Tag Archives: grief

Living with a toddler

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It feels like living with a toddler sometimes. Yes, I’m talking about Mum. I am truly exhausted, especially on days when Mr Mason is engaged elsewhere doing things about funerals and documents that need filing. Today, I get up at 7am with a clear list of things I want to achieve. I go down and clear up the kitchen, empty the dishwasher (yes, it’s working again!!) and put the things away. Then the oil man arrives with several litres of oil to make sure we don’t run out. I make him a cup of coffee. I have discovered that a lot of people who work outdoors like oil men and window cleaners rarely seem to be offered a hot drink, especially in this weather. He is grateful but half way through filling the tank has to move as there is a tractor who wants to get by. He disconnects and goes back to the lorry to discover the tractor has done a very nifty three-point turn and has gone up the hill behind us. The oil man re-connects and tells me he is also going that way so he’ll probably block the tractor somewhere else on his route. That’s country life. No shouting, no gesturing or hooting. Just quiet acceptance.

I let the animals out and then feed them. They are in high spirits and clearly don’t really feel like spending much time weeing on the frozen grass so they’re back in in no time and gobbling down their food. I put the kettle on again and then the phone rings. It’s the GP surgery to say the blood tests Mum had done earlier in the week have gone walk about so could we go in and get some more done? She also needs a urine test. We co-ordinate diaries and I put the kettle back on. Once I’ve made her a cup of tea, I take a biscuit from the big tin and make my way to the annexe, leaving the dogs in the main house. The biscuits have been put back in their plastic tray ever since Mum knocked them over in her mania to have them put in a place just-so. She has been telling Mr Mason that if you don’t eat biscuits, they go bad. We think this is a subtle hint that she wants a biscuit, even though she is perfectly welcome to help herself.

She’s in a good mood this morning and we have a chat about this and that. She has forgotten about Dad again, who he is, what he looks like, where Mr Mason has gone and why but she rolls with the punches and I get her out of bed, put her dressing gown and coat on and take her into the main house until the carers come. When I get into the house I can hear Lark doing her best “I’ve been totally abandoned” impression interspersed with short renditions of the song of her people, some of which sound suspiciously like God Save the Queen.  I give Mum a puzzle book to keep her occupied while I put a load of washing on. She came to us with very few clothes as she was used to wearing just summer dresses and cardigans inside the house so I’ve been buying warm clothes and replacing bras which were ludicrous sizes and hung like elastic hula hoops around her thin chest. There are more phone calls – finally one from our Social Services key worker (whatever she does). She seemed to think a call would be enough but I suggested instead of talking on the phone, she comes over and sees for herself what our situation is like and what kind of support we might need. It’s a novel concept but she goes with it and agrees to come the next day. I speak to the financial advisor about the sensitivity of my pension company who will only consider not taxing my pension if I can persuade someone to attest to the fact that I will be dead by the end of the year.

The Waitrose delivery arrives which means the conservatory is littered with individual items as they don’t do bags for houses unless we buy them every week which I resent. I have to hurry to get it all put away because the hairdresser is coming, a lovely young lady called Abbie. Right at the part where I put the last things away, she arrives and we get Mum upstairs. She asks questions about the landlord and does he know she’s there? She’s in showing off mode as she says “You’ve got more boxes in there that we’ve got in our garage! You need to tidy up”.

Abbie asks Mum again about the style she wants and when her hair is washed, checks with me about how much should be cut off. There is quite a lot of curl left in it so she suggests she just cuts and sets her hair this time and perms it next time. We all agree. Mum thinks our bathroom is Abbie’s hair salon. Gavin, our ex-SAS Macmillan gardener and all-round-carer arrives to have a chat to see if I am OK and, as he has had experience of his own mother having dementia, can give me some useful tips. Then Abbie has finished and asks me to come and view the finished product. Mum’s hair looks really lovely. A slightly more modern style and less Queen-like. We bring her downstairs and Gavin gives her his hairdressing joke which is about his wife saying she’s going to the hairdresser and when she gets back he says “Oh, it was closed then?” He is a bit of a dinosaur in some respects but a decent and kind man. He and Abbie both leave at which point Mum starts bewailing her hair, over and over again. “What will I do with it?” She asks at least 20 times if she has any hairspray which I confirm she does in her bedroom. The more tired she becomes, the more questions come and there doesn’t seem a minute to do anything because no sooner than you have fulfilled one request, another one pops up. It is exhausting, mentally and physically.

