Preface
It’s easy to see how the question, 'Could YOU Care Less?' might be misconstrued, especially as the majority of middle-aged people seem more and more capable of empathising with an ever aging population. Perhaps our willigness to understand the needs of the elderly has become ever more prevalent as medical advancements invariably result in increased longevity. I'm sure I won't have been the first to think, 'today my parents; tomorrow, me?'
In the subtitle’s context, however, I refer to the Carer’s role carried out by the dutiful family member, the faithful close friend or, to an immeasurable extent in my mother’s case, the truly dedicated daughter in-law, a.k.a. my wife, Margaret.
As you may have experienced for yourself, the work of the day-to-day Carer can often be arduous, repetitive and, in many cases, financially unrewarding. Let’s make no bones about it; the life of the Carer can also be a thankless task too. Whilst some would think it morally wrong to expect a labour of love and a flag-waving crowd to go hand-in-hand, there is also the view that taking devotion to duty for granted is equally unjust.
What you are about to read is the story of how Margaret and I began to seriously consider Residential Care as an option and, ultimately, make that life-changing decision to place my mum in one such home. In sharing this experience with you, I hope it will help you to see things more clearly when you set out on what is, for want of a better phrase, a long and emotional journey. To know that there are other people out there who have coped with the same heart-wrenching decisions that you now face, may add a little strength to your cause, if not comfort.
Let’s be clear from the outset, though; this story will not make that decision for you, neither should it influence you in one way or another. It’s a very personal decision and every set of circumstances are different; what’s right for one might not be right for another. The good news is, whatever your decision, you are not alone. As some of you may already be aware, there is help out there, it’s just a case of knowing where to look.
If you haven’t yet worked out who the lady at the top is, that would be my dear old mum, Joyce; the woman who spent the best years of her life bringing me up. Alas, this isn’t about those carefree, effervescent days. This is about how, in the month of March 2008, a severe stroke changed our lives forever. It’s also about a journey that most of us hope and pray that we will never have to make. So, if and when the time finally does arrive, don’t be surprised to find yourself feeling as helpless as a bewildered rabbit caught in the glare of fate’s unyielding headlights.
My father’s concerns
Going back to the beginning of the 1990’s, around the time when my father was in the early stages of decline, I gave him an assurance that, upon his demise, I would take care of my widowed mother. Knowing that he was on borrowed time, he shared with me his concerns that a particular member of the family would try, in his absence, to take advantage of her vulnerability. My father was obviously an astute man as his predication would, one day, come to pass. But that’s the kind of man my father was, always thinking about his family and doing the very best he could with meagre resources. I loved him then as I love him now.
The promise I had made to him on that day was to be tested post 25th of February 1997. That was the date when my dearly beloved father passed away in Airedale General Hospital. We had watched as his health deteriorated and so too my mother’s, who had been his Carer through some extremely debilitating times. It seemed easy to forget that she was sixteen years his junior; a fact that became more and more conspicuous the nearer the end came.
Prior to my father’s passing, the mid-nineties were to be a particularly difficult time for a somewhat dysfunctional family who had been busily papering over the cracks for longer than I care to remember. My half-brother, Graham, lingered on the periphery of the family core, whilst my half-sister, Gillian’s, chosen path regarding a particularly volatile family matter, had estranged her from the torn hive.
Despite the ongoing sideshow, the decision to seek extra help for my father in the form of Carers never even made it to the starting gate. It was like an eleventh commandment; thou shalt not speak of Care homes. At the time, it seemed like such an easy decision to go along with, until one considers who it would be tending to his every need. What we should have been focussing on was how my mother, who had recently celebrated her seventieth birthday, would cope with manhandling a partially incapacitated man to and from the toilet, as well as looking after all his other daily requirements. Without our even noticing, she had, to all intents and purposes, become his full-time Carer at the expense of her own existence.
Those last few years of my father’s life had unquestionably taken their toll on my mother’s wellbeing; so much so that, when he finally passed away just shy of his 90th birthday, my dear old mum looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Make no mistake about it, she loved my father dearly but, the years of a restrictive lifestyle must have been an incredibly weighty cross for her to bear.
