The Quest for Care

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?

35th Wedding Anniversary

If someone had told me 35 years ago today that I would spend my 35^th wedding anniversary caring for my terminally ill husband, I would still have said ‘I do’.  

Because they would also have had to say that during the next 35 years we will both achieve much of what we want from life.  We will see almost everything we want to see, go to almost all of the places we want to go.

Three wonderful children, who have much to be proud of, will enrich our lives.   We will be blessed with healthy and happy grandchildren.  No family feuds will break the ties that only family can provide and whilst our children will follow many and varied paths, they will ultimately come home.

There will be countless ‘ups’ and very few ‘downs’.  We will pursue an active and fun-filled social life, where parties are the norm.  We will enjoy a life that rewards our collective efforts.  Nigel will build successful businesses and I will achieve academic and professional fulfilment.   

There will be laughter every day and no tragedy or sadness great enough to mar our happiness.

So, whilst our 35^th wedding anniversary will find us both simply trying to get on with the business of living, we will still find time for a wheelchair race around the house.

Everything comes to an end.    It’s how we get there that matters.

"Don't forget me..."

A few weeks ago, quite without warning, Nigel said, “Don’t forget me, will you?” 

Now, admittedly, he could have simply been a little worried that, as I’d just parked him on the loo, I might pop upstairs, indulge in a glass or two with my sister Paula, get slightly pissed and forget he was sitting there.  Or, as I suspect was the case, he could have meant … don’t forget me.  Don’t forget the real me.  Don’t forget how I used to be. 

Whatever he meant, it got me thinking. 

It is, of course, inconceivable that I could forget him.  But I do understand how easy it could be for some.  Our grandchildren, because of their youth, must have already forgotten how things used to be.  Our granddaughters especially, being that little bit younger may, even now, believe that their granddad always had a wheelchair and a strange, somewhat scary voice.  Our grandsons can probably still remember sharing more sporty activities, but time will steal their memories just as surely as it will steal their granddad. 

    

The inherent characteristics that define any progressive illness mean that forgetting is all too probable.  A disease like MND gnaws away at you slowly.  A little bit more of you disappears every day.  As your abilities evaporate, along with the morning mist, so too does your sense of self.  Like a victim pursued by a relentless stalker, the person you once were begins to hide.  It is immensely difficult for your personality to remain in tact when each new day wakes you with new loss.  One day you can hold your cup, the next you can’t.  One day you can stand, the next you can’t.  One day you can walk one step, the next, you can’t.    One day you can breathe, the next you can’t.  Everything that you can do and everything that you love to do is taken from you.  Bit by bit by bit. 

And it doesn’t stop there.  As your physical abilities abandon you the disease seeps into your soul and tries to claim your spirit.  Hope is the first to depart.  Without hope, it’s not too difficult to see how your natural optimism, humour and sense of fun could begin to fade - as frustration, fear, disappointment and despair become your constant companions.  

You can understand how tempting it must be, as you are forced to adopt the clumsy, ill-fitting guise of the invalid, to withdraw to a place that is safe and unchallenging.  A place that doesn’t ask too much of you, doesn’t expect you to fight to hang onto the person you used to be and doesn’t want you to do, say or think much at all.  It must be easier to shrink into the seclusion of the shadows and seek refuge in the unfamiliar and yet strangely comforting fog of invisibility, than it is to battle incessantly with an enemy that you simply cannot beat.  But the deeper you retreat into the fog, the harder it is for others to see you.  The harder it is to remember. 

Thankfully, Nigel, you haven’t vanished into that fog.  You have not allowed yourself to be swathed within its shroud and I haven’t lost you yet.  When you were diagnosed with MND at the age of 52, we didn’t expect to be able to say “Happy 58^th Birthday”.   But here we are.  In spite of the fact that we are confined in this awful place, we’re still happy.  We have each other. You still have me.  I still have you.  And I can still see you.

For my shame I can’t remember how your voice used to sound before MND retuned it.  But there are lots of things I will always remember and lots that I’ll never forget.

I’ll never forget our first date.  How the butterflies leapt in my stomach as we held hands on the bus.  How we both wore brown suits and how giddy I felt because we kind of ‘matched’.  

I’ll never forget the first time we stayed up all night and greeted the dawn by walking in the long grass, wet with the morning dew.  Everybody should walk in the long grass at least once.  

I remember how we fretted when we took that bank loan to get your business started and how hard you worked to become established.  We needn’t have worried.  There are very few buildings left in Scarborough that have not been adorned with your scaffolding.

I can’t stop myself from smiling as I remember how proud I used to feel when I’d see you swing like an ape from the scaffold.  At 50’ high, you’d hang upside down, leap from lift to lift like a mountain goat and throw heavy boards around with such ease and precision that you’d think they were archer’s arrows.

