WARNING EXPLICIT COMMENT

Sometimes being a parent is hard.

Today we received a letter from Ashley’s school asking us about the upcoming Sex Ed course.

We are used to these and usually rubber stamp them.

Over the years I’ve grown to understand that kids all absorb information at their own speed.

It’s so much easier to answer questions honestly as they occur than to store them up for The Big Talk.

Mum gave me the Big Talk.

It was horrible.

Visions of tadpoles and chambers and sloughs of skin and blood oozing out filled my poor little 11 year old brain, much of it fading as I walked out of the room an hour later.

My early Sex Ed was mostly garnered from conversation, Bike shed stories and a little experience.

The mechanics weren’t that hard to figure out and once a girl actually let me get close enough it all seemed to make sense.

However, the morality, the emotion and the humanity of the process is something I would really have liked a little more guidance with.

For a few years I was guilt ridden about masturbation until light dawned that everyone did it and it wasn’t evil and I wouldn’t go blind.

When it comes to our kids, both Gill and I were determined that the subject would not be taboo and that slowly we would answer questions as and when they were asked.

The teen years have been mostly Gill’s province as menstruation has appeared and the supply of sanitary towels has slowly filled the bathroom shelves.

So, generally I’m happy we’ve got it covered (more than some of our friends anyway).

However, Ashley is a whole new ball game.

He’s largely non verbal and completely innocent. Part of his regular check up is a gonad inspection which he doesn’t even acknowledge.

So “preparing them for puberty”, “talking about ralationships”, “protecting themselves and asking for help” don’t really apply to the little man.

He can name private parts of his body and seems fascinated with one of them in particular. (his right nipple …. what were you thinking?)

So after some discussion, we’ve decided to remove him from the lessons.

Jo (15) offered that simply being in the lessons, he might understand some of it – we don’t know how much he actually absorbs.

Heather (17) is against. She says he’s like a two year old. What’s the point?

I’d welcome your thoughts.

I was delighted a few years ago when my daughter told me she had decided to follow me into education.

Teaching primary school kids for 7 years was a joy for but didn’t provide me with a path forward.

Leaving proved wise as so much that restricted me, or perhaps that I had allowed to restrict me, disappeared overnight.

Looking back has never been an option but folk have asked me if I ever felt like returning.

Schooling in my country is a different animal to the place I left in ’94.
An ever changing curriculum and increasing demands on teachers make it a place to consider leaving rather than returning to.

Now I hear that unqualified professionals from industry and trade will be fast tracked into class rooms. I shudder.

This evening she was struggling with Educational Theorists and I was delighted an a little surprised to find it all flowing back as we chatted about an assignment.

Learning is living and I have to confess I have let it die a bit in recent years.

French Evening lessons in 2005 tickled my grey cells and I still learn new things from the internet, for what that’s worth.

Hats off to my efriend Pam (aka Mushy Cloud) for perservering with her studies.

To those of you living in an igloo or at the very top of a Banyan tree in New Guinea, Brexit is a shorthand for Britain’s Exit from Europe.

I could write a post on my hatred of this tendency to blend words rather than, ooh, I don’t know, just say them.

But the thing that’s on my mind is the reaction to the result.

As it happens 75% of the electorate turned up – the rest obviously had better things to do like preparing facebook posts to spill bile all over my breakfast.

As it happened, a tidge over half voted OUT.

Democracy, you know, that thing that was hard fought for, told us the people’s will.

However, just like a football team losing, the fans of REMAIN were bitter to say the least.

Apparently, if you voted the “wrong” way you were a “tosser”, ignorant, mad and just plain stupid.

This, my dears, is what galls me.

By the way, the analyses I’ve read today tell me that the better off you are, the more it will impact you.

Interest rates will fall, foreign holidays will be expensive to buy and to spend money on, European cars will cost too.

The price of oranges and tomatos will go up but … meh.

Our leaders are all in peril. The PM has resigned and the opposition leader is dealing with a vote of no confidence.

European wines will become expensive but I prefer New World.

Benefits may suffer but they’ve gone down in value during this governments tenure anyway.

The effects are yet to be seen.

The real eye opener has been the shameful way folk have reacted to the result.

