We continue in a positive vein.

Jo is taking her Nana to a garden party tomorrow.

This was inconceivable a short time ago.

Mum still loses track of things.

She’s phoned Gill a few times about shopping (which she doesn’t need), about her having her money card ( which she doesn’t).

I feel progress is being made on all fronts.

Gill bought a shed which arrived today.

It’s in a bzillion pieces so I’ll have a go on Sunday.

Heather is a bit adrift waiting for Uni to start in December.

Jo likewise is waiting for her GCSE results, but will be starting her NCS soon.

Ash has a new medication for his psoriasis and they’ve asked for photos of his patches.

Life goes on. Sometimes it’s hard but it does go on.

I need to lose weight again. I’ve put on about half what I lost. I know I can do it.

Time for bed.

Take care.

My son, Ashley, has a list of disabilities.  Readers from my old blog will be familiar with the problems we’ve encountered and the challenges we’ve overcome.

Folk have asked how we cope: how we accommodate his medication, therapies, appointments, finances etc.

They’re also curious to find out about the “disappointment” of having a disabled kid: how we mourn for the child and man that could have been; how we feel when we compare him to his able peers.

They’re a curious bunch.

The short answer is based on perspective.

Basically, it’s “what else is there?”

He’s 11 now, soon to be twelve, so we’re not Newbies.

Much of the day to day stuff is simply routine and with three other kids and an elderly Mum we rarely sit and ponder our lot in life.

Gill and I communicate. These aren’t just words. When it comes to Ashley, everything is shared. Decisions are rarely made without a conversation, even if it’s by text.

This gives us a lot of strength and stability when it comes to trusting the other partner.

Mostly we see things coming. We know the creams that don’t work. We know how to deal with lazy or arrogant consultants or their registrars.

More importantly we know him. His behaviour is transparent to us so if he’s ill we know it.

The other important aspect of our lives is the family. The world no longer revolves around him as it did when we were first dealing with his conditions.

The fun that is six people in a house all with different characters doesn’t leave time to dwell on one person too much.

Our best coping strategy is Ashley himself. His a charmer, a cuddler, a cool DJ, a smooth dancer and has an infectious laugh.

This isn’t a blog about living with disability. Some bloggers seem to dwell on this.

We blog about what we know and this family is only partly about disability, so the blog reflects this.

I look forward to your comments.

Just be mindful people.

It’s funny, the older you get you more you see the same things coming back round.

As a kid and in my early teens everyone seemed to know about meditation and yoga.

It was seen as a little quirky: dippy hippies sitting cross legged humming to themselves.

As academia helped ramp up my stress levels I reluctantly got dragged along to a meditation and yoga class.

One of the exercises which really worked was tensing and relaxing every part of your body. It was a simple and effective awareness and relaxation activity which I still use today.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear my daughter describing the same exercise to me as part of a package being used at school.

People like packages, rather than using their own common sense.

The latest trendy pastime is Mindfulness. Originally hacked together by Jon Kabat in 1979 it is churned out in businesses and schools now as a quick fix to the stress of modern life.

There’s nothing new in what I’ve read.

Common sense dictates we all need a break.

Take some time away from what you do to switch off.

Smell the roses.

Watch a sunset.

Do a little yoga or tai chi.

Walk the dog in a wood.

One thing that won’t “fix” things is paying any amount of money to use a package which just rehashes common knowledge.

Most of all, change your mind set to see the importance of the real rather than the ephemeral. Don’t carry old baggage. Learn to forgive. Love yourself.

Tying yourself into a tight ball and then buying in to rehashed populist McTherapy is just a waste.

Large families come with a non-edible spaghetti-like organisation.

Last year we maintained 4 school diaries, Ashley’s medical appointments, Cerys’ medical appointments, Mum’s normal medical and dementia appointments, Mum’s home organisation and care team and Gill’s anxiety appointments.

The older girl’s are both at college (16+ and 18+) this year so more of their organisation is up to them. We still seem to be booking dentals and opticians though.