The saddest part was that the obligations of her relationship had seemingly soured those final, parting moments. When my wife and I arrived at Airedale Hospital, mum met us outside the main entrance, but refused to let either of us embrace her. She explained that she had said her goodbyes to my father and that she didn’t want to cry. I’m sure that event had been merely postponed until a more private moment.
It seems quite important that I explain to you what happened at that time because those memories were to play a significant part in my mother’s future some fifteen years later.
New beginnings
Following the death of my father, my mother invested in a mobility scooter and began to enjoy the freedom she had been for so long denied. Every Sunday, with the exception of bad weather days, she rode that scooter the mile or so to and from our house, though never spent more than an hour or two catching up on the week’s events. It was like she had been given a new lease of life. Still living in the sheltered housing she had originally moved into with my father, she was now free to go on the day trips, coffee mornings and Bingo nights arranged by Incommunities. From the darkness of her despair, she had somehow found the strength to regain her independence.
Secreted within my general recollection of how she was at that time, are some of my fondest memories of her. This was a side of my mother I had never before witnessed or, if I had, it was so long ago I couldn’t remember. Having been freed from the shackles of her obligations, all of a sudden she was headstrong, stubborn and downright mouthy. It was no wonder I loved her so much and, of course, still do.
The dreaded phone call
Then, on a seemingly indifferent day in March 2008, I received a phone call at work from the Warden at Farish House, the sheltered housing were my mother was living. Although I remember that call so vividly, the numbing impact of the moment has never really allowed me to revisit the emotions of that day. I remember the lump in my throat just as I remember the tears welling in my eyes, yet the shear intensity versus the calm logic demanded by the moment still escapes me.
“Mr. Dade?” she enquired, “This is the Warden at Farish House. Your mum has had a stroke. The Paramedics are with her now.”
I asked how she was.
“We found her lying behind the door but we don’t know how long she’s been there. They’re about to take her onto Airedale Hospital so it’s probably best if you give it ten minutes or so and then drive on there. It’ll give them chance to get her booked in.”
I thanked the Warden for calling and hung up, then immediately phoned my wife and we drove straight to the Hospital.
After a short time of being by my mum’s bedside in a small side room in the A&E Department, Gillian arrived. It was the first time we had seen her for I don’t know how long. I, along with anyone else that was there that day, will never ever forget that look on my mother’s face. Yes, she had just been knocked sideways by the stroke and the right-hand-side of her face looked like melted wax, yet she was alert enough to display an expression of total and utter shock, and probably with good reason. With my half-brother, Graham, also being present, old wounds began to weep with the bilious blood that had been fermenting for many a long year. In all honesty, I have no wish to recall what was said on that day by either party; I just found it incredibly sad to witness such a conspicuous lack of sentience when it came to my mother’s condition.
The Healing Process
The next few months seem somewhat of a blur. There we were with this strange new world unfurling before us. My mother had lost all powers of speech, her right side was, for the most part, unresponsive, and her arthritic knees and hips were about to impede her pathway to regaining some level of mobility. We didn’t know it at the time, but my mother was never to improve beyond a Zimmer-aided shuffle and, even then, with the accompanying sound of grinding bones and shrill cries of intense pain.
Amidst the logistics of adapting to the prevailing new circumstances, I now found myself increasingly occupied with liaising with Social Services, the NHS Support Network, Bradford Council’s Incommunities Team and the Department for Work and Pensions (DfWP). Once the DfWP had appointed me to act on my mother’s behalf, the financial side of things began to fall into place; and, before we knew it, we were being swept along by a process that would turn both me and my wife into unpaid Carers.
Whilst we were able to enrol the services of professional Carers to help out at meal times, from a personal point of view, it was a Care package that would dictate two visits per day, every day, for the next four years. I know that might sound as though I viewed the situation as an inconvenience but, if truth be told, although I love my mother with every beat of my heart, there were the odd occasions when that perception wasn’t far from the truth. I’m not here to lie to you, or present myself as a martyr to my mother’s condition; I’m here to tell you how I felt and, yes, that includes my most selfish of thoughts, no matter how well disguised they were at the time.
That notwithstanding, my role consisted of sorting out the finances and providing the entertainment. I would often tease my mum just as she would tease me; it was an important part of a bonding process that would occasionally elicit spontaneous words and actions. Margaret’s role, on the other hand, was cooking every day, washing, paying the bills, and dealing with the medicines and Doctor’s appointments. If you were looking for anyone to be inspirational in the face of adversity, she shone through in the unconditional, compassionate way that made me fall in love with her all those years before.
