree this year, but I've more than made up for it with everything else that twinkles.  I won't let anything dull my sparkle!

After his nap, dad came back into the living room.  I already started to make my way off the recliner, taking my time until I watch in slow motion as he reaches down for the fallen Poinsettia leaf.  Right down to the floor he reaches and manages to pick it up.  Unable to get back to a standing position, he leans forward as his legs begin to give way.  I make it in front of him just in time for a rugby tackle, his head hitting my chest as I reach out to grab his shoulders and push him upwards.  Still holding on to him, my mouth engaged before my brain....
"DAD!!!  STOP BENDING FORWARD!!!"  I SAID I'd get the leaf, didn't I??  Did I not say that?
But I forgot to pick it up immediately.  I blame myself...I'm angry at myself.  I always seem to be angry...at myself.
He laughed.  He thinks he's funny when he stumbles.  One day I won't be there to catch his fall.  Neither of us will be laughing then.
A cup of tea and a bag of Walkers crisps fixes all.  I'm thankful for the truck load of Maltesers that arrived in the post courtesy of my American bestie, Kyla Myers.  You never give up. I love you.

I don't know if it's just the time of year that is weighing me down.  Most likely a combination of things that I can't seem to get my head around.  I feel like a broken jigsaw puzzle with more than one piece missing.  I've gone from being over emotional to almost emotionless.  I don't know which is worse.  I keep it all wrapped up inside in a compartment of it's own.  Unfortunately I can't stop revisiting and taking a peek through the window.  I don't want to open the door just in case I can't close it again.  The walls are decorated with cliché signs:
THERE'S LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL.
NOTHING IS AS BAD AS IT SEEMS.
THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO HAVE IT WORSE THAN YOU.
YOU CAN BE WHATEVER YOU WANT TO BE.
CHRISTMAS IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT.
The doorway needs a 'DO NOT ENTER' sign in neon lights and a Houdini proof padlock to keep me away.

I've managed to retire Columbo for a little while.  Santa Claus has taken over.  ITV3 is showing Christmas movies although they repeat the same one at various times.  I've seen Dudley Moore so often this week I feel we're related.  But it keeps dad happy...and in his chair.

This morning he slept until 10 a.m.  I grabbed a shower as he ate his cereal then got him washed and dressed with his usual grumpy face as I sprayed him with aftershave.
"It makes you smell nice dad," I said, smiling.
"Smell nice?" he questioned.  "Some fkn smell!"
His use of expletives is a lot more common these days, although he doesn't do it in anger.  Only once when 'dug' jumped up and caught his hand with her wee teeth.  It wasn't intentional but she scurried off to the kitchen after hearing him shout "Stop fkn biting me ya wee b****ard (motherless hound!)"

At times like those, I say nothing.  I retreat and try to console 'dug'.

I manage to make dad's days good and catered for, but I am struggling to find my own 'happy'.  My stomach feels weighed down with bricks and my eyes are dull and empty.  The pain in my hands is not alleviating in the slightest.  In fact, if anything, it's gotten worse.  I know I need to pick myself up.  "You can't pour from an empty cup" to quote another.  Bollocks!

Roll on 2019 and better organising, prioritising...

...and thicker skin! 

Keeping restraint

My dad was taken to hospital on Thursday afternoon because his heart rate was 31 and he was retching constantly.  His mobility was very poor and as his confusion was heightened.  I packed a bag for him expecting that I wouldn't have him home for a few days.  He was initially admitted to an all female ward but he was going to be moved later that night.  As the nurses gathered around him to ask him questions I pointed out that my dad has dementia and would either nod in agreement to anything and all they said or he would simply smile and try to make a joke.

The girls were lovely and I was asked to fill in a form which was more like a booklet which is given to family of those with dementia.  It is written from the patient's perspective.  eg.  My name is 'X'.  I like to be called 'X'.

Headings like:  Things that are important to me.....   Things you should know about me.....  Personal care capabilities.....etc.  I filled this out as if there was a nobel peace prize at the end of it.  I left nothing out.  As I was about to leave, a nurse came along and asked him what he'd like for tea.  She read out 4 options, the last option being a ham sandwich.

"Ham sandwich," dad said.

I apologised before I poked my nose in interjected.

"My dad will always give you the last option if the options are read out and not visual, even when there are only two options.  He can only remember the last thing you say," I said.  I told her all the things he would eat without issue and not to worry if he didn't finish everything.  He doesn't have a stomach, and what he does have is created out of Walkers crisps!

She was grateful for the information, I handed her my dad's medication which consisted of Metformin for diabetes, Iron tablets which he's only been taking for the last couple of months along with his daily memory patches.  Everything sorted, I stopped fussing and left them to it.