Fortunately for us, family is an organic process and will, with time, become less tangled.

I use a google calendar, there’s a whiteboard in the kitchen, letters on the fridge and as an indispensable last resort, Gill’s fantastic memory.

The girls contribute to the pen board – “if it ain’t on, we don’t know” is our maxim.

Add to this the normal day-to-day which includes repair and maintenance men for Ashley’s equipment and for the household machines, constant Amazon deliveries, school trip and uniform payments (all electronic now), food deliveries (I’m not going shopping!) and Lord knows what else.

As a list it’s long and scary but in reality it works.

Just.

It bothers me a little that many people seem to be developing a sense of entitlement.

Let me tell you why.

I donate blood and have done for decades.

In the UK this is done through the National Health Service Blood Transfusion Service. I’ve given for 30 years and just do it as part of my routine.

I can now book online and give every 12 weeks, health permitting and have given 68 times. I’m optimistic about getting to 100 when I’m 61.

In four weeks I’ll give for the 69th time. Yay me.

We are told that we may have to wait up to an hour after our booking time depending on footfall I suppose.

This doesn’t bother me. I take books or play with my phone or, Heaven forfend, talk to people.

However, today on blood.co.uk’s twitter feed, folk were whining about having to wait or not being able to donate because the place was crowded.

This strikes me as an unnecessary feeling of entitlement.

The sacrifice we make is small. When I first joined we rarely told anyone that we donated blood. Social media is pushing us forward more which I suppose is good because it raises awareness of the need and also of the tiny proportion of people who can donate and actually do.

I’ve receive various gewgaws over the years including coffee mats and badges, certificates and such. They don’t really matter. They’re nice but it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t get them.

I don’t expect applause as I enter the building or hearty cheers as my machine beeps to say I’m done.

I do expect, and always get, thank you’s from the staff (and tea and biscuits too)

I leave feeling good because I’ve helped someone, somewhere.

A few days after I donate I get a text to tell me where my donations are used.

The blood service will react to greater numbers by expanding the service but for the moment we should all show a little humility and common sense: book ahead and be prepared for a wait

And stop feeling so entitled.

If you wish to donate blood in the UK start by visiting https://www.blood.co.uk/

So, we’ve made some progress on the family front: Mainly the dementia my Mum is suffering unfortunately.

Being taken off the drug that limits its progress wasn’t such a bright idea.

Her memory is getting worse and the repeated calls asking for her purse/bank card/address book are coming thick and fast.

Last night I apparently missed two calls from a local number which turned out to be a cardiac ward in our local hospital.

Mum had booked herself in with chest pains (she said she’d phoned me but modern phones log that sort of thing don’t they?).

After a battery of tests they found that she has arythmia – fast and not as it should be.

They’ve doubled the dose of her meds and hopefully by tomorrow things will have calmed down a bit.

While I was with her today she kept accidently pulling out the cords and making up stories about what the ambulance men said last night.

She pinned a nurse for ages with a monologue explaining to me later that she was a Sister because she wore white. Truth be told sisters wear a dark blue or purple scrub (matrons are black and staff nurses, the foot soldiers of the nursing profession, wear an attractive less dark blue). 

I didn’t have the heart to argue.

One thing we’ve learned is that debate is pointless as with such a tiny memory span, argument is forgotten shortly after and even during the conversation.

I feel the time for sheltered housing is getting closer and am wearing the guilt like a heavy and pungent overcoat.

On other fronts Ashley has been awarded a new car. Smaller model this time as we rarely travel as a family now.

Jo has received her GCS results (16yo) and seems happy with them. Tomorrow is a visit to her prospective college to see how they hold up. Her summer of NCS Challenge seems to have been enjoyable and has her doing some work experience with an interview at the end of it.

Hev (18) is starting to party hard has a (sort of early stages please don’t use the word) boyfriend. She’s starting bar work soon to go alongside her college work and market stall job.