As for my siblings, Gillian began calling in a couple of times a week to keep mum company, whilst Graham, at a cost of £20 per visit, called in every other Thursday to run a vacuum round the flat. This to me was the first sign of my father’s prediction being realised; the second sign was when we forgot to leave the money in her purse one week and he was quick to let my mother know. In her own alarmist way she alerted us to the fact the next time we arrived, and I made sure that it didn’t happen again, at least not until a couple of weeks prior to her leaving Farish House for the last time.
Bad times
Fours years later and my mother’s ability to shuffle round the flat had noticeably deteriorated. She had become more susceptible to water infections and, as a result, falling. During one period alone, Homecare called the Paramedics out three times in three days having each time found her on the floor during their early morning visits. I began to hate the sound of my mobile phone ringing before nine a.m. as it invariably meant racing out of work to where my mum lay surrounded by Paramedics and Carers, hoping and praying as I made that journey that her injuries wouldn’t be too severe.
With more drastic action required, Margaret took it upon herself to stay with my mother through the night. In the three consecutive nights that she stayed there, sleeping in chairs because the one-bedroom flat only had space for one single bed, she went to my mother’s aid between ten and twelve times per night. Although all of those wake-up calls were to help lift mum onto the commode next to the bed, the effort was for no more than phantom toilet urges brought about by the infection. When the morning came around and Homecare took over, Margaret’s day was just beginning. It was time to pick up the grandchildren and take them to school, then back home to do the housework before collecting me from work and starting her day all over again. Within those three days, Margaret was showing visible signs of decline; a situation that couldn’t continue for any length of time.
That was the moment when, forward stepped another Angel in the form of the Farish House Warden we had come to know simply as, Lorraine. Where we had failed to get the help we needed in as quicker time as possible, Lorraine knew who to contact and what to say. She too had noticed Margaret’s drawn expression and immediately offered to help out by phoning the Social Services. It was a gesture that far exceeded her duties as a Warden and one that we shall always be grateful to her for. She always seemed to make herself available for advice or just some good old fashioned tea and sympathy. Although that sounds rather quaint, Lorraine’s part in getting things moving in the right direction cannot be praised too highly.
Night Nurses
Whilst the NHS cogs were slowly grinding towards a solution, mum took yet another tumble, though not one that necessitated an overnight stay in the hospital. After what had become another routine assessment, it was decided to send my mum home again, being as the Physiotherapist had determined that she was at ‘no greater risk than before’. Yes, there was a significant risk that she may fall again, but not an increased risk. As a matter of course, Social Services sent out two Nurses to further assess her, and for a week they paid her two visits per night. The visits were then reduced for a further few days to one visit per night, and then phased out after a total of about ten days; then came another night time fall. That’s when my mum was to have her first taste of Residential Care. She was admitted to the Currergate Nursing Home for a ten-day period of respite. I recall explaining to her where she was going and for how long. It was at that moment I realised that there was more going on inside my mum’s head than I had previously given her credit for. She nodded submissively and I could plainly see the effort she made to hold back the tears. I repeated the fact that she would be returning to her flat and even gave her my solemn promise, but she just shrugged her shoulders and wore that same expression I remembered from the time her father died many years before. She once confided in me that she never really loved her father due to the mistreatment of her mother, and yet there it was; that same bruised expression; the dimpled chin, the quivering lip, and the gritted teeth.
To care or not to care…
During mum’s stay at the Currergate, Gillian, who had recently returned from a holiday abroad, shared the responsibility of visiting mum and making sure that her time there was as comfortable as possible, which was a real help being as work and other commitments didn’t allow for Margaret and I to make the afternoon shift. It was even more of a relief being as Graham abstained from visiting mum altogether.
After the fall
You may wonder why I chose to include such a stark photograph as the one above, and the answer is quite simple; this, for me, was the defining moment when we knew that the decision of whether to admit my mother into a Care Home was no longer about our selfish needs, or about the fading promises one makes on the off-chance that one day it may be about them, but about the very real danger that my mother now posed to herself.