Neither will I forget you and Stivvy showing your bare arses on stage in the nightclub for no other reason than it made you laugh.   Equally unforgettable are the countless nights you’d come home from work, half naked, having had the clothes torn from your person in the pub, because that was fun too!

And while we’re on with nakedness and bare arses…exactly why did you drag me out of bed that night and chuck me out on the street with not a stitch on? 

Like everybody else, we’ve had our battles and I won’t forget those infrequent but important ‘walks and talks’.

I will always remember how you would sit facing the door of any pub or restaurant or indeed any room that we happened to find ourselves in.  There you would be, sword arm free, ready for action - just in case marauding villains invaded our space and you had to save us all.   I always knew I’d be safe.    You never left any room in second place.

How vivid are the memories of those nights when no microphone could be left unguarded.  Long before Karaoke was invented, you would steal the mike from the poor innocent DJ and lead the audience in hearty and heartfelt renditions of army and rugby songs whether they liked it or not.

You must remember every Saturday afternoon when the house throbbed with the vibrant strains of your favourite music and how you quite unwittingly nurtured in our children a deep and everlasting appreciation of Pink Floyd.

And how could I forget those magical mornings as we welcomed the sunrise whilst sitting on the Esplanade sipping champagne?

So, no, I won’t forget how you used to be.  How you still are.  I won’t forget a single day of the time we’ve had together.  Whilst MND might have stolen our future it hasn’t touched our past.  No matter how much this disease tries to cloak you in its disguise, the real you will never become invisible to me. 

But there are certain things that I can forget…

I can forget that you are dying when I see the devil dancing in your eyes.  I can forget to be gloomy when we can still giggle and forget to feel forlorn when the house is filled with family.  I can forget to be mournful of what might have been and I can forget to yearn for yesterday when we still have today.  We still have now.

Let’s remember that. 

Dog tired!

Not only did I agree to dog-sit for Ellie’s and Becky’s dogs when Ellie, Danny and the boys jetted off on their hols, I actually offered.    Two weeks would fly by in no time, I thought.  Compared to looking after a couple of kids, it would be a breeze, I thought.    What’s more, unlike most children, these two little dogs are cute, obedient, don’t make a mess, don’t smell too bad and don’t yap much.   Piece of cake, I thought.

Not being much of a dog fan, I don’t really know one type of dog from another.  Nor do I care to know.  My canine interest starts and ends with these two miniature schnauzers, who, I have to admit, are pretty endearing.    

So, day one of the doggy hols arrives and my doggy stall is all set up.  Food filed neatly in the dog corner; dog care instructions memorised, location and phone number of the nearest vet mentally recorded; dog beds positioned just where I imagine the dogs would like them.   Sorted.  Got everything we need.  Well, except for those smart little black poo bags.   Consequently we had to slum it with Tesco carriers for a couple of days.  I don’t think the dogs minded much. 

There is nowhere more beautiful than Scarborough when viewed from the Esplanade on a lovely sunny morning.  A gentle meander down the cliff paths to the beach soon became our early morning routine.   I could get used to this, I thought, as I marvelled at the sea glistening as blue as the med in the glorious warm sunshine.  Thankfully, I stopped myself from getting carried away – dogs, like beach chalets, are only fun in the summer!

In my eagerness to be a good dog-sitter, for the first couple of days I would get up outrageously early and treat the two little dogs to three good walks a day.  However, their treat soon became their expectation and I felt obliged to maintain those exacting and ridiculously high standards for the entire fortnight.   All very well, but after a week, those cliffs started taking their toll and the climb back up seemed to get steeper every day.  I’ll get fit, I thought happily.  I’ll lose weight, I thought, wrongly!  By the time I had staggered back home I was so hungry that even dog food looked tempting.

To keep myself amused on the walks I established a set of dog and walker performance tables, making instant and entirely unjustified judgements of all fellow dogs and doggy people.   I tutted in disgust at those irritating, badly behaved, stupid dogs who are not fit to be let off the lead, whose owners smile inanely at you and say, “he’s just a baby…”.  I then tutted in equal disgust at those owners who kept their helpless hounds tightly tethered.  I sympathised with the poor dogs who were obliged to move at a snail’s pace as the excessive weight of their sloth-like owners hindered their ability to put one foot in-front of the other.  I decided, without question, who was the culprit when forced to avoid the disgusting dog waste in our path and generally concluded that we were clearly, and rightfully, right at the top of the dog and dog-walker tree!

