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The Dementia Diaries – Chapter Six Heart Attack – Part II

My dad had his heart attack on a Sunday evening and, thank goodness, was recovering well in hospital. My parents had been happily married for over seventy years. By the Tuesday morning, not even forty-eight hours later, Mum appeared to have forgotten he had ever existed. It was absolutely staggering. She slept very late on Tuesday morning and came downstairs, not seeming in the least surprised to see her daughter in the house instead of her husband. She was in such a cheerful mood, chatting away about this and that. Then my brother popped in straight from the hospital. He sat in Dad’s chair. Mum kept looking at him with a puzzled, worried expression. Then she said “it’s a shame my son died isn’t it?”. Thank goodness my parents have never lost a child. I tried to explain that it was my brother sitting in Dad’s chair, that nobody had died and that Dad was still in hospital. She needed reminding she had a husband. My parents don’t have single framed photo of themselves in their house and I don’t know where the photo albums are kept so I couldn’t show her a picture. She kept looking suspiciously at my brother, studying his face, and I thought how frightening and disorienting it must feel to not grasp what is going on or to recognise your own children.

Mum then kept asking me if she and Dad had been happy. I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say they have had a wonderful marriage. The sort of relationship where both people really love and look after the other one. Since Dad retired they do everything together. Dad still buys Mum flowers every single week. I told Mum all of that and she seemed pleased. An hour later she kept asking “did I have a husband?” over and over though so none of this information had been retained. I took her back to my house for dinner with my family and then we returned to my parents’ house and settled down for bed. Mum looked heartbreakingly frail in her nightdress.

Wednesday, Mum woke up at the crack of dawn in a foul mood. I was trying to do the washing and cleaning but everything I did was wrong. I set Mum’s place at the breakfast table but it was in the wrong position and she made me move the placemat and cutlery even though it made no difference. Didn’t I know she had two cups of tea not one? She can be very forceful, far more so than pre-dementia. My colleague rang to check in on me and I got quite choked up. I almost never cry but, no matter how old you are, having your mother constantly criticise you is very hurtful and I had hardy slept for a couple of nights. Mum didn’t mention Dad at all that day until I rang the hospital and spoke to him and my brother. I put the phone on speaker and they had a little chat. Once it was clear that Dad was going to recover we made the decision that wouldn’t take Mum to see him at the hospital. We knew from experience that would get very confused and distressed when we reached the ward. This happened when we visited my uncle, she thought she was being left there by herself and became quite distraught.

On Thursday Dad came home. Mum was over the moon to see him. Absolutely over the moon. She kept kissing him and telling him how much she loves him and how much she had missed him. I didn’t tell Dad that she had forgotten his very existence for a couple of days. Dad looked very pale and tired but happy to be home. He is the sort of person not to make a big fuss over anything. He is taking part in a trial where elderly patients are treated with medication rather than having a heart bypass. In the year since his heart attack he has not once seen a cardiologist or had any follow up other than a chat on the phone with a nurse. He is very organised with his medication and seems to be doing well. For the first week or so I went over every evening and helped with preparing and cleaning up dinner and with the housework. Now I pop over and help with the housework twice a week, especially the washing because there is now so much of it, sadly. Dad still does almost everything though and his kindness and patience is extraordinary. I have never once heard him sound impatient or irritated with Mum. For now, we are all muddling along together.

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

So Much Stuff!

Stuff – if you are fortunate enough to live in a first world country the chances are you own too much of it. I seemed to spend my twenties, thirties and forties accumulating things and now I am trying to get rid of most of it. What a colossal waste of time and money. In my dining room I have an ugly silver tray with three crystal decanters I received as a wedding gift displayed on it. I have never once used any of them in the twenty nine years that I’ve owned them. I only notice them when I’m dusting. Somebody, I can’t remember who, probably spent a lot of money on them and it makes me feel guilty to think about lugging them all to a charity shop, I doubt I’d be able to sell them . Who uses decanters anymore? My husband is decorating my daughter’s bedroom and, even though she is not an acquisitive person and has lots of her possessions with her at university, the clutter is spilling over into the rest of the house. Fleecy blankets, toiletries, sporting trophies, odd bits of jewellery are on every surface and it is driving me mad.