Wish I could tell you more but there are no marvellous holidays, fab days out or life turning revelations that make me strut and spin with the joy of it all.

Truth be told, work have recommended I push my family doctor for treatment for anxiety and stress. 

Being the manly man that I am this of course feels like abject failure and resignation so I’ve successfully put it off so far.

Kids start school in a week without a holiday or a day out and I’m back at work on Wednesday without so much as a pub lunch this week. Miserable ain’t it.

 Wish I had a vice.

Lordy, today was hard.

It was never going to be easy but …

I phoned the hospital and they said she’d normalised.

Which is good.

However, a visit to her house made us realise that diet is a real problem with this lady.

A receipt showed that on the night she was hospitalised she had been to the supermarket and bought a feast.

She had then gone home and consumed it.

Type 2 diabetes is not something you mess with.

No wonder her pulse was sky high.

I did delicately address this only to get the normal apologies and shame face.

It means nothing as she forgets such conversation quickly.

For a short while she was actually lucid enough to feel sad about her demise.

Usually it’s just denial. She wants to go back to who she really is.

She looked me in the eye and asked “David what can I do?”

It’ s hard.

She lapsed quickly, denying she’d been in for two nights, asking repeatedly for her purse which we have at home as it has £500 in it and looking, looking, looking for her keys.

The question of housing is upon us now. For the moment she is fairly safe where she is.

Strangely, for us things will get better as the dementia gets worse. All of this trying stuff will fade as she dwindles into herself forgetting Dad, forgetting me, forgetting.

============

Today was also Jo(16)’s registration day at college. She was a little short of the grades she needed but the college were great at easing her into alternatives.

I have an app for booking taxis and this afternoon, as we left college, it failed as my bank decided to run security checks on my recent transactions. This involved a call by me and a tense few moments remembering what certain items were from their dodgy abbreviated statement descriptions.

Picking Mum up was delayed as the consultant was busy, the pharmacy was busy, the nurses were faffing around and not booking Mum out in any great hurry.

Getting home to potato ash was a blessed relief.

Oh, yeah, I’m reading again. Biographies, auto and otherwise. I’m reading Prince Philip, the early years and Rob Brydon, funny fella from Wales and will be starting Alan Bennett soon. Any recommendations?

Hoping for a lull in activity tomorrow.

No doubt life will go on.

I’m aware that I’m neglecting this blog but a guy has to prioritise.

Life updates are coming thick and fast.

Heather is dating but I’ve yet to meet the lucky fella. She has late shifts at a bar in town and her steady day job on a toffee stall in town. Her degree starts in October so “something’s gotta give”.

Jo has started at a local college (16-18) and is settling. She has a bunch of new friends and a part time waitressing job at a golf club.

Gill and I are refurbishing the house while the sun is shining financially. It needed it. It’s surprising how things you use every day get tatty.

Ashley’s psoriasis is flaring again but he’s not fussed. His second year of High School (11-15) is going really well as he joins lunchtime clubs, sings in a choir and continues to charm.

Cerys is doing well at Primary School and has a teacher who uses twitter to send pics of the kids working. They have a link to Tim Peake too. The.school finally feels like they’re turning a corner (now the governors, principal and most of the teachers have been cleared out)

Work is harder as the firm, like all others, trims hours, positions and asks for more from all colleagues. Looking forward (a long way forward btw) to retirement. The world is changing, as it always does, and most of my life has been in a more understanding, simpler place.

Folk seem brash and self absorbed and (damn them) ever younger. Conversation which isn’t disturbed by a smart phone is becoming rarer now.

Our wifi router is a bit dodgy and the furore in the house is unbelievable. Thank goodness for mobile data. I just read a book.

I love the way he talks and hear him as I read. I watched The Lady in the Van and several of his Talking Heads and got hooked.

Reading is therapy for me. Unfortunately, the house is noisy, especially with Ashley’s bluetooth speaker disco habits.

He’s 12 now, by the way and huge. Scary to think I’ve blogged longer than he’s been around.

Over 13 years of this witter.