Life, I’ve found, isn’t about getting what you want. For me it’s more about dealing with what you’ve got.

Events happen like pins on a pinball table and what measures you as a Human Being is how you react.

Take a deep breath, hold it in, slowly release and …. move on.

The recent fuss over Brexit (Britain’s exit from the EU) has provided me with a chance to Spring Clean my Social Media.

Friends are all well and good but they come in all shades of grey (in its pre-ELJames meaning).

So it stands to reason that at the opposite end of a spectrum to closest buddies and lovers are those folk who have either drifted away or wheedled their way in.

Brexit, like many events, gives an opportunity to reflect.

People reflect their true nature by the things they say and do.

Life is too short to drown in bile and suffer vitriol.

The nature of social media allows us to call folk “friends” when we barely know them or maybe knew them as teens all those years ago. My daughters have hundreds of “friends”.

This bunch, for me my old school buddies, has proved the most disappointing.

At 50+ we vary from beautiful “love and light”, violin playing grannies to quasi-young bigots. 

Life distorts and deranges us until our only link to the youth we were is a vague physical resemblance.

Sometimes this is good. Wild young idiots become homogenised into the general mass. Their destructive leanings are watered down and they start to play a constructive role in society.

Sometimes, it’s bad, as experience knocks us onto tracks leading to dark forests with no way out (at least two of my year are currently doing time).

What we do have is the power to control who we have in our lives.

Which I do.

A few years ago a factory in the industrial estate across the road burned down.

It was part of a complex of six units all butted up next to each other. They varied from a fruiterer, to a ducting engineer to a small but thriving recording studio. The potential for damage and job loss was immense.

We were evacuated from the house and the kids were put up by kindly neighbours in the street behind ours. Gill was stranded as they shut off all the roads but we kept in touch by phone.

News of gas cylinders in one of the units soon filtered through to us as all but the fire brigade were allowed close.

The flames were immense shooting twenty and more feet in the air.

The unit which was on fire was the furthest from our street but the chaos was visible from my standpoint in the street.

Eventually the brigade got the flames under control and we were back in our houses watching the owners of the units going in to look for damage.

What struck me about the whole thing was the polar opposites of human nature that it revealed.

On the one hand were the two little scumbags who climbed up and set fire to to the roof. They had no concern for the financial damage and loss of employment they were causing.

On the other hand were the local folk who rallied round to offer shelter and cups of tea to those of us exiled from our homes.

One was a community firebrand who, note pad in hand, took quotes from the police, asked snippy questions and generally held the services to account.

Some people are profoundly stupid and ignorant and maybe even evil.

Others are not.

This post was inspired by WP Daily Prompt which was the word Burn

It was the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

I first started blogging in 2004, 12 years ago.

Here’s a screenshot:

Reading this again my expectations were a little high. The chances of an old school friend reading this I now know are rather faint.

The daughter who was just starting a new school is now at college and working at the weekends.

I’ve used several platforms going to 27 and vox after 20six.

WordPress is the best I’ve found. I use the App or Word to post now rather than the website.

I sit at an eyepad with a bluetooth keyboard rather than at a desk at a sit-up-and-beg old style stack computer. The internet is wifi and the house is chock full of similar gadgets all demanding bandwidth.

There are two more kids and we’ve moved twice in the meantime.

I blog when I feel the need rather than as a daily compulsion.

Life is for living not for recording.

A few of you have stuck with me for such a long time for which I am truly grateful.

The oldest blogs still running are almost ten years older than mine so I’ve got a way to go yet.

Thanks again for sticking with me and a big HI to the newer readers.
inspired by WP’s Opening Line prompt

Family are never the easiest of folk to get on with.

We’re born into them, survive with them for a time and then gradually snip them from our lives.

My Mum came from a big family.

Over the years they have managed to antagonise each other so much that few of them are still speaking.

This estrangement has no impact on my little brood.

My brothers and I rarely saw them and when we did they left a poor impression.

Their children, my cousins, are selectively in touch through social media.

In idle moments I will admit to browsing through to see what they’re up to.

Occasionally their parents pop up in photos and other than their physical decline, nothing is noteworthy.

There were 5 of them including Mum who was the oldest.