Every year at about this time I start decluttering. Three years ago I made it a serious project and I am pleased to say I still have empty cupboards where I have resisted replacing any of the items I got rid of. Anytime I am going to the local high street I make a point of having a look around the house first for items to donate to one of the many charity shops. My wardrobe is still full to bursting with clothes that I never wear though. The more I have spent on an item the more reluctant I am to let it go. I have two pairs of leather boots that I have worn about twice because they are too wide at the calves and it is really time to say goodbye to them. I tried selling them for a bargain price on the local Facebook page but the woman who said she was going to buy them didn’t turn up and they have languished at the bottom of my wardrobe ever since. I also have a collection of worn-once evening dresses that really need to go along with the various strappy heels I bought to wear with them. My feet hurt just looking at them.

Something I did manage to part with was the collection of Lladro ornaments I had received from a particular relative over a number of years (I hope she never reads this!). I bit the bullet and dropped them all at the charity shop. Our local British Heart Foundation shop now emails once a bag of donations has been sold letting the donor know how much it raised. This is such a good incentive. A recent bag of paperbacks and scarves I dropped in raised an impressive £19.

My project for March is to have a ruthless clear out of my clothes, towels, bedlinen and paperwork. My coat cupboard is full of similar black padded coats, some I have had for twenty years. I need to give most of them a quick rinse in the washing machine and then drop them off at the Salvation Army collection point. I will report back once my decluttering project is underway. In the meantime, if you are in need of any boots….

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Onur Bahçıvancılar on Unsplash

Heading Back To University – Part Two

It is early February and my daughter is returning to university after eight months at home, six of which she has spent on work placement in London. It has been lovely to have her at home and it almost felt like she’d never been away. When she first came home, in June, she didn’t seem entirely happy to be back. I think she had become used to eating what and when she wanted, coming and going as she pleased and now a little of her independence was gone upon her return.

Because she is doing a Business degree, two years of which involve work placements, she was unable to share a house with the friends she had made during her first year as they were all at university full time and I do think she felt that she was missing out socially. The Business students in Year Two and Year Three share the same student houses for a year. The Year Three Students have it for the first half of the academic year and the Year Two Students for the second half. In my daughter’s case, the contract with the landlady is for twelve students, it is all very complicated. Fortunately my daughter has made good friends with some people on her course and it is these girls she is now sharing with. In fact, this week, that are all heading off to Poland for somebody’s twenty first birthday. 

One of my work colleagues manages some student housing in the city where my daughter attends university and she said they won’t enter into such a complicated arrangement and a friend said they discounted letting their son do a course with a work placement because of the difficulty with finding housing. To be honest, it really hasn’t been a big deal, this particular university offer a lot of courses with work placements and the students always find housing but their choice may be a little limited. 

When I visit my daughter I usually take the train. It takes almost exactly the same amount of time as driving and you just step off the train into the heart of the city. Parking is near-impossible in this particular place as my husband and I found out the first time we drove. There are usually queues to even enter the car parks and, when you do, they are full, and roadside parking is mostly for permit holders only. This time we have to drive because my daughter is taking all her belongings back. Bed linen, pots and pans, clothes, sports equipment etc . I do wonder what students do if they have no access to a car. You can purchase bedding and kitchen sets from the university and arrive with just a suitcase but then all the household stuff will need to be stored somewhere during the summer. Or perhaps students enlist a parent or friend to help them carry it home on public transport. I’m probably overthinking it!

We arrive at the house, which looks small from the outside but the landlady has crammed six bedrooms in. The whole house is freshly panted in white and looks reasonably clean at first glance. My daughter’s is filled with furniture that most charity shops wouldn’t accept and the drawers and wardrobe are covered in grime, inside and out. We have to wipe down everything. There is a frayed extension cord and a filthy mirror which isn’t really a mirror but foil over some hardboard. The staircase down to the kitchen in the basement is a slippery death trap and nobody over 5’9″ can stand up straight in the communal living area. Even crouching, my husband hurts his head on the smoke alarm attached to the already low ceiling. The downstairs floor is uncovered concrete with an oily stain. My daughter is paying a small fortune in rent as are the other students and I feel that the landlady has done the bare minimum make the place comfortable. I am surprised the stairs even passed building regulations. I can see my agitation is annoying my daughter, she doesn’t want her friends to hear my complaining, so I keep quiet.