I don’t suppose it was an ideal situation for the Civil Servants either, considering that we were told on several occasions and by several different professionals that it was cheaper for me and Margaret to continue as unpaid Carers, than transfer mum to a Care Home. It seemed it was all coming down to ethics versus finance. The fact that Margaret and I were living with the fear of picking up the phone and hearing that tragic news from the Home Care Workers, whilst various Government bodies were busily weighing up the cost against the potential risk, made the issue a bone of contention we could no longer afford to experiment with. Eventually, even the powers that be had to hold their hands up and say, enough is enough.
Once that decision had been made, primarily by the Social Services, the process of placing my mum in the right Residential Home was a swift one. Whilst Margaret and I focussed on tying up the loose ends of my mum’s existing affairs, Gillian, together with her partner, Trevor, stepped up to the plate and provided some much needed help in finding a placement at Laurel Mount Nursing Home.
Graham, on the other hand, after repeated badgering, visited mum at Laurel Mount on three consecutive evenings before deciding for himself that she didn’t really want to see him, having waved him away. Although Laurel Mount is around one-hundred yards from his front door, he hasn’t been near since and, as a result, I feel unable to offer him the time of day.
Present day
Up to press, mum has now been at Laurel Mount for around twelve months and seems to have settled in quite well. We go to see her everyday and, for the most part, she seems quite contented.
I hasten to add that, after 10 months, we genuinely thought we had lost her. We received a phone call saying that they suspected she had suffered another two strokes, one minor and one big stroke. When we arrived at her bedside, there were two Paramedics with her, two Doctors, one possibly a Trainee, plus the Nurse from the Home. Each supporting the other's views, they all explained that the stroke was so bad that it was unlikely she would pull through. Whilst I watched her lying there, thinking that I was witnessing her last moments on Earth, the Nurse began to explain about DNR. For anyone who hasn't heard of DNR before, it stands for DO NOT RESUSITATE. The Nurse said that they didn't have a signed form to say, firstly, that the Emergency Services shouldn't be called out in the event that she stopped breathing and, secondly, if she was to stop breathing, then my signature would release them from their duty to carry out Cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) for a minimum of twenty minutes. The Nurse said that it could be very distressing trying to revive someone that, in the unlikely event that they were to live, would have no quality of life. In the event the person didn't survive, without the DNR form, they would have to drag the deceased person out of bed and continue CPR for the minimum period of time. On that same evening, it was also mentioned that I hadn't nominated an Undertaker, should the worst happen. We (Margaret, myself, our sons and Gillian, all of whom had by now arrived) were left alone with mum. The Nurse said that, should mum stop breathing, there was no rush for us to pull the emergency cord but to wait with mum until she passed away peacefully. If we were to pull the cord, then the Nurse would come along to offer her support only, and not to try and resusitate her.
Regardless of all that was going on around her, mum was lying peacefully in her bed and they said she could hang on for a few hours or a few days, they just couldn't tell. So, with all the forms now signed and in effect, Margaret and I left the Home and returned again the next morning.
On our arrival, we were greeted by a Carer who said, "Your mum is sitting in a chair in her bedroom having a cup of tea." Now, if you're like me, the last sentence and the previous paragraph don't belong together. We were absolutely stunned, to say the least. It turned out that they now thought that she hadn't actually had a stroke but more of a 'bleed' or haemorrhage. Yes, she had shown the obvious signs of a stroke, like the right side of her face drooping and weakness in her right side; she was unable to offer any support to herself and her eyes were glassy and unfocussed; as for her speech, well, she couldn't say more than a dozen words prior to the incident, so that didn't really show a significant change. The top and bottom of it was, it had turned out to be a huge false alarm.
Having described that event, you may look upon it as an arguement against Care/Nursing Homes, but it shouldn't be. The staff had acted upon what they had witnessed, and the Paramedics and Doctors were all in agreement. It just proves that we're all human.
Was it the right decision?
And so I return to the question at the top, which I now provide you with MY answer. Although there was an overpowering feeling of guilt at making the decision to place my mum in a Nursing Home, it was unquestionably the right decision, and I think that even mum came to realise that. Perhaps we were just lucky in finding the right place at the right time, who knows. I’m just glad it worked out as it did, and thank all those concerned with making it happen, not least of all Wendy, Judy and Leanne at Laurel Mount. We would also like to thank Alex and all the Carers and Staff at Laurel Mount, who continue to care for my mum in a respectful and compassionate way.