Must be more diligent though.

Trust you’re well. All comments welcome.

Here’s a game to play.

Imagine if just one of the life points you’ve richoted off didn’t happen.

In the pinball machine of life we constantly make seemingly small decisions which put us on a new track. Tiny things happen which when looked back on, steer us into new avenues of life.

I have many. 

Mum and Dad’s decision to emigrate probably saved their marriage our health but taking a Salvation Army role and attending congress meant a car crash happened that chnged all of our lives forever.

Going for a bike ride just before my A Levels (18) and crashing caused a painkiller stupour that ruined my grades (the forecast was great btw) which ended a Maths degree and higher career and led me into teaching for 7 years.

A random ad in a newspaper I picked up led to a job where I met Gill and here we are 20 years and four kids later.

So with just these three I’ll play “What If …?”

It was no secret to us kids that Mum and Dad were hitting a rough patch around the time of the first moon landing.

Huge arguments around money mostly. I’m not sure they would have split. Both were old world where you stuck to things. However, home life may have been miserable. As background Dad had been married previously to a Greek woman who disappeared soon after the ceremony and it took years to get the divorce. This came through at the end of ’69 and they married soon after. The opportunity to be “£10 poms” and emigrate followed in ’71. Dad took the Salvation Army role within a few months and two years later he was permanently disabled.

Staying in England was bad for our health, We kids all had chest and breathing problems. The estate we lived on was very rough and the school was poor so academically we may not have thrived. Dad always did low end jobs – milkman, factory hand etc. Our opportunities would have been limited, paling when compared to life in Oz.

Life would have been quite dismal.

My bike crash changed my grades which were forecast to be very high. I loved Maths and would have thrived at university. My career could have gone in many directions and started in a number of big university towns (I had offers from Birmingham and Durham). 

A different career which could have involved research and teaching at Grad level is something that really could have happened – I minored in Maths and my personal tutor did look into a transfer to the Math Department but it wasn’t to be. 

Without this degree I came back to my home town to teach in a primary (elementary) school. When I left, I drifted for a while living off my savings and doing voluntary work for a local charity.

When these dwindled I looked for part time work and while in a cafe saw an ad in a local paper for a new Lost Dog Register at a dogs home. I applied and was offered full time work and soon after started dating Gill.

Anything could have stopped me sitting in that cafe and reading that paper.

Mum and Dad’s arguments could have led them to split before they emigrated.

Rain would have stopped me cycling on the day before my exams.

What if…? Is fun to play but not to dwell on. 

Life is about making decisions and not regreting them. When they’re wrong we should learn from them, true enough. Quite often though they’re actually right at the time and we have no way of knowing which one’s will ricohet us into life changing paths.

Do you play what if…? 

Reading has always been a big part of my life.

As a kid I’d hide in Middle Earth or Narnia, spending quality time with the folk there. It was a better place to be than the erratic ever shifting world on the other side of my book.

As an adult it gave me the company I missed living on my own. A social life is only good while its happening.

Life in the last 10-15 years has taken me away from my favourite pastime.

So I resolved to get back into it.

Alan Bennett has always amused me. His early work was superb as he teamed up with the biggest names in clever comedy. Later his Talking Heads were mesmerising in their accurate portrayal of Northern folk.

He, or rather his media portrayal, is interesting too. A sort of bitter old aunt of a man with a razor tongue and a withering stare.

Reading his reluctantly written memoir shows us how a bright kid in an intellectually impoverished family can flip from cute-smart cherub to bitterly disdainful almost hateful young man – he stayed in the car when his aunt attended her husbands funeral.

He details the main players in his life with a loving condescension that tries to justify his outlook. They seem to morph into ee-by-gum caricatures with glaring faults seemingly put there as writing fodder.

Now in his dotage, he has donated his life’s work (a large pile of hand written exercise books) to the Bodleian in Oxford who have found a bookshelf for them in a small room at the end of a long winding tunnel.