My daughter has chosen some bed linen from Urban Outfitters so we remove the existing, disgusting mattress cover and replace it with a new one. The room looks better once the bed is made. The wardrobe appears to have come from a 1930s boarding school and has hardly any hanging space but lots of shelves. Somehow we manage to find a home for everything. There are no locks on any of the internal doors, even the two bathrooms which are both downstairs, and my husband is understandably not happy about this. What if one of the other students has a party and my daughter is out. What is to stop anybody rummaging about or even stealing her things. Or worse still, coming into her room uninvited when she is there? He asks her to email the landlady and request locks but my daughter and her friends seem reluctant. 

My husband orders a new extension cable and we take my daughter into town for lunch. We have to keep moving the car throughout the day as the only parking spaces we can find are for a maximum of two hours. After lunch we go to Lidl and buy my daughter some groceries. She buys mushrooms and peas neither of which she will eat at home!

When my daughter was on campus she had everything on her doorstep but now she either has to walk or take the bus. If she just has one lecture it is a lot of effort for an hour. She plays a lot of sport and has said it is a pain going back and forth . Some of the friends she shared accommodation with last year are in the next road which is nice. She will be in this house until June when she will be home for the summer. She will then return to the same house in September until around Easter next year when her second work placement will begin. I spoke to her today and she seems to have settled in happily enough and had just cooked herself some sort of pasta dish with the peas and mushrooms. They must taste different when she cooks them!

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Windows on Unsplash

The Dementia Diaries – Chapter Five

Both of my parents are becoming increasingly infirm so their GP arranged for a visit from the Occupational Therapist’s department. To prevent Mum telling them that they don’t need any help, I went along to join the meeting. The administrator they sent took herself off on a tour of my parents’ small house and came back into the living room with a list of modifications that they would make at no charge to Mum and Dad. The list included a second stair rail and hand rails either side of the front door both inside and out. They also supplied sturdy walking sticks, a foot stool and commode and a stool for the kitchen. Mum uses the footstool as a coffee table and the commode and kitchen stool are just gathering dust in the corner of their dining room. I expect there are unused items like this all over the country, what a colossal waste of NHS money. As the woman left the house my mum bellowed “Bugger Off”. My parents don’t swear and never in my entire life have I heard Mum speak this way. I told her she was being rude and she just replied “I can say a lot worse than that”. In that moment she didn’t seem like the Mum I know at all. 

The woman visited my parents on a Tuesday and the workman arrived to carry out her instructions two days later. The handrail going up their stairway has really made their staircase a lot safer and Mum sort of pulls herself up.

Unfortunately the workman may as well have erected a huge sign stating Vulnerable elderly people live here, feel free to rip them off. They now seem to be targeted by every cowboy, rogue trader conman within a one hundred mile radius. I bought two stickers for their front door saying No cold callers, the police will be informed, but it has made no difference. A week or so after the rails were fitted I went to visit my parents and their, even more elderly, next door neighbours were having their driveway jet washed by a man who had pitched up at their door in a shabby white truck, no company name or branding. He was simply blasting all the dirt onto my parent’s driveway and also all over their brand new garage doors. I looked at him, horrified and he stood very still and glared at me as if daring me to say something. I decided not to. His young son, was playing on my parent’s front garden. I had a cup of tea with my parents and warned them again about people like this aggressive looking man. I told Dad not to answer the door to anyone they don’t know. Later that evening Dad rang and announced that the man had returned and washed his driveway for the bargain price of £90. I imagine the thug knocked on their door and Dad felt too intimidated to refuse. Their garage doors were completely showered in dirt and the driveway did not look any different.

