Scarborough is a popular little spot in which to grow old
and die. Indeed, it would not surprise
me if bus loads of elderly and ‘not quite well’ folk arrived at the sea front,
on the hour, every hour. Consequently, there are zillions of care homes
in Scarborough devoted to the care of the elderly.
Now, call me niaive, but because of this fact, I imagined
that it would be an easy task to find a nice place for my poor old Dad to stay,
while Mum had a short break away.
Not a lot to ask. Having
looked after Dad since his stroke five years ago, a little pampering was just
what she needed. Just for three days. How hard can that be?
Well … very hard
indeed.
Our quest began with a modest list of ‘must haves’. It read:
Must:
- not stink of piss
- be clean and safe
- be pleasant and comfy.
Off we set, clutching our humble short-list in hopeful hands. We started at the home that was widely regarded
as ‘the best’, having been assured by those in the know that it was ‘just like
a five star hotel.’
Well it was pleasant enough but I reckon Trip Advisor would
give it no more than a three star rating.
However, it ticked all the boxes. Met all our requirements.
But….
Dad didn’t meet theirs.
He wasn’t allowed in.
He needed too much care.
Somewhat gloomily, we continued with our quest.
We were greeted at the next highly recommended establishment
by a female with a personality as dull and grey as a roof-tile. Our tour of hell was punctuated with
references to the pictures on the walls of fellow inmates being entertained.
“They love it.” she said.
And as much as I would have liked to believe her, I could
not imagine a bloke sporting a pink wig and a pack of cards quite doing it for
my dad somehow…
And then she showed us the ‘cell’. Not one flicker of shame crossed her face as she
pointed out the miserable little room. A
tiny window overlooked a yard that reeked of neglect; drab, faded curtains made
no attempt to match the grubby bedcovers; the cubby hole laughingly referred to
as the ‘en-suite’ was missing a loo seat, and a hole in the wall where there
had once been a grab rail remained unrepaired.
Five hundred quid they were asking for that!
I wondered what terrible places people must have lived in to
think, even for an instant, that this would be acceptable.
We left, so shocked we could barely speak.
The quest continued….
A little old lady, sobbing as though her heart was broken,
put us off the next place. Her frail
shoulders shuddered with sorrow and her cries were so pitiful it brought tears
to my eyes.
Nobody took a bit of notice. This is just what she does apparently.
A room full of sleeping women, looking decidedly dead, scratched
the next one off the list.
Men must be lucky enough to die before they get to these
places I thought. I hadn’t seen one
bloke since our quest began.
By now, Mum was considering cancelling the pampering. As it was, she would never have been able to
carry the bag of guilt that she would have had to pack if she left Dad in one
of these places.
The shortlist had long since been chucked in the bin and we
now just barged into every care home we passed. I was unable to cross the threshold of any of
them without humming The Who’s “I hope I
die before I get old…”. If there was
no offending smell, we would hang around long enough to talk to a member of
staff. If they couldn’t help us I begged
them to recommend somewhere.
I was told by one very professional lady that they weren’t
allowed to recommend anywhere as it was unprofessional for them to ‘name’
places, but … if I were to do the naming,
she suggested, a nod or shake of her head would indicate if it was acceptable.
Fair enough, I thought, and proceeded to name as many care
homes as I could think of. I watched the professional lady’s face
register horror as she shook her professional head, time and time again.
I’m not sure if it was her desperation or ours, but
eventually, her lack of professionalism got the better of her and she recommended
what turned out to be a lovely home.
Unlike the others, this home was interested in Dad’s
personality and not just his care needs and not only did it more than
adequately tick the boxes on our ‘must have’ list but it also had two male
residents!
Dad had a very comfortable, relaxing stay and Mum had her
three days of pampering. Obviously the
bag of guilt went too, but it was manageable.
But what of the poor blighted souls that become trapped in those
places that cause professional people to shake their heads in horror?
What of them?