A few years ago the second oldest, who Mum kept in touch with, passed away in his home, alone.

His one love had long since left him and lived, mostly at his expense, in the family home with her new man.

He never found anyone else and spent his last working years in a hotel in Blackpool.

The next youngest has just passed away.

He wasn’t very bright, was an alcoholic and never recovered from his two children “coming out”. 

These kids, whilst getting on with their lives, had no love loss for the old man as he drank himself into oblivion, even posting videos of him falling out of his chair and struggling to stand up, as little as a year ago.

When we contacted him, through his daughter, about his brother’s passing, she said he showed no interest. But added that he showed no interest in anything other than his dogs and the TV. 

Many of us live a fiction that family is, was and always will be a  loving cradle, harmonious, forgiving and there to fall back on.

Reality sucks and tells me otherwise.

I’m closer to friends than I am to my two brothers. 

Our parting was all about their reaction to circumstances and situations than any petty bickering.

At difficult moments you find out who really loves you and sometimes it isn’t family.

I know that’s hard for some people to read.

Blogging, like all social media, allows you to create and perpetuate any fiction you choose, be it your wonderful marriage, your A1 kids or your frickin fantastic job.

If this post ranckles, it’s because I live in the real world and write about it.

At times I’m immensely proud of my kids (Jo’s been made a prefect, Heather was pupil of the term, Cerys is a star at Maths and Ashley amazes us most days) but many is the time when they really cheese me off (Jo can be rude and untidy, Heather likes to tell us how to parent, Cerys is so clingy and Ashley repeats himself until I have to just leave the room).

It’s real.

I don’t yearn for a reunion with my brothers. Lord knows they’ve shown their true colours over the years.

I won’t mourn for my uncle: he was a narrow minded bigot who sulked is way through many bottles of whisky because the world wasn’t just as he wanted it.

However, I will treasure my little mob and love them every day that I have left.

And I will value and work to maintain my friendships because it is them, and not my realationships, that have proved the most valuable over the years.

Well that was a long time without so much as a Hiya.

Life, as they say, happened.

Several hugely interesting things have now finally settled but the upshot is that as a family we are all happy, loving and together.

When the brown sticky stuff comes your way, you find a way through it, and we have.

I do enjoy blogging but sometimes I just don’t have the energy. Sometimes I can’t write about confidential things out of respect for the person whose going through it.

You think to yourself, that would make for an interesting blog but then, other than free form writing which I find messy and self indulgent, its hard to construct a blog piece about some things.

Anyhoo, the little monsters are back in school.

Ashley has started High School (11-16 over here in Blighty)

Dashing in his new uniform, ain’t he?

Jo is starting her all-important Year 11 with GCSE’s looming in May June. She’s a bright kid and after getting two decent grades under her belt a year early, we’re sure she’ll be fine.

Hev, is doing her second year of Child Care and has a placement at her old school just 50 feet from our front door.

Gill and I are still plodding on with the diet/health thing, eating sensibly and with me walking 5 miles a day. We’ve both lost a stone and a half and definitley feel the benefits.

Our main incentive is seeing old pics of our portly selves and not wanting to look like that again.

Mum’s dementia seems to have abated but I’m told this is the way it works. Her back pain isn’t going away but she’s learning to live with it.

So. all’s well in Dderbydave Land.

Keep on trucking, as they say.

I’ll pop in and see you all shortly.

x

I’m not empathic by nature.

Or rather, I don’t have an emotional empathy, mine is more cognitive.

I understand what folk are going through but never share their feelings.

Fortunately my wife is quite similar.

When I spoke to people at work about my Father’s decline and more recently about my Mum’s early signs of dementia I was struck by how many of them waded in with similar tales from their own lives.

Possibly, this was an attempt to communicate their understanding of my emotional state.

However, it fealt clumsy and self indulgent.

The reactions I valued most were passive listening usually followed by open offers of support.

This is how I react when friends and colleagues are emotional or suffering trauma.

Joining in with the wailing or shouting really doesn’t move a situation on much.

We find this a lot with Ashley’s condition.

People will drop their head to one side and show or verbalise pity for the fella.