Since my uncle’s death seen years ago my aunt lives alone. She was watching television recently when there was a knock at her front door and a man informed her that her roof needed repairing and he was the bloke for the job. My aunt was telling him, no she already has someone to take care of home repairs when she heard a crash. Another man was actually already on her roof and had dislodged some tiles. My aunt, very shaken, told them to get off her property and called the police, who did absolutely nothing. She then had to pay a roofer to repair the damage these low-lives had caused. 

My mother-in-law, a very vulnerable individual, lost her savings in a foreign property scam. The fraudster, David Ames, the head of a company called Harlequin, persuaded her to invest in holiday homes that weren’t built. He was sentenced to twelve years in prison and stole the savings of thousands of hard-working people, some of them could not retire because of their losses. Ames personally rang my mother-in-law to persuade her to keep “investing”. She thought he was a nice man. Anyone speaking to her is immediately aware that she is not capable of making any important financial decisions herself. No wonder he took such an interest. My mother-in-law didn’t tell anyone about her so-called “investments” until her bank account had been drained.

One of the many reasons that my mum could never live alone is because she would be so vulnerable to fraudsters. Where I live we have regular “Nottingham Knockers” calling selling dusters from the pound shop for £10 and claiming to be on a young offenders rehabilitation scheme. There is no such scheme, it is a scam. If you politely decline to buy anything you are more than likely to be called a vile name and have your car keyed. These people are the reason I now have a Ring video doorbell after I opened the door the an aggressive young man who bizarrely demanded I give him dry clothes as it was raining. He got verbally very abusive when I refused. 

So how to protect our elderly relatives (and ourselves) from scammers? Not opening the door to people they don’t know is the main thing in my opinion. My dad thinks he is being clever by engaging telephone scammers in chat but this is a mistake, these people are criminals, just put the phone down and block the number. If the elderly person lives alone and does open the door to a uninvited “tradesman” then they should pretend there is somebody else at home. I tell my dad to say that his sons do all the repairs on his house. If someone claiming to be from their bank rings then put the phone down and ring the bank, on another phone if possible. If ringing on the same phone then wait half an hour. I read about a woman who thought she was ringing her bank to check the validity of a call she’d just received but the fraudsters had stayed on the line and she was simply still speaking to them. She said the man seemed so helpful as he defrauded her out of ten thousand pounds. These people are often very charming. The old saying goes that a fool and their money are soon parted but, these days, anyone can become a victim of fraud. It is a sad world when we have to be so suspicious of everybody.

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

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Bass Guitar Blues

For a joint Christmas and birthday present this year we bought my youngest son a beautiful new Fender electric bass guitar. I must admit I was slightly stunned by how much these things cost but we managed to get the model he wanted in the sales . My son had said that he’d like to sell his old guitar but first it needed to be sent off for repair. As it was still under warranty I was able to return it to the company I bought it from but they were very clear that it must be properly packaged up as they would not be liable for damage in transit. As I had disposed of the original box ages ago I had to buy a new box on eBay for £15. It was too small. So I had to buy a bigger box on eBay for £20. Ugh, annoying. My son really looks after his things so his gleaming black guitar was duly packaged up and I arranged for the courier to collect it, another £6.50. When the very surly courier arrived I asked him nicely if he could make sure that the guitar was carefully placed on the van. I had marked the box This Way Up and Fragile, Handle With Care in thick red marker on on every surface. It is a bit of a clue isn’t it? Anyway, the courier grunted, gave me a contemptuous look, completely ignored my request to hold the box a a certain way and slung the guitar on the back of the van. Ok, to be fair, I don’t actually know that he slung my son’s precious guitar but I bet he did. A couple of days later I received an email from the repair company along with some photos of my son’s guitar. It had a big chunk missing out of it and was horribly scratched. Hundreds of pounds worth of damage, more than the instrument is actually worth. I nearly cried. 