I spent the night at home having a pity party.  Didn't want to talk.  Didn't want to do very much actually.  So much for feeling full of vim and vigour after a couple of weeks on medication.  I think it was all in my head!

Next morning I called the hospital to see how dad was and was told that he was being discharged.  Really?  His heart rate is suddenly back to normal just like that?  I didn't really get a proper answer so I said I'd ask questions when I got there.  The nurse asked me what my name was and said that she would tell my dad that I had called.  "Don't bother," I said.  "He doesn't remember my name and wouldn't know who you meant if you said his daughter."

Having said that, she continued, "Oh I'm sorry.  Can I just ask you about the patches?  I asked your dad if he should have them and he said no."

😳

"Of course he should have them.  His information is on the box (FFS).  I filled in a whole screed about him last night before I left.  He has DEMENTIA and can't answer any of your questions plausibly," I replied.

She apologised and said she'd go and place a patch on him before I got there.  Fine!

Dad has to go for an ECHO scan which will take a closer look to see what's going on.  A letter will go to his GP then an appointment will be made at the hospital for a later date.  Why they couldn't have kept him in and done it in the next day or two is beyond me.  So home he came, tired and weary.  He didn't eat much and as night drew near he just wanted to go to bed.  As I helped him get into his pyjamas I noticed a patch on his arm and one on his back.  Jesus Christ!  He still had the patch I'd put on him 48 hours ago.  No wonder his skin is welting.

Next day I had to wake him up around 10 a.m.  He's never up that late.  He was very muddled and shuffling so slow.  He wasn't retching any more but it still worried me.  I don't know what to look for.  I'm not medically trained.  I was just worried that he'd keel over and crack his head.  This almost happened as he got himself off the chair normally, stumbled backwards and almost crashed into the glass topped table.  Luckily I was near enough to grab his wrist and managed to pull on him enough that his backside hit the arm of the chair and he slid back down into the seat.  Enough was enough.  I called the doctor again.

Doctor Attitude arrived on the doorstep.  Didn't look up as she said my dad's name...looking into a gadget in her hand that may or may not have been a phone.  I wasn't bothered, I just instantly thought how rude.  Eventually she looked at me with a questioning look, so I replied, "Yes."  I opened the door wider, stepped back and allowed her to breeze past me and go towards my dad.

"Hello Mr Duffy.  Did you know the doctor was coming?" she asked.

My dad looked at her and then at me, then back at her.  "Yes," he lied said.

"My dad has dementia," I offered.

Without looking at me again she said, "Yes I saw that in my notes."  Then she turned to me and said, "I like to go straight to the patient and get a feel for what they know."

But I just fkn told you.

"What's the matter?" she asked me, looking straight at me now.  "You look a bit stressed."

"Stressed?" I repeated.  "I'm far from stressed.  I'm absolutely FINE!"

"So," she continued.  "What is it you want me to do for him?"

"What do I want you to do?  I'm not a doctor.  I'd like to be satisfied that he doesn't need to be back in hospital since he doesn't appear to me to be any better than he was before he went in except for the retching."

Turning to my dad she asked, "Who is this lady looking after you?"

"He doesn't remember I'm his daughter," I said.

"It's Mrs Duffy!" my dad said.

"Why do you call her Mrs Duffy?" she continued.  REALLY??

THEN my dad said, "No...she's my daughter."

"Ah," Doctor Attitude looked at me 'knowingly'.  "It's intermittent then."

"Actually no," I replied, clenching my fists behind my back so as not to punch her in the throat any minute.  "He heard me say 'daughter' just after you asked.  If I'd kept my mouth shut he wouldn't have offered that to you."  I don't consider 99.9% of my day being referred to as his wife being intermittent.  Punch me if I'm wrong!

"So you just like the comfort of having a Mrs around the house then do you John?" she carried on.

"Aye," said my dad.

Mr Duffy to you b*tch.  Just get OUT!

All obs done....heart rate still slow but she explained that not doing the scan comes down to resources more than anything.  How comforting.  I'll just wait til he falls and cracks his skull on the floor before I call again then.

I think she 'got' the fact I was pissed off.  She went on to ask me about who helps me and more about me.  I told her all that she needed to know so she would leave, not before giving me a patronising pat on the shoulder with a petted "Aw, it must be hard for you."

Keeping my annoyance in check is harder.  Trust me.

So that is where we are at.

Today dad got up at 10.30 a.m.  I gave him a proper shower this morning and annoyed him by spraying his aftershave on his jumper.  This kind of annoyance I can take.

We went for coffee and a little browse around the busy shops.  We were only out for an hour or so.  By the time we got home he was back in his bed for a snooze.

He is overly tired, but if he's off his feet he's no chance of falling.  I can only keep a closer eye on him and hope for the best.

Too many worries and overthinking isn't doing me any favours.

“We can’t always protect the people we care about, but we always care about the people we protect.”