Please take a moment to view the YouTube links below.
In the subtitle’s context, however, I refer to the Carer’s role carried out by the dutiful family member, the faithful close friend or, to an immeasurable extent in my mother’s case, the truly dedicated daughter in-law, a.k.a. my wife, Margaret.
As you may have experienced for yourself, the work of the day-to-day Carer can often be arduous, repetitive and, in many cases, financially unrewarding. Let’s make no bones about it; the life of the Carer can also be a thankless task too. Whilst some would think it morally wrong to expect a labour of love and a flag-waving crowd to go hand-in-hand, there is also the view that taking devotion to duty for granted is equally unjust.
What you are about to read is the story of how Margaret and I began to seriously consider Residential Care as an option and, ultimately, make that life-changing decision to place my mum in one such home. In sharing this experience with you, I hope it will help you to see things more clearly when you set out on what is, for want of a better phrase, a long and emotional journey. To know that there are other people out there who have coped with the same heart-wrenching decisions that you now face, may add a little strength to your cause, if not comfort.
Let’s be clear from the outset, though; this story will not make that decision for you, neither should it influence you in one way or another. It’s a very personal decision and every set of circumstances are different; what’s right for one might not be right for another. The good news is, whatever your decision, you are not alone. As some of you may already be aware, there is help out there, it’s just a case of knowing where to look.
If you haven’t yet worked out who the lady at the top is, that would be my dear old mum, Joyce; the woman who spent the best years of her life bringing me up. Alas, this isn’t about those carefree, effervescent days. This is about how, in the month of March 2008, a severe stroke changed our lives forever. It’s also about a journey that most of us hope and pray that we will never have to make. So, if and when the time finally does arrive, don’t be surprised to find yourself feeling as helpless as a bewildered rabbit caught in the glare of fate’s unyielding headlights.
My father’s concerns
Going back to the beginning of the 1990’s, around the time when my father was in the early stages of decline, I gave him an assurance that, upon his demise, I would take care of my widowed mother. Knowing that he was on borrowed time, he shared with me his concerns that a particular member of the family would try, in his absence, to take advantage of her vulnerability. My father was obviously an astute man as his predication would, one day, come to pass. But that’s the kind of man my father was, always thinking about his family and doing the very best he could with meagre resources. I loved him then as I love him now.
The promise I had made to him on that day was to be tested post 25th of February 1997. That was the date when my dearly beloved father passed away in Airedale General Hospital. We had watched as his health deteriorated and so too my mother’s, who had been his Carer through some extremely debilitating times. It seemed easy to forget that she was sixteen years his junior; a fact that became more and more conspicuous the nearer the end came.
Prior to my father’s passing, the mid-nineties were to be a particularly difficult time for a somewhat dysfunctional family who had been busily papering over the cracks for longer than I care to remember. My half-brother, Graham, lingered on the periphery of the family core, whilst my half-sister, Gillian’s, chosen path regarding a particularly volatile family matter, had estranged her from the torn hive.
Despite the ongoing sideshow, the decision to seek extra help for my father in the form of Carers never even made it to the starting gate. It was like an eleventh commandment; thou shalt not speak of Care homes. At the time, it seemed like such an easy decision to go along with, until one considers who it would be tending to his every need. What we should have been focussing on was how my mother, who had recently celebrated her seventieth birthday, would cope with manhandling a partially incapacitated man to and from the toilet, as well as looking after all his other daily requirements. Without our even noticing, she had, to all intents and purposes, become his full-time Carer at the expense of her own existence.
Those last few years of my father’s life had unquestionably taken their toll on my mother’s wellbeing; so much so that, when he finally passed away just shy of his 90th birthday, my dear old mum looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Make no mistake about it, she loved my father dearly but, the years of a restrictive lifestyle must have been an incredibly weighty cross for her to bear.
The saddest part was that the obligations of her relationship had seemingly soured those final, parting moments. When my wife and I arrived at Airedale Hospital, mum met us outside the main entrance, but refused to let either of us embrace her. She explained that she had said her goodbyes to my father and that she didn’t want to cry. I’m sure that event had been merely postponed until a more private moment.