I asked the guitar company how I could go about claiming compensation from the courier but they told me that it had not been sufficiently packaged. This despite me using the worlds’ most expensive cardboard box, bubble wrap and plastic bags. So, instead of being angry with the miserable, incompetent sod of a courier I started berating myself. I have an airing cupboard full of old mattress protectors which are padded, why didn’t I think to wrap the guitar up in one of those? Why didn’t I buy more bubble wrap? I lost SO much sleep with this whirring around and around in my head. I still haven’t told my son about the damage and we haven’t had the guitar back yet. Fortunately he is thrilled with his new model. He is a good natured boy anyway and will probably just wonder what his daft mother is getting so worked up about. What’s done is done, there is no point dwelling on this. These things happen sometimes.

It must be nice to go through life not worrying about anything, just brushing problems off like water off a duck’s back .  My daughter has just come back from Cape Verde and is now wearing bracelets and a T shirt emblazoned with the island’s motto No Stress. Hotel guests were greeted with Hakuna Matata which, if you have ever seen The Lion King, you will know means No Worries or Take it Easy, It is a Swahili expression used by people who are clearly more laid-back than I am.

No Stress definitely isn’t my motto, more’s the pity, but perhaps I could try Less Stress, it would probably do me good.

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Header Photo by Susan Mohr on Unsplash

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The Dementia Diaries – Chapter Four

I’m out for a walk when I pass the vicar of our village church. She hurries past, head down and lips pressed together, her body language telling me she does not want to engage in even brief pleasantries. She has been the vicar here for about twenty years, she christened two of my children but I no longer attend church having lost my faith some years ago. I had a fairly religious upbringing, Church of England school and Sunday School every week although my dad, an atheist or perhaps an agnostic, only sets foot in church for weddings and funerals. My mum, however attended the village church almost every single week of the first twenty years that she lived here. Sadly, for the past few years it has been beyond her capabilities to attend. She has probably forgotten that the church even exists.

Despite the fact that my mum was such a regular, the vicar has not once knocked on my parents’ door to see how they are. It’s been three years at least since my mum last made it to church, surely a quick home visit would be the usual protocol. The vicar must have seen them regularly stumbling along the lane to the village shops or waiting at a bus stop. We all live in a small village in Kent. My house is a stone’s throw from the church and my parents aren’t more than a few minutes walk. Was my mum such an invisible or unimportant member of the congregation that nobody noticed when she stopped attending after twenty years? What is the point of a vicar if he/she doesn’t even check up on their parishioners? You can probably tell, I am quite resentful about this.

On a more positive note, my mum and dad have been noticed by lots of people and have received some lovely offers of help. For the past couple of years they have rarely left the village but, before then, drivers would often see them waiting at a bus stop and pull over and offer them a lift. More than one complete stranger drove them into town and left a phone number in case they needed further lifts. My parents have never driven and I do think their knowledge of public transport was very beneficial to them until recently. The local bus drivers would literally drop them at their front door. Now I have to take them anywhere they need to go and my mum struggles to get in and out of my car. They do still manage to walk to the village shops once a week though and are always warmly greeted in the little cafe .

My parents live close to a school and I am sometimes irritated by the careless pavement parking outside their house but one or two of the young mums have put notes through my parents’ front door asking if they need help with shopping. During the pandemic complete strangers put cards through with telephone numbers and offers of help on them. Most people are kind.

When I took my mum and dad for their last vaccination my mum was doddering along to the clinic holding onto my dad, to be honest they seem to hold each other up, and a woman said quietly to me she’d often spotted them around and that she really admired them. ”That generation are so stoic and just get on with things don’t they?” she commented. Yes, they do. My dad literally never complains about anything or anyone. Unfortunately I do think that people who kick up a fuss get the most help, my mother-in-law being a case in point.

My parents’ next door neighbour, ninety years old, rang me after my dad’s heart attack asking if there was anything she could do. Bless her, she was then looking after her husband with Alzheimer’s and had her hands completely full. If my dad hasn’t seen her for a couple of days he rings just to make sure she is alright. Decent, kind people looking after each other. The world needs more of that

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

A view of our village church

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Busy Doing Nothing

It’s December 27th and I am not in a good mood. I have two weeks away from work for Christmas, unpaid, as I have to work on a self-employed basis since the pandemic but that is a whole other, moany post. Since last Christmas I have only taken one week off so I have been looking forward to relaxing but, here’s the thing, I seem to have forgotten how. If I am not running around wearing myself out I feel anxious and lazy.