As a man, his media persona fails to impress. He entertains WI meetings with his readings and seems unchanged over the last sixty years. He strikes you as essentially lonely and bitter. He has a long term partner though and has survived a cancer scare.

It’s wrong to judge someone from what you see in the media. These days we all think we know someone because they appear on screens every day. If we are to comment it can only be on what we see, what they present to us.

This said, as I read his memoir, it’s his voice which talks to me. My guilty pleasure is that I chuckle along with him as he snips and snipes at those around him. He is a talented man.

The view from my car is pleasant.

With my back to the old graveyard, I have a view of the English countryside before me. My small thermos of “posh coffee” is open and steaming up the windscreen as I dunk another custard cream.

It’s deceiving really. Beyond the tree line and below the rolling hills but tucked out of view is a large piece of farmland. It’s long past its best and awful to walk through. At its centre is a small boating lake with a yacht club (single seater, not Monte Carlo).
The town hall wants to develop it but locals are in uproar. Folk who never set foot on its muddy paths and boring fields are writing angry letters to maintain the green belt.

Below the treeline and filling my view is a nicely kept memorial garden filled with plants and added plastic flowers and dotted with the occasional wooden arch. Meandering paths are empty at the moment: my only companions have, like me, retreated to their cars for warmth.

Dad passed away three years ago today. In a couple of hours in fact. Mum had taken him to the dentist who had refused to examine him as he was congested.

They’d got back and she’d made him some lunch. By this time he was frail and it was pureed and thickened to help him swallow. He’d eaten a little and she had nodded off next to him waiting for him to finish. He slept too and like this, warm fed and with The Missus, he quietly slipped away.

She woke and busied herself tidying away and getting him some pureed pudding only to find him still and quiet and cold in his chair.

His funeral and cremation were well attended with both of my brothers appearing. Her family, long since estranged, didn’t show.

Del and Ricky were an item for over fifty years and his passing has destroyed her. As his constant carer her mind has disintegrated.

I doubt she knows it’s the anniversary of his death today.

Her thoughts are tangled up with missing keys and bank cards. With deceit and treachery. With the suffering she has for so long advertised to anyone who will listen. With pushing folk away and then complaining about her loneliness.

Today these complaints have no one to hear them. So she scribbles almost illegible notes to herself about the perceived misdeeds of those around her. Her carers are in and out in 15 minutes, performing their duties with little time for her long mournful monologues.

With nothing to complain about, apart from her own self imposed isolation, she has started to create nonsense tales of misdoing about the last people in the world who actually care for her.

Such is dementia.

The coffee’s gone now and a new party of heavy coated mourners have arrived with flowers and I watch them scuttle across the cold windswept garden.

I don’t come her for solace. Dad has gone and his ashes in a nice box with a metal plate are parked beneath a rose bush nearby.

I cleaned the burial plaque which sits in front of the bush today but felt no ties to the spot.

He’d be horrified by her behaviour and would tell her to pull her socks up.

All we can do is ignore the dementia and enjoy the parts of Mum that are still with us.

I doubt it.

Since the last time I wrote Mum’s dementia has moved on a lot.

We received a call in early December that she had had another fall.

This time she was on the toilet and naked.

Her Fall Alert Wristband kicked in and a duty operator called an ambulance and gave then access to the house.

Her injuries were slight but her blood sugars and heart beat were (again) not good. They took her to the local hospital.

After we got the kids out to school I went to her house and was upset by what I found. An hour and three bowls of soapy water later the place seemed clean.

You do this sort of stuff for. Your kids but never, I repeat NEVER, envisage doing it for your Mum.

By the time we caught up with her in hospital she was on a ward.

True to form, she had no idea why she was there. I took a pic of her head so she could see the damage (heavy graze but no concussion).

They doubled her heart drug to slow her arrhythmia and pumped insulin in to lower her blood sugars.

At our insistence, just before Christmas she went into a Care Home for evaluation.

Because of the festive season that assessment hasn’t started yet.