This shows a complete lack of understanding for his and our feelings.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times when we are in a heightened emotional state because he is havinga seizure, is under General Anaesthetic or just isn’t being treated correctly.

These times are rare though and mostly, like most parents of “disabled” children, we lead happy, loving lives which are actually enriched by our situation. It makes us stronger and less reactive to everyday situations.

Maybe that’s the problem.

When my Father was dying, I appreciated it as a Life Event and I did feel emotion but on reflection it was a fraction of what I felt when my Gran died when I was 30.

When Gill’s parents were passing away, I could offer unemotional support to her giving her the freedom to mourn.

At funerals I tend to be the one holding people up and giving eulogies.

We are who we are so I can’t and won’t castigate people for their ability to share a feeling and an emotional state.

 But it’s not my way.

My little boy has just started High School, which over here in Blighty means 11-16.

Most kids then go on to a sixth form college to study further qualifications to get them a job or a place at a University.

In Ashley’s case, because it’s a Special School, they actually stay on site until the year they turn 19. The last three years are spent aiming for usable life skills and a few academic qualifications.

So, last night was the first meeting this year of the Friends of EB, the PTA of his school.

Heather and I went along and showed eager.

I’ve Chaired a PTA before, which was very successful, and worked in Charity Offices for four years so know my way around a meeting.

The usual candidates were there. At one end there was a cluster of chatty teachers who bunched together bedecked with ID lanyards and battle-worn faces. At the far end were the Mums and Grandmas, equally chatty and armed with diaries and clicky pens.

There were minutes, always a good sign, though they weren’t written up,

Both parties were laying into the free cakes and biscuits and slurped coggee and tea out of large mugs.

The Chair was weak and I counted three separate conversations at one point.

The minutes were being taken by an older war-weary sort who was able to control the meeting and move it through the agenda (printed with ample copies, I was most impressed).

The Head Teacher was also there and she too took control at times.

Like all established charity committees they had a firm idea of what worked and told us what their event list was for the year.

When they cottoned on that I’d done this before they asked for suggestions and I said Race Night.

When we got over the stumbling point that this should involve children in any way, because there was a bar, they warmed to the idea.

Race Night’s are so funny. There’s a giant track on the floor with big inflatable die. The “horses” are volunteers who have to wear jockey silks or horse paraphenalia and the betting usually takes off once folk have been to the bar a few times. You roll the dice and the horses progress along the track to much hootin’ and hollerin’. If you have a good compere you can raise a lot of money.

I’m working for their first event but Gill’s taking the kids and I’ll go to the next meeting.

Sounds like fun.

My two year eye checkup was due this morning.

Gill had the car to take Cerys up for a doctor’s appointment so I walked into town.

It’s only a mile but you see so much.

First I noticed the progress of the new build houses. They seem to throw the things up now. They’re right on the pavement/sidewalk too with not much more than a Yard or so of front garden.

I’ve seen many estates go up in the last 40 or so years and am always saddened by the fragility of the construction.

They remind me of the house I was born in which was almost falling down.

They hadn’t been up more than 80 years but were in an apalling state.

Our current house is over a hundred years old and should stand for some time yet.

I doubt these modern equivalents will be there in a century.

Then I noticed the huge amount of traffic. 

Granted it was made up of the nine o’clock workers and the school run but I did wonder how much of it was really necessary.

We have a car but I have stopped using it for work. The walk is good for me and we buy less fuel and Gill will pick me up if the weather turns nasty.

Car Culture is something we’ve learned from the Americans but it doesn’t really apply here because the disatnces are so much smaller.

Most conurbations like ours are well served with tram/train and bus networks and a mile walk is easily done in 20-30 minutes for the average person. Short trips are the real factor though with people bobbing to the shops or to school when the walk may be only 5 to 10 minutes.

It seems an odd choice to make: contributing to the destruction of your environment and your own physical health by simply being lazy.

The eye test was fine by the way. A photo of the backs of my eyes showed nothing. My prescription is a little stronger but not enough to matter. Life in the old dog yet.

Gill’s birthday today. We gave her presents and cards including a toaster from our little worker. Heather loves to splash her newly earned cash. Flowers later and clothes when she’s whittled her weight down a bit more.

Have a good day.