It has been a busy couple of days. At very short notice my mother-in-law was discharged from hospital on Christmas Day so my husband has not been at home very much at all. He spent Christmas day at her house refilling her kitchen cupboards and organising carers for her. I had our three children for Christmas lunch as well as my parents and brother. I did all of the cooking and clearing up. I had to collect my parents and, at the end of the day, drive them the short way home. Getting my house-bound mum in and out of the car safely was stressful but my oldest son did a wonderful job of helping. By the end of Christmas Day I was completely frazzled. On Boxing Day I went for a walk and had a big tidy up of the house. Oh the excitement!

Today I decided to let myself sit on the sofa and watch one of those soppy Hallmark Christmas movies. I was about fifteen minutes in and thoroughly enjoying the film when suddenly I realised it was 11am and there I was, a fit and able person, watching TV in the daytime, surely this is an actual crime. The film now spoiled, I went upstairs to sort laundry , barking complaints at my daughter for dumping just about every garment she has ever owned in the wash. Jeez, what a misery guts I am. Perhaps, I think, I will pointlessly catch a train to Tunbridge Wells and have a pointless wander around the shops, at least then I will be doing something but I am thwarted as the trains all appear to be cancelled and I can’t face driving around trying to find a a parking space. In the end I walk to my parents house and do a little bit of cleaning for them, I instantly feel better for having done something useful.

I wish I was a laid-back type of person, it would probably be far better for my health but that just isn’t my personality type at all. I don’t remember ever seeing my own mother sit down and rest during the day except perhaps on a Sunday afternoon when we would watch Hart to Hart or Butterflies together. If I wake up later than 7.30am I feel an instant sense of panic and guilt. I feel I should be up and doing something. Why am I like this? I read somewhere that we are Human Beings not Human Doings and sometimes we should allow ourselves to just…be.  I do worry about the link between cortisol, the stress hormone, and cancer. Apparently cortisol levels are higher on waking which is why I probably feel at my most jittery during the mornings. I need to make time for some deep breathing exercises and maybe I should try meditation.

My off-switch kicks in around 8pm and then I will take a bath or shower and maybe read or watch some TV . My daughter and I are revisiting old episodes of Dr Who. Probably not what I would choose to watch but she will be returning to university soon and it is a nice way to spend some time together. Phew, I can finally let myself relax. Hopefully I won’t wake up at 3am worrying about a mistake I made at work in 1997. 

Thank you for reading

Samantha

Cover Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

The Dementia Diaries – Chapter Three

My eighty-nine year old mother-in-law went into hospital for a day three weeks ago. Whilst there she caught a chest infection and has been bed bound on a geriatric ward ever since. My husband said that she is becoming weaker and weaker because she is just left, lying in bed all day. It is a London hospital and the nurses are no doubt busy but my mother-in-law has continually asked to get out of bed and have an assisted walk but it has only happened once in three weeks. There are posters up around the ward urging patients to get moving as, apparently, ten days in bed ages the muscles by ten years. My mother-in-law is far too frail to get out of bed without assistance.

My mother-in-law lives in a town house, only the kitchen is on the ground floor and a toilet. There are lots of steep stairs. My husband thinks that this vertical living has kept his mother fit until now. She does have Asthma and has recently been diagnosed with Dementia although this is not always apparent. We have been told that she still has “capacity” to make her own decisions. Over the past few years we have suggested that she move into sheltered housing, nearer us, but she refuses to leave London. To be honest, who can blame her? I would not like somebody telling me it is time to leave my home of many years. She has lived in the capital all her life, apart from when she was an evacuee in Oxford, the thought of moving to a little village in Kent seems dull to her. She describes where we live as “dead”. It really isn’t but it is a world away from the busy city. She has been having carers in twice a day to help her and it was once of these carers that insisted on taking her to the hospital and staying with her while she was admitted. This isn’t my own mum to write about but I think it is safe to say that she is a complex and sometimes difficult person and we are all wondering what is going to happen when she is discharged from hospital. It will be Christmas in a couple of days and it does not look like she will be going anywhere before then.