We encountered a particularly nasty beast who would have eaten my two cuties in a single bite had I not scooped them up into my protective embrace!   The keeper of said nasty beast remarked not quite apologetically enough in my opinion that he was a little “feisty”.    Feisty!  I don’t think so!  Feisty would suggest excitable and spirited.  At worst it could suggest irritability and a bit of a temper.   It certainly doesn’t adequately describe the vivid, purple snarling gums still sporting the remnants of its last victim and the hideously sharp incisors dripping with blood lust.  Clutching my “nice” doggies closely I trotted off in as superior and haughty a fashion as I could muster.

I have been quite surprised at the number of people who say “good morning” just because you’ve got a couple of dogs.  No such politeness when I’m simply popping to the shop!  I found it all quite uplifting to engage in such pleasantries, although I quickly asserted my lack of interest when fellow dog walkers wrongly assumed I could care less about their particular pooches.

When not out walking the dogs would constantly follow me around the house.  I got to feel quite guilty for not doing something more exciting than going to put the kettle on.   All the effort they made to get up from their comfy little snoozing spot, and for what?   Surely we’re going out again?  A treat?  A cuddle?  What… nothing?  Never quite taking their sad brown eyes off you they seem to have only one expression - that of hopeful pleading.

Would it be too much to ask, do you think, that, after a hundred miles, countless doggy treats, yummy portions of human food, a brand new toy apiece and endless cuddles, I might see some gratitude in those eyes for once?  Clearly it is.

Ah well, the true dog owners have arrived home at last, and it’s time to hand them back. 

Have I enjoyed having them?  Yes.  Would I do it all again?  Yes.  Will I miss them?  Maybe a bit.   Do I want one of my own?

No thanks!

Wrap it, pack it, or sack it!

I am one of the few women in the world who finds shopping a complete and utter chore.  For me there is absolutely no pleasure to be had in trudging around the shops searching vainly for nothing in particular.   Browsing is an action that I simply fail to see the point of.   Unlike many women, I experience no sense of excited anticipation that I will fall in love with the first thing I see in the next shop.  Nor do I harbour the unshakeable belief that if I keep looking, the right thing will just jump out and grab me.    To my mind, the words shopping and pleasure should never appear in the same sentence and the prospect of shopping whilst on holiday is my idea of torture.

When faced with no alternative but to shop I attempt to cram this thankless task into the first half hour of the day so as to avoid being irritated out of my mind by other shoppers.   I concentrate fiercely on not allowing myself to be bombarded by the noise that masquerades as music and I refuse to listen to the recorded idiot spouting about today’s treats as he tries to tempt me into partaking of a cuppa and cake in the café!  I march at speed from shop to shop determined to honour the self-imposed condition that if the item on the list is not found within two minutes, then it doesn’t get bought. 

Whilst my aversion to shopping is a characteristic that Nigel loves dearly, my jaunts into the world of retailing are generally short, miserable and often futile.

It is hardly surprising therefore that I have long since foregone my frustrating forays to the shop-face in favour of the fabulously friendly, fiendishly easy field of on-line shopping.

There is something infinitely more civilised about shopping in comfort, enjoying a glass of wine and listening to your own choice of music than prancing up and down the precinct like a thing possessed.

It couldn’t be easier could it?  Search, find, click – job done.   Utopia!

… Or is it?

Afraid not!  Unfortunately, even on-line shopping has its drawbacks.

The minor drawbacks, the ones that are only moderately troublesome include the fact that you’ve got to be in to receive your goods.  If not, you need accommodating and non-thieving neighbours or a porch, garage or back yard in which the stuff can be left.   Without any or all of the above it is entirely possible that all of that valuable time that was saved, and more, will now be wasted by having to trek to the post office or depot, queue interminably, and cart it all home – assuming or course, that your vehicle is big enough!

And that’s the major issue – the packaging!

It seems obvious to me that all the warehouses in the world have a ‘one size fits all’ policy.   So much so that if you order something the size of a Rice Krispie it will turn up in a box that would comfortably house even the most discerning of tramps.

All items, even the unbreakable ones, are packaged as if they are the crown jewels.   They’ll be buried in enough polystyrene to stuff a sofa or, worse, sheet upon sheet of bubble wrap so irresistible that the time you would have spent walking round the shops is now devoted to the zombie-like activity of bursting every single bubble.   

If you’ve had a bit of a shopping spree, you will have so much packaging that you could easily construct a perfectly respectable shanti town, more than adequately insulated with polystyrene and bubble wrap.

Assuming that you don’t actually want to build a shanti town, what do you do with it all?

The options are few:

• Pile it all in the garage or porch until both are rendered inaccessible.
• Spend days tearing it into little pieces so it fits into your recycling bin.
• Decant the polystyrene into your wheelie bin a cup at a time so it doesn't fill it up in one go.  This should only take several months.
• Risk burning your street down by setting fire to the lot of it.
• Become best mates with the guy at the tip as a result of your constant visits.