I’ve just watched Sally Philips’ documentary and found myself moved.

The gist of the piece was to inform us that a new foetal test is being reported that is non invasive and which is said to be almost 100% accurate. 

The upshot of this is that more women, we are told, will choose to terminate if they are told their child has DS.

As the mother of a kid with DS Sally finds this devastating and so is probably not the best choice as presenter.

You could see that, understandably, she was moved to tears every time mention of termination was made.

Initially her argument seemed lopsided but eventually the experts did weigh in and provide some even handedness.

More needs to be covered in the media about the life quality and achievements of people with this syndrome so that better decisions can be made by each woman faced with a positive test.

There is no right and wrong for me. Science is what it is. It grinds on, developing and progressing.

It has no conscience or ethic. That is for us.

We were told early on in Gill’s pregnancy that there were “soft markers” to indicate that Ashley had problems.

Mention of Edward’s was made (don’t goo.gle it if you want to sleep tonight, I did) and the choice of termination.

When this was shown not to be the case we chose to plough on into the unknown.

Ashley was born and seemed fine then spent 6 weeks in Special Care as his blood sugar and oxygen dropped.

Now he is our joy. He has developmental delay but is progressing. He’s a whizz on computers, hugely sociable, requires constant revision to his medication, has physio, MRI’s, blood tests and will need constant supervision fir the rest of his life.

He changed our lives and I am a stronger and more mature man because of him. 

Gill and I work better together than we ever did before he came along and our love for each other is strong.

The elephant in the room is the question “would we have terminated had we known?”

Well, if we had only been told the negatives, then probably yes.

Medicos dwell on the downside.

But if I’d seen videos of Ashley dancing, goofing around with his sisters, being the caring kid that he is now 11 years later, then no.

It’s about Informed Choice and the Individual which you cannot dictate. 

The Download is available for a month or so at this address

Tomorrow’s another birthday and while it’s not a significant one, it still stands as a reminder that I’m ageing.

I think what’s particularly scary at the moment is Mum’s progress through the early stages of dementia.

Today was all about her constantly cancelled bloody bank card.

Yet again the bank has sent her a new PIN number which she has managed to type in wrong too many times.

We’ve got her shopping for her and she will no doubt visit the bank and lambast some poor man-child in the morning.

She’s ill and we don’t know why. Constant vomiting could be poor food hygiene, poor medication or just some bug she’s picked up.

What’s scary about all this is that I’m only two decades behind her.

On the plus side, genetically speaking, Dad and his Mum were both around ninety when they died and were both sharp as pins.

Mum’s side of the family were, and are, a bunch of underachieving, self opinionated fruitcakes who seem to fade away in their seventies. Good news for me, bad for Mum.

The kids think it’s hysterical that my age goes up into heady numbers but I’m actually grateful. My health is fine and mentally I’m still pretty much ‘with it’. I can work a full day but take a little longer to recuperate. I’m learning to work smart now rather than run around like a headless chicken.

The last year has been a step forward for me as a new layer of wisdom seems to have settled on my shoulders. 

Folk can’t wind me up as much as they used to purely because I’ve met their type before. I’ve heard the excuses, seen the slyness and self serving behaviour before.

High blood pressure a year ago caused me to weigh things differently.

Gill, my better half, has always said I stress over things that don’t matter. Most crises work themseves out and most things aren’t worth the worry.

Walking, losing weight and not allowing things to stress me as been worth about thirty systole points.

After a traditional present and card opening session in the morning I hope to spend a relaxing day with the Missus and a nice tea with the kids in the evening.

But I don’t know what Gill’s got planned so I’ll have to wait and see.

On Tuesday evening I’ve volunteered to walk three or four miles to support the Tickled Pink Charity. The Boss (work not home) is walking with one of her managers and I said I’d tag along. I have a pink umbrella and will scratch together some more pink bits on the day. Pictures to follow. (Might make the local rag, you never know)

Wish me luck.

After a pile of great presents and cards from my Lovelies this morning, I managed to get a last minute booking to have my blood pressure tested.

A year ago my weight was touching 200 lbs which for my height is way too much. My blood pressure was consistently over 170 and that puts me in the red zone for stroke, heart attack and organ failure.