It would seem that a sensible solution would be for my mother-in-law would be to go into a care-home for a month or so while she regains her strength and then maybe she can return back to her own house. This would give my husband some time to organise some necessary alterations to the property. If she won’t leave her home then the ground floor will have to be turned into a sort of self contained apartment. Whether she would even be able to manage then is highly questionable. At the moment she is not strong enough to open the wrapper on a bar of chocolate. Perhaps a move to sheltered accommodation would have prevented the possible permanent move into care which is now on the cards.

My husband and I make an appointment to view the care home in our village. I am dreading it. I am looking more for my own mum than my mother-in-law and feel guilty . We meet with the manager who is very well versed on the financials and takes a long time patiently explaining everything to us. The cost per week is £1,850 for residents who have dementia. £1,750 for patients without a dementia diagnosis. So, for my mum and mother-in-law, the annual cost is an enormous £96,200 per year. Each resident must demonstrate that they can self fund for the first two years and then, if their savings run down sufficiently, the local council takes over the cost. The council do not pay anywhere as much as the privately funded residents – they pay £800 per week. So wealthy residents who pay fund their own care for more than two years are subsidising the council funded patients. The manager explains that, because my dad could live another ten years, my parents house will not be included in their assets. I know absolutely nothing about how much Mum and Dad have in savings but I would be very surprised if it is anywhere near the almost £200,000 needed to self-fund two years of care. My mother-in-law is in a more fortunate position as another family member has offered to pay for her care. Which care-homes do less wealthy elderly people go to? I visited my late godmother in a care home in Surrey which was nowhere as nice as this one. I remember walking in and being nauseated by the overwhelming smell of urine, there were sodden piles of underwear on the floor in the toilets, this home just smells clean and fresh. Perhaps they are like hotels and this one is the equivalent of five star.

The manager takes us for a look around. There is nothing not to like. The place is gleaming and tastefully decorated with generic but attractive artwork everywhere. Each of the residents doors has a decal of an old-fashioned front door stuck to it in different, bright colours. The manager explains that people with dementia can recognise colours until very late in their cognitive decline. There is a box-frame outside each room with some photos from the resident’s past and maybe a momento or two. There are sensor matts in case of falls. A TV lounge and dining room. 

The thought of ending up in a care home fills most people with dread. My elderly aunt has said she will not leave her own home under any circumstances. The care home we visited seems like a very pleasant place to live if you can afford it. I have now been told of another local care home specialising in respite care and we will have to go and look at this one as well. My husband is off to see his mum in hospital again this evening. It is upsetting for him to see his feisty mum in such a weakened state but we need to accept what is happening and make plans for a safe future for her.

Poster on the ward my mother-in-law is currently on encouraging patients to get moving.

Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

The Dementia Diaries – Chapter Two, Heart Attack – Part I

It is ten o’clock one Sunday evening and I am just about to go to bed when my phone starts ringing. I see that it is my parents’ number and hurriedly pick up. My mum unfortunately can no longer manage to make a telephone call so I was expecting to hear Dad’s voice. I was certain it must be some sort of emergency to be calling this late. There didn’t appear to be anyone on the line but then I heard Dad say very quietly “I’m having chest pains”. He seemed to be on the other line to the emergency services. Now, Dad usually keeps his Nokia mobile phone in its box in the back bedroom, he occasionally charges it if he is going to out somewhere but I don’t think I have ever once been able to reach him on it. The fact that it was charged and within reach this particular day was very serendipitous.

My parents literally live a few minutes away from me so I pulled on some jeans over my pyjamas and my husband and I rushed round there. On the way out I grabbed the keys to their house. When I arrived Dad was sitting back on the sofa, ashen faced and mum just looked frightened and confused. Dad confirmed that an ambulance was on the way. He was clearly more worried about what was going to happen to Mum than he was about his own situation, it was really very touching. I assured him that I wouldn’t leave Mum on her own for a second and I could see him visibly relax. He asked me to put together a bag for him to take to the hospital. 