Through all of this she has repeatedly cycled through her normal complaints of lost keys, purse, independence, abuse by hospital staff, and how much of a waste of. Time even being away from home is.

Her memory lasts for about two or three minutes now.

We’ve removed valuables from her house but are reluctant to get on with clearance until a final decision is made.

The folk at the care home can’t see her going home. She forgets she’s had meals and screams that she’s starving.

We took her flowers and she barely acknowledged us, falling asleep after a while.

Happy New Year? We’ll see.

It’s strange. The build up to Mum’s “internment” has been more dramatic than the actual event.

To recall, she fell in December, banging her head and revealing to the doctors that her heart and diabetes are both in need of attention.

Increasing a medication sorts her arrhythmia out (I think it’s a beta blocker).

Her diabetes is a bit more curious.

She’s reliant on injections now – despite the carers saying type twos never become type ones.

Anyhoo, medically she’s properly drugged up now.

Being a “bed blocker” they moved her to the most awful care home over Christmas for an assessment of her social needs.

After some dithering she was assessed as having a high level of need and her path toward a residential home was set.

We had visited a few and found a decent one nearby which is where she is now.

Financial assessments have to be done after which all but a little of her income will go toward her “board”.

We pay a little and provide furniture for her room.

Everything is labelled including ornaments as they tend to go walkies with a few of the residents.

The two long corridors are at right angles and the top end is secured with a coded door.

Her room is large enough with a cupboard/wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bed side table. It’s en suite too.

There’s a dining room, mostly kept locked and a large sitting room where various activities take place.

The foot lady comes on Fridays and the hair lady comes on Mondays.

Laundry is free, though she’s still washing out two scabby pairs of knickers leaving a drawer full unused, and mail is discreetly held by staff for relatives.

Do I still feel uncomfortable? Well yes I do. Head says I’m making her safe, heart says I’m betraying her. Tho’ I’m not.

Gill has all but cleared the house where nothing of any real value was found.

The charity shops have done well out of it and I’ve found a treasure of old photos, certificates etc all tucked into books and hidden in sewing boxes.

Her memory is about three minutes long and now, after the event, a local carer has told Gill that Mum often waited for the mail man (postie) on the street in her nightie. Nice to know.

Official wind ups of utilities etc has started tho we haven’t told her landlord, the local council, yet. They are a bit sharp about clearing the house when you do tell them.

The good news is that head v heart battle is being won by the noggin as my sleep patterns return to normal.

My brothers will be told when everything is done to avoid interference. “One dog, one bone” Dad used to say.

The oddest thing is that clearing her house feels like dealing with a death but without the funeral.

Glad it’s all but sorted.

Trust you’re well.

I suppose it’s easy to overthink Mum’s dementia.

It’s a brain disorder, an atrophy of abilities.

In simpler terms it’s been described as the long goodbye.

Each sufferer experiences it differently.

So each family has a different tale to tell.

I’ve joined a forum called myalzteam.com which allows us to ask and answer questions, give hugs and, most importantly, read about other people in similar situations to our own.

Some folk say pray: for what I’m not sure.

Not for strength: even in my most wretched moments I have the strength to pull myself together.

Not for a reason: just as there is no good reason for an all powerful entity to create my son’s broken body, there’s no reason to make older folk die a slow confusing death. None.

Not for a cure: tho scientists are inching forward, Mum’s situation will just progress.

I know prayer helps folk in need but, with the greatest respect, it’s not for me.

A better coping strategy is to try to understand by looking at the bigger picture.

Taking a step back and up helps me gain clarity.

Mum is 75: not a great age today but a decent one. She’s seen my children every week for the last 18 years. She’s been cared for and loved by a close family and a husband of 50 years. She emigrated, ran a Salvation Army Citadel, was a fine knitter and dragged herself out of the slums of post war London.

Mum’s contribution to my life and that of my brothers is immeasurable. Everything I do is a result of her bringing me up right. Many of my parental decisions are guided by her hand.

She did the job right.

As she inches away from me, I know deep down that she’s still deep inside my core.