At work I was getting acute back pain which stopped me in my tracks. Walking up stairs puffed me out and I was run down and fed up.

So I changed my diet cutting out all the sillies and started to gorge myself on homemade veggies soup and mountains of fruit.

I started to walk around local roads and can now comfortably do ten miles in 3 hours.

I have a fitbit too which nags me to do 5 miles a day.

The result? My weight is under 13 stone at 180 lbs and today the clinic signed me off for six months after a third consecutive BP reading under 140.

I think the shock of what the doctor said worked for me. The motivation of not seeing my girlies walk down the aisle was enough to get me moving.

I will keep going. I want to be under 12 stone – 168 pounds – and stable not up and down.

The presents this morning were fab but walking out the clinic this morning was fantastic!

I love that awareness of Disability is growing.

The biggest move forward in my lifetime is the gradual acceptance of people who have various challenges in their life.

An important aspect of this move forward is the adaptations and allowances aimed to facilitate lives.

We’re talking parking bays, ramps, lifts, hearing aid coils at reception desks, trained colleagues etc.

The appearance of disabled people in public life especially at events like the Paralympics really show what can be done with a little assistance, be it an artificial limb or a lightweight wheelchair.

These inspiring people show us couch potatoes what is possible with effort.

Disabled comedians and actors are becoming commonplace now too.

However, I have a beef.

It is based, I think, on a level of ignorance and self interest which pervades much of today’s population.

This ignorance generates behaviour which is annoying, offensive and at times even interferes which the lives of folk who can be offered a little help to be part of the mainstream.

When you park in a disabled bay you show the world your self interest and ignorance.

Whether it be for a few moments or an hour you are telling everyone that you and your needs are more important than anyone else’s.

In the UK we have Blue disabled badges which we show on our dash when we use one of these spaces.

If you haven’t got one you are not entitled to park in a bay.

The side issue of non visible disabilities also irritates me because so many conditions are sporadic and acute and don’t carry a warning sign for the world to see. I work on the assumption that if you have a badge you have a reason to use it which is none of my business. If you don’t have a reason and are using it illegally then I know kharma will bit you in the bum, so again, I don’t really care (you git).

Another manifestation of this is staring, inappropriate comments and treating that human being as anything less than you would expect yourself.

I just don’t understand why people see the disability first and often fail to see the human being.

My son has many facets: he can funny, loving, kind, empathic, grumpy, and oh yeah, disabled. It doesn’t define him but often it’s the first thing people see.

The impression I get from disabled adults is that they don’t want to be set upon a pedestal but just want the chance to lead a normal life. We can support this by not interfering with anything designed to help them do so.

50 years ago I would have been playing out with my older brother taking turns on his red tricycle. I’ve been back to see the house and it seems so much smaller now. Life was simple, life was good. Thr’pence pocket money bought a big bag of sweets: no complications, no worries.

40 years ago we’d emigrated to Australia. Dad had been disabled is a car accident and after 6 years moving around various Salvation Army accommodation we were planning to come home to the UK. My older brother and I were both coining it as paperboys with multiple rounds. I already had my first flirtation with a girl and thought the world revolved around me. Life was good indeed.

30 years ago I was almost finished a teaching course and having a blast at Uni. Bust social life and a great job ahead of me. Life was good.

20 years ago I was deeply in love with my then girlfriend, now wife, and she’d already moved in to my house. Life was good.

10 years ago we were bogged down with the news and everyday existence of parenting a kid with disabilities. Our little girls were confused by his seizures and constant hospital visits and the future was not something to think about. Life was hard.

Today I have a great relationship with my wife. We have four sometimes challenging kids and a tolerable existence. My weight and BP are down and the future looks good.

In ten years my older girls will probably be gone and I may well be a Grandad. Ash will be out of school and probably socialising as much as he can. Cerys will be at Uni or in a job. Life will seem comparatively easy after two decades of parenting.

In twenty years I’ll be in my seventies, retired and Ashley may be in care, who knows. Grandchildren will fill the house and we’ll probably host Christmases and maybe even get away on proper holidays. Life should be good.