The ambulance still hadn’t arrived after forty-five long minutes so I had to ring again. Then they sent two, what a waste of resources.  The paramedic in charge wired Dad to a portable ECG machine and assured him he wasn’t having a heart attack – this was completely wrong as we would discover when Dad was examined by a doctor. We decided that it would be better if I stayed at my parents’ house with Mum and my husband went in the ambulance with Dad to the hospital. I was very conflicted about this because they have been married for sixty two years and it felt wrong to keep them separate at this time but I also knew that looking after Mum would be a job in itself once we reached the hospital and that she would become difficult because she would be away from her familiar, safe home environment.  It was a cold night, very late and Mum was already understandably becoming distressed. Before the paramedics had even left, she had completely forgotten what had happened and kept asking who the strangers were in their house. 

During the next hour Mum must have asked me where Dad was twenty times. It was incessant. I kept gently explaining and she would look frightened and then repeat the question. I was almost sick with worry myself. My husband was very good and kept me informed and within a couple of hours it became clear that Dad was going to be OK. I spoke to Dad before going to bed and he just wanted to know that Mum was alright.  He said that yes, he had a small heart attack but that the pain had subsided and he was OK. The doctors were going to speak to him the following day about treatment options. Mum and I went off to bed, I slept on my childhood bed under the red Habitat duvet cover I had chosen when I was twelve.  It is probably a collector’s item now!

It took Mum a long time to settle down for the night and I was beginning to lose hope of getting any sleep but she eventually nodded off. I was trying to process everything that had happened. One minute we all seemed to be muddling along and then the next, a massive spanner has hit the works. What would happen to Mum if Dad couldn’t look after her anymore? She certainly couldn’t live alone and I don’t have a spare bedroom. and I have a job, how would we manage?

The next morning I was awake at the crack of dawn and decided to tackle the laundry mountain that poor Dad had been dealing with on a daily basis for the past year or so. Unfortunately incontinence is a symptom of dementia and Mum had recently begun to have problems in this area. She refused to use any products designed to help even though the District Nurse had supplied some, again the “nothing is wrong” approach to things. There was washing all over the house, on every radiator. Dad would consider it far too extravagant to use the tumble dryer sitting, unused, in their utility room. I was just folding up various items of clothing when Mum appeared and demanded to know what I was doing. She would do the laundry she insisted. Even at the age of fifty something, I find it heard to assert myself with Mum and I pretended I hadn’t heard. She then seemed to realise that it was odd that I was even there at all and asked where Dad was, I explained and she nodded and asked again. She would go onto to ask me continually throughout the day. 

During the afternoon my oldest son drove over and we managed to manoeuvre Mum into his car and take her back to my house. I then cooked dinner for everybody. Mum is very sociable and thoroughly enjoyed being made a fuss off and as we left she said “I’ve had a lovely time”. Bless her, she really seemed so happy. Back at her house she announced that she would be staying up until midnight. My heart sank, it was only eight o’clock and I was already exhausted. I rang Dad who said he was feeling much better and told me that he had agreed to take part in a medical trial, treating elderly heart attack victims with medication rather than a bypass.  Fortunately I managed to persuade Mum to go to bed at ten o’clock and, after much faffing about, we both settled down for the night. Just before her head hit the pillow she asked me to knock on the neighbours doors and tell them that Dad had died. My heart sank. This was not going to be an easy few days…..

 Thank you for reading,

Samantha

Cover Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

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Hello There…

I’m Samantha.  I’m a fifty-something wife, mother, daughter living in beautiful Kent, the so-called Garden of England.

Like many women of my age, I am juggling looking after my family; two of my three children are still in their teens, with helping to care for my elderly parents along with my actual paid role as a PA. It isn’t always easy is it?

I hope my little bit of online space will allow me to share the challenges that present themselves as I go through midlife along with some of the fun stuff.

I love books, films and the theatre, any form of story-telling really. When I have some free time I can usually be found either reading in a hot bubble bath , having a catch-up with with girlfriends or walking through the picturesque Kent countryside with my husband and kids (when they deign to join us). 

Thank you for taking the time to stop by my blog, I really appreciate it.

Samantha