It seems quite important that I explain to you what happened at that time because those memories were to play a significant part in my mother’s future some fifteen years later.
New beginnings
Following the death of my father, my mother invested in a mobility scooter and began to enjoy the freedom she had been for so long denied. Every Sunday, with the exception of bad weather days, she rode that scooter the mile or so to and from our house, though never spent more than an hour or two catching up on the week’s events. It was like she had been given a new lease of life. Still living in the sheltered housing she had originally moved into with my father, she was now free to go on the day trips, coffee mornings and Bingo nights arranged by Incommunities. From the darkness of her despair, she had somehow found the strength to regain her independence.
Secreted within my general recollection of how she was at that time, are some of my fondest memories of her. This was a side of my mother I had never before witnessed or, if I had, it was so long ago I couldn’t remember. Having been freed from the shackles of her obligations, all of a sudden she was headstrong, stubborn and downright mouthy. It was no wonder I loved her so much and, of course, still do.
The dreaded phone call
Then, on a seemingly indifferent day in March 2008, I received a phone call at work from the Warden at Farish House, the sheltered housing were my mother was living. Although I remember that call so vividly, the numbing impact of the moment has never really allowed me to revisit the emotions of that day. I remember the lump in my throat just as I remember the tears welling in my eyes, yet the shear intensity versus the calm logic demanded by the moment still escapes me.
“Mr. Dade?” she enquired, “This is the Warden at Farish House. Your mum has had a stroke. The Paramedics are with her now.”
I asked how she was.
“We found her lying behind the door but we don’t know how long she’s been there. They’re about to take her onto Airedale Hospital so it’s probably best if you give it ten minutes or so and then drive on there. It’ll give them chance to get her booked in.”
I thanked the Warden for calling and hung up, then immediately phoned my wife and we drove straight to the Hospital.
After a short time of being by my mum’s bedside in a small side room in the A&E Department, Gillian arrived. It was the first time we had seen her for I don’t know how long. I, along with anyone else that was there that day, will never ever forget that look on my mother’s face. Yes, she had just been knocked sideways by the stroke and the right-hand-side of her face looked like melted wax, yet she was alert enough to display an expression of total and utter shock, and probably with good reason. With my half-brother, Graham, also being present, old wounds began to weep with the bilious blood that had been fermenting for many a long year. In all honesty, I have no wish to recall what was said on that day by either party; I just found it incredibly sad to witness such a conspicuous lack of sentience when it came to my mother’s condition.
The Healing Process
The next few months seem somewhat of a blur. There we were with this strange new world unfurling before us. My mother had lost all powers of speech, her right side was, for the most part, unresponsive, and her arthritic knees and hips were about to impede her pathway to regaining some level of mobility. We didn’t know it at the time, but my mother was never to improve beyond a Zimmer-aided shuffle and, even then, with the accompanying sound of grinding bones and shrill cries of intense pain.
Amidst the logistics of adapting to the prevailing new circumstances, I now found myself increasingly occupied with liaising with Social Services, the NHS Support Network, Bradford Council’s Incommunities Team and the Department for Work and Pensions (DfWP). Once the DfWP had appointed me to act on my mother’s behalf, the financial side of things began to fall into place; and, before we knew it, we were being swept along by a process that would turn both me and my wife into unpaid Carers.
Whilst we were able to enrol the services of professional Carers to help out at meal times, from a personal point of view, it was a Care package that would dictate two visits per day, every day, for the next four years. I know that might sound as though I viewed the situation as an inconvenience but, if truth be told, although I love my mother with every beat of my heart, there were the odd occasions when that perception wasn’t far from the truth. I’m not here to lie to you, or present myself as a martyr to my mother’s condition; I’m here to tell you how I felt and, yes, that includes my most selfish of thoughts, no matter how well disguised they were at the time.
That notwithstanding, my role consisted of sorting out the finances and providing the entertainment. I would often tease my mum just as she would tease me; it was an important part of a bonding process that would occasionally elicit spontaneous words and actions. Margaret’s role, on the other hand, was cooking every day, washing, paying the bills, and dealing with the medicines and Doctor’s appointments. If you were looking for anyone to be inspirational in the face of adversity, she shone through in the unconditional, compassionate way that made me fall in love with her all those years before.