Alternatively, think before you click and ask yourself:  “Should I go to the shops or put up with the box?

Or… can I do without it altogether…”

Preserve the poor apostrophe!

I like to think that I have reached the age where my demeanour is generally one of moderate tolerance.   I’m at that point where I’m less inclined to join protest rallies, champion the underdog, or argue vehemently about nothing much at all.   Whilst not quite apathetic, I’ve long since ceased to be shocked at the corruption within governments, the wickedness of the human race and the fickle nature of fate and fortune.

I am far more likely to raise a tired and disappointed eyebrow in response to the injustices in the world than vent the kind of fury and indignation, passion and fervour that is, quite rightly, the domain of youth.  

Yet, despite my age, or perhaps because of it, there are still a few things that irritate and annoy me.  Among them are:

·      Itchy labels – those that are welded into clothes.  By the time you get the things out, the garment is in tatters and fit only for the bin.

·      Unsolicited phone calls, where the caller fails in their attempt to sound remotely convincing as they sing “… and how are you today…?”

·      Pubs that consider it acceptable to serve gin and tonic without either ice or lemon

·      Reality TV…

Whilst the above is not by any means an exhaustive list, all of it pales into insignificance when compared to the thing that really sets my blood fizzing!  

- The misplaced apostrophe!

I must stress that I’m all for the evolution of language – language is a living and fascinating phenomenon.  Its development is the very thing that keeps it rich and exciting.  New words and phrases become incorporated into the language as a result of popular use.  Should the same be true of popular misuse?  I think not. 

The most obvious and perhaps common misuse of this much-maligned little symbol is where an attempt has been made to denote a word in its plural form.   Every high street is littered with examples of such abuse.  So much so that you can understand why confusion and self-doubt creep into your psyche and you begin to wonder if you are actually wrong and everybody else is right!   

Who hasn’t seen the word Pizza’s emblazoned on just about every street corner?  Which grocer doesn’t sell apple’s and pear’s?   How many garages offer us MOT’s?  And when there are bargains to be had, aren’t there always 1000’s of them?   Especially if they’re selling bed’s, DVD’s, CD’s or even Xmas tree’s!   An infinite number of restaurants point us unhelpfully in the direction of their menu’s and even in schools and colleges you can be sure of having lists of GCSE’s, NVQ’s and GNVQ’s shoved in your furious, frustrated and fuming face!

An apostrophe is not required simply because there is more than one of a thing.  A humble little ‘s’ at the end of the word does the job perfectly well.  It never, ever needs help from the apostrophe.

I wouldn’t presume to try to turn this rant into a quick lesson on the use of apostrophes.  But having got this far, we might as well be clear of the rules.  After all, there are only two of them!

·      Firstly, omission.   Whenever we miss out a letter or letters we pop an apostrophe in its place – do not becomes don’t, cannot becomes can’t, they are becomes they’re and so on.  Job done.

·      Secondly, possession.    When we want to be clear of what belongs to whom, we identify the owner with the help of the apostrophe.  So, the girl’s shoes, the dog’s bone.  Where there’s a gang of girls and a pack of dogs, the apostrophe comes after the s, as in, the girls’ shoes, the dogs’ bones. 

·      Sometimes an apostrophe incorrectly intrudes into the word its when used in a phrase like ‘the dog ate its bones’.  If it doesn’t mean ‘it is’, leave the apostrophe out.

That’s more or less it. 

There are those who would rid the English language of the apostrophe altogether, condemning it without mercy to the dusty annals of yesteryear.   To do so would render the written word incomprehensible and I can find no justification in that. 

Theyd have us struggle without our helpful signposts and wed be lost in confusion over whos right and whats acceptable.  Well agonise over the ownership of the boys toys and wouldnt ever know if thats one boy or two.   Wed grope our way through senseless sentences and lifes written expressions would become nonsense.

Thankfully I am not alone in my crusade to preserve the poor blighted apostrophe.     There is such a thing as the Apostrophe Protection Society, formed in 2001.  I may very well join the ranks of its enlightened members.  

We should not be required to sacrifice aspects of our language because of a little bit of confusion here and there.  Now, more than ever, we can access knowledge in the blink of an eye.  We carry the information of the entire universe in a database in our pockets.  There is no need to wonder about or puzzle over anything anymore.  Indeed, there are few mysteries left to ponder.

So, if we’re ever called upon to unravel the mysteries of the poor apostrophe, all we need do is carry out an action that will find us the answer to that and any other question we care to pose.  An action that demonstrates beautifully how popular use has created a new verb in our ever-evolving language.  A verb unheard of just a few years ago, but now understood by almost every person on the planet.

Google it…!