These black dogs and the brown river help protect you from that other black dog.
On 24 July 2021 I wrote:
I love it here.
The fairies leave out giant pink marshmallows in the fields for when you’re hungry.
Mum was safe. She had come home.
It might not have been the home she’d lived in for 30+ years, but all she knew was that it was home, and that she was being cared for. Not just looked after, but properly cared for, with real care.
And I was so relieved. Finally we could acknowledge how tired we were, how much we needed this, as much as Mum did too.
We now had the luxury of time.
And when I have time, I allow myself to think, some might say to overthink. I’d been thinking about Mum’s house, and I realised that it wasn’t so much her house, but the things in it which made it home. But also this part of the world. I felt that the hills and the coastline were the contours of my own body.
***
Finally, if you want to catch up on how we got to this point, this series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; meanwhile her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.
Not in the mood for this? That’s ok. But if you feel like a bit of cooking inspiration then you could check out my recipes here. You could try my Apricot Upside Down Cake, which was made with non-butter and I felt it necessary to give you my thoughts on such things. Several years after I first wrote that recipe I am much more relaxed about non-butter, and regularly use Stork to bake these days – butter is probably The Best, but Stork is perfectly good and much more affordable. This blog started out as recipes, sometimes accompanied by wee stories, so I’ve got a back catalogue of tasty things to make. Do let me know if you’d like me to add more recipes in the future – I had an ambition to make a carers cookbook a couple of years ago… perhaps some day.
A couple of days ago I was sitting at Mum’s dining room table and noticed there was a strange scrunching sound coming from over by the window.
It was the sound of hot toast crackling as it cools down.
It was the sound of light rain pitter pattering on an awning just a foot above your head.
But no. It wasn’t either of them.
It was actually the sound of wasps chewing, to make their nest. They had made a hole above the window and now were making a new home inside the wall.
The wasp man came within an hour of calling him, donned his PPE and zapped the wasp nest. I hid inside till the angry wasps had all flown away.
Then I waited a bit longer. I REALLY don’t like wasps.
This incident happened on Mum’s Escape Day. You’d think sorting a wasp infestation would be enough for one day. Or transferring Mum from her hospital ward to her new forever home. But we did both within the space of a few hours.
And as with everything back in that summer, the logistics took more than a wee bit of planning.
We didn’t want Mum arriving at her new home too distressed and confused. So, James drove to Stranraer to chaperone Mum in the ambulance on her journey back to Gatehouse. Then, later in the day I would give him a lift to Stranraer so he could pick up his car. And now, only 18 months later, I realise I have absolutely no recollection of that drive with James back to Stranraer to pick up his car when we must have talked about how we felt Mum had reacted to her new home, what we thought of it, how we thought she would settle in there. Knowing this happened, but having no memory of it helps me to comprehend dementia a wee bit – no matter how much I try to persuade my brain that it happened, it can’t conjure up those memories. Somewhere along the way my brain decided that this memory was not one of the important things to hold on to, so it has let it go… never to return.
Mum was in an unfamiliar place and in ‘isolation’ for 2 weeks
Anyway, while James was making that first trip to Stranraer and back that morning, I was packing the final bits and bobs of Mum’s belongings, and then (after an interlude when the wasps were zapped) meeting Sean and Robbie who came to pick up Mum’s belongings and take them to her new room. James and I had curated what we thought would be comfortably familiar things for Mum to have around her – though now we realise that perhaps we were curating comfortably familiar things for us? If Mum was still surrounded by such familiar objects, perhaps everything was still as it had always been? And it would be ok?
But of course nothing was as it had always been and everything had changed again.
But at least we had stopped her house being eaten up by wasps, and she was on her way to her new home.
I visited her today. She was in bed, and mostly snoozing, but awake for long enough to ask me how I managed to get in (to her room without her opening the door I think she meant) and also to tell me that she is not so good at membering these days, and that she doesn’t know why she is so tired.
Yesterday when I saw her I mentioned that I am going to Ireland next month and will see her big sister, Jennifer. Mum looked slightly bemused, and responded “So many layers”, this may have been in response to the fact that I was knitting a big jumper, and wearing another jumper and also a big knitted shawl. But perhaps not.
So many layers.
***
Finally, if you want to catch up on how we got to this point, this series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; meanwhile her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.
Not in the mood for this? That’s ok. But if you feel like a bit of cooking inspiration then you could check out my recipes here. I’ve just remembered that tasty winter salad that I made a few years ago, and now I’m craving all its healthy goodness. This blog started out as recipes, sometimes accompanied by wee stories, so I’ve got a back catalogue of tasty things to make. Do let me know if you’d like me to add more recipes in the future – I had an ambition to make a carers cookbook a couple of years ago… perhaps some day.