The remnant of who she was may soon just be a broken body but her thoughts and morality and grit are a part of me.

Thanks Mum.

It’s been some time since Mum’s Alzheimers accelerated.

A fall in early December helped to highlight its progress.

Now she is in a safe place where her medical needs are met and her safety is assured.

The initial guilt I felt as we cleared her house of the debris accumulated over the year is passing.

Gill busies herself with padding out the room with bookshelves and a laundry basket and is in town now buying Mum some comfortable lounge wear.

Yesterday at work a colleague popped in while on Bereavement. He seemed ok but was croaky and admitted crying a lot.

As he left I felt a strange sort of release. On the one hand I still had my Mum where his has passed. On the other his pain is immediate: mine is a long haul.

A people manager was passing me as I worked to construct a promotional sales end and I called her over.

I thanked her for her support which really had helped me through a rough patch. She expressed concern that lately she’d had real concerns as I had seemed tired and withdrawn. However, several good nights sleep and a haircut had changed this and she was glad to see the change.

Life goes on and we all have to adapt to its flux. Change is inevitable and we survive by riding the wave, not by complaining about its direction.

It’s a lesson isn’t it? Gam zeh ya’avor – this too shall pass.

A lecturer at college ran a Self Actualisation weekend which I attended with tongue in cheek. Much of it was pseudo-science but there were glimmers of wisdom amongst the hooha. One of them was that when we are in crisis we should consider how this event will seem to us in five years.

It’s something I’ve used a lot over the years.

Mum’s dementia is heartbreaking and has an inevitability about it that is frustrating to someone who knows he can “fix” most things.

But it is what it is and we are doing all we can to continue to care for this lady and we will carry on long after she doesn’t know who we are or even that we are sitting with her.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Reinhold Niebuhr

I sent a letter to my brother – the one who responded to the first one in June.

Just an update of Mum’s situation, her new address and how we’ve dealt with the house.

He phoned and left a message while I was at work.

He has offered to help with the “top up” for Mum’s room.

I was a little taken aback but all in all it’s a kind gesture from someone who’s shown little interest in Mum over the last few years.

His two children have grown up and one has emigrated to be with a girl friend in Melbourne, the other lives in the City near him and is becoming successfully in a tech firm.

My brother does contract work developing and maintaining web sites mainly for sports clothing shops.

They are comfortably well off so can afford to support Mum.

Our conversations are always a little strained – and odd to listen to as we have identical voices. Jo listened in and sat with her mouth open.

We have a standing joke, Gill and I, about his clockwork brain. I correctly predicted when he would phone back and that he would be on for a set time – usually 15 minutes. He did and he was.

It is kind of him but, like the hundreds of photos of him and his kids we’ve found in Mum’s house, it’s a salve to his conscience for not seeing her more often.

There was no invitation to visit his house, large but empty, or even to spend time getting to know his nephews and nieces.

I’ve promised to scan the old photos and send a Onedrive invitation to him (technofunky me eh?).

He actually opened the conversation with a chat about the weather – we haven’t spoken in three years.

Family eh?

Why do people have to be so bloody arsey?

Mum went into a care home two weeks ago and we’ve cleared the house.

Well Gill has cleared it. Works like a Trojan she does.

So having got rid of twenty years of tat we obviously want to hand the house back.

I phoned her landlord, the main subcontractor for our local town council with this in mind.

Unfortunately I got a weasel who felt it good and right and professional to ignore the word dementia and alzheimers and who tried to enforce a standard set of regulations on me. Four weeks notice is standard and won’t start until next Monday. Blah blah blah.

I pointed out that I am not the tenant and so her rules didn’t really apply.

Ditto with Mum. She is no longer capable and rarely remembers what happened five minutes ago let alone has the wit to fill in a form.

She persevered. Though even after I said “you’re not listening to me’.

Gill overheard the call and said she had a mocking lilt to her voice too. Not nice.

Having given her my name and address to send me a form I hung up.