As for my siblings, Gillian began calling in a couple of times a week to keep mum company, whilst Graham, at a cost of £20 per visit, called in every other Thursday to run a vacuum round the flat. This to me was the first sign of my father’s prediction being realised; the second sign was when we forgot to leave the money in her purse one week and he was quick to let my mother know. In her own alarmist way she alerted us to the fact the next time we arrived, and I made sure that it didn’t happen again, at least not until a couple of weeks prior to her leaving Farish House for the last time.
Bad times
Fours years later and my mother’s ability to shuffle round the flat had noticeably deteriorated. She had become more susceptible to water infections and, as a result, falling. During one period alone, Homecare called the Paramedics out three times in three days having each time found her on the floor during their early morning visits. I began to hate the sound of my mobile phone ringing before nine a.m. as it invariably meant racing out of work to where my mum lay surrounded by Paramedics and Carers, hoping and praying as I made that journey that her injuries wouldn’t be too severe.
With more drastic action required, Margaret took it upon herself to stay with my mother through the night. In the three consecutive nights that she stayed there, sleeping in chairs because the one-bedroom flat only had space for one single bed, she went to my mother’s aid between ten and twelve times per night. Although all of those wake-up calls were to help lift mum onto the commode next to the bed, the effort was for no more than phantom toilet urges brought about by the infection. When the morning came around and Homecare took over, Margaret’s day was just beginning. It was time to pick up the grandchildren and take them to school, then back home to do the housework before collecting me from work and starting her day all over again. Within those three days, Margaret was showing visible signs of decline; a situation that couldn’t continue for any length of time.
That was the moment when, forward stepped another Angel in the form of the Farish House Warden we had come to know simply as, Lorraine. Where we had failed to get the help we needed in as quicker time as possible, Lorraine knew who to contact and what to say. She too had noticed Margaret’s drawn expression and immediately offered to help out by phoning the Social Services. It was a gesture that far exceeded her duties as a Warden and one that we shall always be grateful to her for. She always seemed to make herself available for advice or just some good old fashioned tea and sympathy. Although that sounds rather quaint, Lorraine’s part in getting things moving in the right direction cannot be praised too highly.
Night Nurses
Whilst the NHS cogs were slowly grinding towards a solution, mum took yet another tumble, though not one that necessitated an overnight stay in the hospital. After what had become another routine assessment, it was decided to send my mum home again, being as the Physiotherapist had determined that she was at ‘no greater risk than before’. Yes, there was a significant risk that she may fall again, but not an increased risk. As a matter of course, Social Services sent out two Nurses to further assess her, and for a week they paid her two visits per night. The visits were then reduced for a further few days to one visit per night, and then phased out after a total of about ten days; then came another night time fall. That’s when my mum was to have her first taste of Residential Care. She was admitted to the Currergate Nursing Home for a ten-day period of respite. I recall explaining to her where she was going and for how long. It was at that moment I realised that there was more going on inside my mum’s head than I had previously given her credit for. She nodded submissively and I could plainly see the effort she made to hold back the tears. I repeated the fact that she would be returning to her flat and even gave her my solemn promise, but she just shrugged her shoulders and wore that same expression I remembered from the time her father died many years before. She once confided in me that she never really loved her father due to the mistreatment of her mother, and yet there it was; that same bruised expression; the dimpled chin, the quivering lip, and the gritted teeth.
To care or not to care…
During mum’s stay at the Currergate, Gillian, who had recently returned from a holiday abroad, shared the responsibility of visiting mum and making sure that her time there was as comfortable as possible, which was a real help being as work and other commitments didn’t allow for Margaret and I to make the afternoon shift. It was even more of a relief being as Graham abstained from visiting mum altogether.
After the fall
You may wonder why I chose to include such a stark photograph as the one above, and the answer is quite simple; this, for me, was the defining moment when we knew that the decision of whether to admit my mother into a Care Home was no longer about our selfish needs, or about the fading promises one makes on the off-chance that one day it may be about them, but about the very real danger that my mother now posed to herself.
I don’t suppose it was an ideal situation for the Civil Servants either, considering that we were told on several occasions and by several different professionals that it was cheaper for me and Margaret to continue as unpaid Carers, than transfer mum to a Care Home. It seemed it was all coming down to ethics versus finance. The fact that Margaret and I were living with the fear of picking up the phone and hearing that tragic news from the Home Care Workers, whilst various Government bodies were busily weighing up the cost against the potential risk, made the issue a bone of contention we could no longer afford to experiment with. Eventually, even the powers that be had to hold their hands up and say, enough is enough.