I made a petal! It might not be the best petal, nor how I had first pictured it in my head. But it’s ok. And the slow stitching, the progress at snail’s pace is fine. Our worlds don’t always have to be accelerating, there’s a joy in slowing down and focusing in on what ever works for you.
Mum’s world grew smaller (in our eyes) over recent years, as she first gave up her car and became increasingly less mobile. But not once did this seem to diminish her, or reduce her enjoyment of what she still had. Instead of trying to take everything in, she seemed to focus on what she loved in her life … she has a remarkable ability to adapt to her circumstances and to make the very best of what she’s got. She still does this, despite her challenges.
Such treats for you today in the bonus pics! I found a sketch book with these beautiful horses, reminding me how she loved to draw horses all her life, from that moment as a child when she worked out how their legs joined their bodies. These horses are probably from about 10 years ago, maybe more, maybe less.
The last pic is of Mum on the right wearing a handsomely smocked frock, and her wee sister, Joyce, in the middle and her big sister, Jen, on the left. Such adorable girls. Such impressive women.
As ever, click on the link to find out more about supporting people with dementia. And their families and loved ones. It’s emotionally draining and we can only look after our nearest and dearest with the support of others. Thank you for being here.
On this day, my brother and I drove back up to Edinburgh for the night. We were booked in to visit a couple of care homes the following day. I had known nothing about care homes. Not a single thing other than what I’d read in the media … this had to change. I had been sent a book by June Andrews, which was my bible, full of useful information and reminders, for instance that we were not seeking a country house retreat, Mum’s needs were not for swag curtains and soft squishy sofas.
In the end the first home we planned to visit had to cancel the appointment at short notice as they had a covid outbreak. We had a lazy morning in the garden, with cups of coffee, my embroidery, and easy conversation.
Covid was still very much part of our lives, but that care home visit was the first time I took a Covid test. James and I were sat in a far away corner of the home, next to a wee table covered in all the testing paraphernalia and told to test ourselves. … but we were both totally rubbish and kept gagging, unable to get a sufficient sample, and in the end a carer had to come and shove the wee stick down our throats. That wait was more anxiety-making than I’d anticipated – I mean I’d seen so few people, other than in a hospital setting for weeks so it seemed unlikely that I’d caught Covid. But I was more than happy to have confirmation that I was ok. And I was.
The home felt modern and spacious and relaxed. There was a sense of calm around the place. It was also eye-wateringly expensive, but we had come to discover that this would be the case wherever Mum went, though perhaps Edinburgh Southside was more expensive than some other options. We had also had a ‘zoom tour’ of a home near where I live, and it was, I think, £600 per week cheaper than this one. Being cared for in your old age does not come cheap.
We came away from that visit feeling positive, thinking that if Mum made that her home she would be ok, and certainly better than how she was now, in hospital. As I noted last year, she is someone who still has the ability to make the most of what she has, she seems infinitely adaptable.
The home nearer me was our preferred option (and not just because of price) but they had no beds available – we would have to wait until someone died before Mum would be able to be considered for a room. We asked to go on the waiting list. We also looked at the paperwork for the Edinburgh home.. timing might mean that it was our only viable option, perhaps as a short term solution (though the idea of settling Mum in a home, and then moving her to another filled us with horror).
Our belief was still that the thing that would make the most difference to Mum’s wellbeing was our visits. Perhaps we have been too self-centred, and there is something else, but I’ve come back to this question, of what helps Mum to live her best life, over and over. And each time I come back to her spending time with her children. As her sight deteriorated, and her brain smooshed, as her communication came less easily and she could no longer follow even the simplest of stories it was harder to think how else she could fill her time. People always talk of music being The Thing for people with dementia – but Mum had never really been interested in music, she never had it on in the background. Music was Dad’s thing, Mum defined herself as un-musical. I inherited that gene, though I do like music on in the background – it’s like nice wallpaper to me though, rather than a thing I engage with.
Another thing we felt clear-headed about was that the culture of a home depended on the person in charge – a year later I still believe this to be true. But I also know that looking at care homes is a bit like going for job interviews and thinking that you know what it would be like working at the company. You don’t. You know what they want you to know.
Anyway, for some reason I have posted these slightly out of order… this original insta post came before The Operating Theatre. But I don’t think it really matters. I have come to have a much looser relationship with time, since Mum has lost her relationship with it altogether. It honestly does not matter if today is Monday or Thursday (unless I have specific things in the diary for one of those days).
***
If you want to catch up on how we got to this point, this series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation.
Shewolfinthevalley 