I then emailed the director of her company and cc’d the Chief Exec of my town council. (I don’t have him on speed dial but I’m sure he has an email filter called defcon1 applied to my messages)

Yesterday while working I received email from customers services, the housing director and firstly from the CE. All were hugely apologetic and promised action.

I’m a sceptic but there was indeed action.

The receptionist’s boss called and left a message and emailed the contents. Basically the call was substandard and action will be taken. The tenancy can be ended after just one week and she even gave me an email to apply for the overlap rent to be paid for Mum.

Sometimes things do turn out well – it’s just a shame you have to fight so hard for it.

It’s Sunday so I went to get Mum from the care home. We’ve missed a couple to allow her to settle. She was ready to go but fast asleep with her fellow residents. I woke her gently and am sure the look on her face was not for me: just a distance in her eyes. I went to put her new laundry basket in her room and when I got back she’d almost reached the front door. On the drive up she asked me if I’d locked her front door – she hasn’t been back since early December. She’s been here an hour and fallen asleep twice. She wanders a lot at night we’re told so days are spent napping. She remembers nothing of her week. In her room was a note I took which says she wants “OUT” and that she hates us all.

I know it’s the dementia but it still hurts.

The little ones are delighted to see their Nana but there’s not a lot of interaction. Tea is at 4:30 so we’ll get her back soon.

Dementia is a long goodbye.

It’s been a weird few weeks.

I was ill with the flu – the real type with pain and weakness, not the Man Flu.

I went back to work too soon and paid the price, having to stay off some more.

Then I hurt my back and this was further aggravated by my coughing – after the flu.

My back would spasm, even in bed and then I would have a coughing fit which caused huge pain.

Along side this my Mum’s behaviour in the home is getting worse.

She wanders the corridors at night shouting to be released and kicking doors.

We brought her to our house for a Sunday visit and on her return she denied knowing the Home.

She made a real scene saying I had picked her up from her house (the one she’s not been in since early December).

She shouted that she had been betrayed and this was all a trick – despite carers saying hello and using her name.

It was upsetting and eventually we left.

This week we had notification that they have taken out a Deprivation of Liberty order on her which stops her leaving the home even if she wishes it.

In the report it tells of her saying she loves the place, wants to stay and has been there for two years.

Their assessment is correct in that she lacks the capacity to make her own decisions, find her way or even to cross the road.

The house where she lived has been taken over by the council and completely renovated for the next tenant.

Her confusion is sad but it’s important that we accept it.

Our house is lettered with her leftovers now. Although we realised that 95% of her belongings had no value, we’re discovering that we were being optimistic about the rest.

It’s a slow painful process and may take longer to resolve that we first thought.

I’ve digitised all her photos and am cropping them and putting them into little albums for her.

My health has improved especially after a week off work.

My eldest is loving her bar job and keeping up with her Uni work.

The rest of the kids seem fine and Gill’s still a treasure.

Plan A was to leave off bringing Mum over for Sunday afternoon.

The disturbance she caused when she got back last time was too much to truck on a weekly basis.

However, after a reassuring call from the Home, we brought her over again.

She’s had a good week, talks everyone silly and was even singing in the living room.

There have been less overnight nonsense too.

As we prepared to bring her back she started to ask for her keys again.

Experience is a great teacher so we simply said “you don’t need your keys, you live at B House now”

This seemed to quieten her.

When we got back she started going on about not knowing the place but with less gusto.

She said she was scared and what would happen when we went home.

A carer stepped in at this point and took her into the dining room.

So we got a watered down version of last week.

If every visit is like that, we’ll cope.

It’s her birthday on Thursday and I always bring her daffodils. I’ve done it since I was a kid. St David’s Day.

I’m working but we’ll bob over in the morning.

My back’s still creaky in the morning but I’m otherwise well now.

The kids are back at school tomorrow and the calendar’s fairly clear.

The weatherman says it’s getting really cold at night this week as an Arctic system bobs down onto Britain.

Life goes on.