In thirty years, who knows? My Dad and his Mum both got to ninety despite depravation in their youth and a major car accident. I will be right old bugger who will enjoy life. Life will be a blast.
Go on. Have a go.

Spent the morning picking Mum up for a Doctor’s appointment.

She forgot her key, to shut a window, her coat and her stick.

As we walked to the car her trousers slipped a little so she had to stop to adjust herself.

Her hair was unkempt, tho I’d suggested she brush it.

We’d visited the clinic together many times but she still pointed it out to me.

After a short wait the young tall incredibly polite doctor saw us.

I introduced myself and he said he was so glad I’d come.

Gently we talked Mum through her memory lapses which she played down, her poor intake of water which she promised to sort out, her not taking medication, poor nutrition, and dishevelled appearance (my fault for. Hurrying her apparently)

The whole thing felt a bit like betrayal for me.

We agreed to throw all her old pills out (done) and he has arranged a preliminary interview with social services to sort out home visits.

He also arranged to have future medication “podded”  into large capsules, one per half day to help her keep track (4 in the morning and six at night).

He told me her intelligence was helping her survive at the moment as the tests they do for mental competence can be blagged if you’re bright enough.

We left with her prescription which we filled at the pharmacy and I took her home.

I removed all the meds as she showed me her heavy steel money box and where to find the keys. No reason for this.

I separated her meds into morning and evening and placed them on separate end of the mantelpiece (which we’ve done before, it never lasts)

I took two bags of rubbish out and noticed a charred kitchen roll which she’d left on the electric plate when she’d turned it on.

I took out the latest pile of out of date food from the fridge and checked the freezer for sillies.

All of these sentences begin with “I” as the “we” is ebbing out of the relationship.

She is compliant (today) but not part of the process.

It breaks my heart to see the woman who single handedly raised three boys to manhood while nursing a mentally ill and disabled man decay into this shell.

My strength comes from this woman.

I can feel her 40 year old self guiding me to make decisions.

That arm is around my shoulders. 

That kiss is on my head.

You’re doing the right things son.

The call this morning came as a shock.

Mum sounded more together than she has in a long time.

I’d been to the doctor with her on Monday and we are in the process of sorting out her home care.

She sounded strong and controlled and told me not to worry but Dad had gone missing.

My mind changed gear with a clunk as a sat on the edge of the bed.

“Mum, Dad passed away two years ago”

“Can you hear me son? I’ve been out searching for him. I’ve been to the park and the shop., I can’t find him anywhere”

I wiped away the tear and talked. Quietly, going along with her story, letting her talk.

Gill came into the room, she’d slept on the couch downstairs after an evening out. She said the police were downstairs.

I walked behind her talking to Mum and tried to smile at the uniformed woman in my living room.

Ending the call was hard but I assured her we would be with her soon.

The police officer told us they had put out an “all points’ for a 90 year old but the officers had figured things out pretty quickly after looking round the house: single bed, no man’s clothing.

Now it’s a matter for Social Services.

Recently we’ve taken over her finances, her medication, her shopping…

The hardest part of dementia is the loss. She’s losing everything she had, which started with Dad, two years ago.

I’m losing the tower of strength who raised me and my brothers while caring for an invalid husband.

The kids are losing Nana.

Her Mum was the same at this age.

She would flick back to when Mum was a kid and wonder who the nice young lady making her tea was.

It’s so hard.

Life is a bit tough at the moment.

Mum’s dementia is taking up much of my time. I’ve been to the GP with her twice now and fortunately he’s bright enough to see through her deceptions.

She’s dehydrated, not taking her meds and is increasingly confused and forgetful.

Much of it, we think, is due to her diabetes and dehydration.  

She’s refused a visit from the local mental health team but we learned yesterday that they don’t give up easily. A surprise visit by her assigned key worker found Mum partially dressed in a blanket with wet socks on and a spill in the kitchen. The woman sorted things out but when we visited late that day Mum made little of the call. As we drove home from a visit we got a call from the health worker who discretely asked where we thought things were up to. After a few minutes we agreed we were reading from the same page and a new meeting has been arranged for next week. Twice daily help is now a mutual goal – and all this from a five minute phone call.