Once that decision had been made, primarily by the Social Services, the process of placing my mum in the right Residential Home was a swift one. Whilst Margaret and I focussed on tying up the loose ends of my mum’s existing affairs, Gillian, together with her partner, Trevor, stepped up to the plate and provided some much needed help in finding a placement at Laurel Mount Nursing Home.
Graham, on the other hand, after repeated badgering, visited mum at Laurel Mount on three consecutive evenings before deciding for himself that she didn’t really want to see him, having waved him away. Although Laurel Mount is around one-hundred yards from his front door, he hasn’t been near since and, as a result, I feel unable to offer him the time of day.
Present day
Up to press, mum has now been at Laurel Mount for around twelve months and seems to have settled in quite well. We go to see her everyday and, for the most part, she seems quite contented.
I hasten to add that, after 10 months, we genuinely thought we had lost her. We received a phone call saying that they suspected she had suffered another two strokes, one minor and one big stroke. When we arrived at her bedside, there were two Paramedics with her, two Doctors, one possibly a Trainee, plus the Nurse from the Home. Each supporting the other's views, they all explained that the stroke was so bad that it was unlikely she would pull through. Whilst I watched her lying there, thinking that I was witnessing her last moments on Earth, the Nurse began to explain about DNR. For anyone who hasn't heard of DNR before, it stands for DO NOT RESUSITATE. The Nurse said that they didn't have a signed form to say, firstly, that the Emergency Services shouldn't be called out in the event that she stopped breathing and, secondly, if she was to stop breathing, then my signature would release them from their duty to carry out Cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) for a minimum of twenty minutes. The Nurse said that it could be very distressing trying to revive someone that, in the unlikely event that they were to live, would have no quality of life. In the event the person didn't survive, without the DNR form, they would have to drag the deceased person out of bed and continue CPR for the minimum period of time. On that same evening, it was also mentioned that I hadn't nominated an Undertaker, should the worst happen. We (Margaret, myself, our sons and Gillian, all of whom had by now arrived) were left alone with mum. The Nurse said that, should mum stop breathing, there was no rush for us to pull the emergency cord but to wait with mum until she passed away peacefully. If we were to pull the cord, then the Nurse would come along to offer her support only, and not to try and resusitate her.
Regardless of all that was going on around her, mum was lying peacefully in her bed and they said she could hang on for a few hours or a few days, they just couldn't tell. So, with all the forms now signed and in effect, Margaret and I left the Home and returned again the next morning.
On our arrival, we were greeted by a Carer who said, "Your mum is sitting in a chair in her bedroom having a cup of tea." Now, if you're like me, the last sentence and the previous paragraph don't belong together. We were absolutely stunned, to say the least. It turned out that they now thought that she hadn't actually had a stroke but more of a 'bleed' or haemorrhage. Yes, she had shown the obvious signs of a stroke, like the right side of her face drooping and weakness in her right side; she was unable to offer any support to herself and her eyes were glassy and unfocussed; as for her speech, well, she couldn't say more than a dozen words prior to the incident, so that didn't really show a significant change. The top and bottom of it was, it had turned out to be a huge false alarm.
Having described that event, you may look upon it as an arguement against Care/Nursing Homes, but it shouldn't be. The staff had acted upon what they had witnessed, and the Paramedics and Doctors were all in agreement. It just proves that we're all human.
Was it the right decision?
And so I return to the question at the top, which I now provide you with MY answer. Although there was an overpowering feeling of guilt at making the decision to place my mum in a Nursing Home, it was unquestionably the right decision, and I think that even mum came to realise that. Perhaps we were just lucky in finding the right place at the right time, who knows. I’m just glad it worked out as it did, and thank all those concerned with making it happen, not least of all Wendy, Judy and Leanne at Laurel Mount. We would also like to thank Alex and all the Carers and Staff at Laurel Mount, who continue to care for my mum in a respectful and compassionate way.
Please take a moment to view the YouTube links below.
Mum at Laurel Mount - 23rd June 2012
