180º decision making

It has not been a great success, my mother living at the home.

There have been some dicey moments, like the time she decided she was going home and did the nurse have a car? No? Well, order me a taxi. She was sitting in the lounge with her coat on, refusing to cooperate about anything, including taking her pills. Eventually she was persuaded to take the antibiotic but nothing else, and only conceded going to bed at 11 pm, still refusing pills including her sleeping pill which is Unheard Of. And next day she was fine when I visited but I didn’t mention the night before. Red rags and all that.

She had just moved from her initial 1st floor room in the mixed ‘normal’ & mild dementia area, to the purely residential ‘normal’ downstairs. We think it was the combination of being moved and the fact that she wasn’t well and therefore acting oddly which brought that on. But now she had a room which opened on to the garden so she could have the door open on summer days, and the layout was helpfully identical to her previous room. And with the weather being better, she’d be going out more with them and with me.

She still gets confused now and then. It’s the way her brain is rewiring itself, with fewer and fewer connections. The other day her neighbour from the flat asked her if she’d seen my brother recently. She answered that Yes he’d called in on his way down from Scotland, but hadn’t come in. He stayed in the doorway.

? 

? 

?????

He hasn’t been in Scotland for forty years. He sat with her for two hours on his last visit just before Christmas. When I saw her on New Year’s Eve, she never twigged that it had been my birthday the day before. Considering we’ve always spent that day together …….  I didn’t mention it. She would have been really upset to know she’d forgotten. Would have compounded her feeling of losing control of her life.

But.

A few nights ago she was asking again when she could go home. She was completely fine, on the ball, contented and amiable, but in no doubt that she wasn’t staying there. It was as though she’d served her penance for drinking 3/5ths of a pint of brandy and not knowing she’d done it. Still doesn’t know. Might try telling her again when things have settled down.

We drank some red wine and chatted away, and I said I would set up a live–in carer. “Well if that’s what it takes, just sort it,” she said. At last!!  (Went down this road two years ago but she dug her heels in at the last minute and refused. They had to send the cheque back.) Have always promised her she would never be made to stay anywhere she wasn’t happy, and I said it again. She replied “Well I am bored to tears”.

Perhaps the staff don’t have the time to sit with her and explain what’s on the telly, or who’s winning in the snooker, which she followed with a passion, or the football, ditto, or to keep encouraging her to take part in things, because she writes off just about everything, declining politely. She knows she can’t see anything or hear it clearly, so she’d rather not bother. Was under the impression that there was no point being in the lounge because “there was nobody to talk to”. And the telly’s a bit loud anyway, which is hopeless for talking when you’ve got hearing aids, even good ones. She goes back to her room for a nap instead. Depends on naps to keep the energy up. As it should be. She had attended a few things there, like a little concert, but nothing worth mentioning. Even when there’s a talk by somebody, anything like normal speed speech is too fast for her to decipher. Hopeless.

Oddly, leaving there that evening about 9 pm, I immediately felt lighter and happier. Hadn’t realised how much fretting there was about her being there. Although it was great to know she was safe, warm and well fed, especially when everybody was snowed in or ill or otherwise out of action.

And there I was, about to move into her flat.

I wrote two posts about it. They’re in the bin. It’s kind of why you haven’t heard from me for ages. So much happening, the wind changing, the landscape shifting, all moving on.

It was hurting to leave this beautiful place, but with savings vanishing, it seemed the sensible thing to do. Plus her flat shouldn’t be empty all the time. And you’re thinking the obvious thing is to move there with her.

Well, uh, actually, no. Been tried and doesn’t work. Not going to bore you with the details but suffice it to say I would end up in her old room at the home, on the dementia floor, very quickly. It used to be feasible when she stayed with me in Scotland but there was my ex to take up the slack. Last time we tried it, here, I was a basket case after 7 weeks and my friends were horrified at the sight of me. Wrecked. Even with carer support, which has also been tried, it’s not happening.

Going to be a professional live–in carer on a fortnight on fortnight off basis, by a company who specialise in this, keeping a core of two or three girls at most so there’s continuity and mother would get to know them. Plus she gets the veto on whether they meet her requirements. Any sign of a personality clash and hey presto the carer gets changed, apparently, no questions asked.  My friend’s mother used this company and they’re well recommended.  Said friend is meeting me at the flat on Wednesday to go through the spare room and sort out some space. It’s a bit of a chuck–it–in–here room just now.

But the savings are still dwindling, and I still haven’t done any proper creative work recently, let alone sold any, too unsettled, feeling permanently as though there’s something else I should be doing. The best thing all round would be to find somewhere cheaper, get my mother sorted out at last and relax into the work again. Have been her carer since I moved down here from Scotland, one way or another, and it will be great to have someone to share that with, and knowing she’s in her own place again.

Keep your fingers crossed.