My second daughter is struggling with thoughts of her future. Like most people her age, she has no clear ambitions and I think may be starting to panic. She takes this frustration out on me and Gill who are already exhausted from dealing with Mum.

My oldest daughter has given up on her weight loss until after Christmas and says that her chest hurts when she walks quickly. Her course is going well and she’s looking into further Uni level study. Her school practice is less good with lots of donkey work and little contact with the kids.

My youngest hasn’t fainted for a while but is taking medication which should help. However, her school work is excellent and she’s even plucked up the courage to go on an outward bound course.

Ashley’s psoriasis has flared up again and we’re having to fight to get his physio to treat his right arm which doesn’t fully straighten. His development has plateaued and there’s a worrying amount of repetition in his speech.

Gill is medicated but chooses to sleep on the living room sofa. She’s told me that this does not reflect on me in any way but she is my love and life and it hurts me to not be able to make things better for her. She’s taken a lot on with supporting Mum and actually seems to enjoy the focus.

Sadly her niece’s boyfriend hung himself so her (the niece) mental stability isn’t good. Gill’s visited her in hospital where she’s medicated and working her way through handling her grief. The boy’s family haven’t invited her to the funeral…..

The six people I’m closest to are all struggling in different ways. My inability to fix things wears away at me and is a burden.

My physical health is good. My work pushes me hard and I feel tired every evening. Walking a mile and half to each shift and generally topping 7 miles each day (Sometimes 10). My blood pressure is an ok 130/80 and my weight gives me a BMI of 27.

Emotionally I’m struggling though. Getting tearful while watching TV series is becoming embarrassingly common but my temper is controlled.

The kids know how to press my buttons but I know when I’m sinking into a funk and can turn things round.

Laughter is medicinal in our house so I try to generate what I can. This has helped a lot with my youngest who’s always been fearful of the big loud daddybloke. 

When I get home Gill and I generally have a catch up on anything she hasn’t messaged me about during my shift. This amongst all the chaos of bedtime and prepping for the next school day.

It’s no wonder I’m averaging about 4 and a half hours sleep, occasionally collapsing into a 7 hour coma!

But all in all Life is good. 

I can see my girls developing into strong women, my wife will come out of her tunnel one day and we cope with Ashley on a day to day basis. Mum’s progression is what it is and we’ll all we can to make her comfortable and happy.

And Christmas is coming!

The last couple of days have been hard.

Mum’s dementia has become a little more obvious.

Last week she greeted a visiting psychy nurse in little more than a blanket.

This week she was assessed for adult care and found to need in home care.

This was by way of another intensive survey which identified her needs as support with medication, feeding and drinking adequately.

We have already got her pills into a pod form for her, something the pharmacy do for us.

Last night a carer came and made sure she took her medicine and even made her tea.

This morning a carer oversaw her medication too.

I phoned her to see how things went to be told she hadn’t taken her meds and thought the carer must have taken them with her.

So, I drove to her house and started the search for her meds and the carers recording book.

After half an hour we found both and it was obvious that rather than missing a dose, extra medication had been taken.

I notified the carer’s office and they dispatched a manager.

Contacting her GP’s practise I found out that the extra meds she had taken (before hiding the pod) wouldn’t harm her as long as she didn’t take them for a day.

The manager and I have moved her medication on to “administered” status meaning they take them from a locked box and give them to her. 

It was distressing to hear her denying she’d had visits, insisting she’d had no medication since yesterday and even having a go at me for taking her independence away from her.

All the rubbish she’d told this woman previously about being able to look after herself went out the window.

One thing I’m sure will happen during this trial week is that we will establish just how poor her feeding and meds regimes are and more importantly how appalling her memory is: she confirmed, denied and then confirmed again the carer’s visits all within five minutes!

Her medication is locked in a secure box with a hidden key (we have a copy).

We’re sorting out a key safe outside her front door to augment our copy keys.

Gill and the girls are at a funeral this afternoon (niece’s boyfriend). Can’t wait for them to get back.

I know I’m helping her get the care she needs but she’s starting to make me feel like I’ve betrayed her.

This is a part of ageing. Some of become immobile like Dad was, others lose their senses and many. Like Mum lose their mental faculties.

I know all this but it really doesn’t help me from feeling a bit shitty.