On this particular night, the carers don’t arrive until ten past eight which is very tiring for both of us. As soon as Mum is in bed, I go to bed, too, in pain, topping myself up with morphine and falling fast asleep.

The toddler-like behaviour is showing off when people arrive, telling tales, refusing food on the basis of “I don’t like it”. Have you tried it? “No, I don’t like it”. Picking silly arguments, pretending bad things have happened like one of the dogs has bitten her, saying NO! just for the hell of it.

Other behaviour is more upsetting. Today we discuss the funeral. Over the last couple of weeks we’ve been asked about people who died many years ago and why they haven’t got in touch. “I’m worried about Mark Mason” she says, referring to her son. Mr Mason points out he is her son. “Oh”, she says, processing a difficult piece of information. Sometimes she acts and refers to Mr Mason as though he is her husband. She talks affectionately about her grandchildren very often and particularly wants to speak to Mrs Safaie. Each time we tell her she is pregnant, there is a genuine burst of joy. But the worst times are when she worries about Dad. She hasn’t heard from him. Have we heard from him? We explain each time that he died, that it was a peaceful death and that she was with him. There are never any tears. Today we explain again that he is dead and then go through the whole funeral service, including photographs I have printed out. I sit on the sofa next to her and I show her the rough copy of the order of service, telling her about the music and all the readings. I cry as I go through it. We discuss the music, we talk about who will be speaking, which photographs will go where. I stand up and cross the room to sit with my laptop to answer emails. No sooner have I go there than she asks the same question again about where George is. It must be all of 30 seconds. This time I leave it to Mr Mason to explain it again. I suspect this will go on for some time, particularly about Dad and the funeral although she finds it hard to find her way through a set of 3 inter-connecting rooms.

On the positive side, Mum is much stronger physically. She can get herself out of a chair without help, walk unaided (although she does put on a bit of a frailty show if she thinks it’s necessary) and get herself dressed and undressed if the carers are late. She has accepted the urinary incontinence problem and now wears a pad which is a huge relief for all. Like the rest of us, she is being bombarded by appointments, social workers, occupational therapists, doctors, nurses – all things which are needed but which take up so much time. It’s like being back at the beginning of my cancer diagnosis. And where we go, Mum also goes at the moment until we’ve managed to sort out sitters and encouraged her to join in one or two of the local lunch clubs. I haven’t been doing my speech therapy exercises and I’ve been trying to continue small pieces of work. On Saturday I am booked to record a group of ladies tell their stories of breast cancer for an organisation called EPOC. The night before, I think this is a bad idea. I am not in the right place, I feel crap, I feel tearful and tired. I wake on Saturday and decide this is exactly what I need. To go and talk about cancer as a change of subject, to forget about Dad’s death and Mum’s dementia and deafness. We start filming and the other women confess they feel scared, heart rates soaring, trembling etc. I sit in front of the camera and feel not a tremble. I feel totally in control, happy, content, in a world I feel comfortable in. Now it’s the dementia world which scares me. I don’t understand it or the way the system works. I feel out of my depth. At the recording, Mr Mason and Mum accompany me and are found a comfortable room to sit in with drinks and lunch. I feel I have an entourage – a slightly strange one, admittedly.

This week I am going to speak to one of the local Commissioning Groups and we have arranged for Gavin to come and sit with Mum while we go. With her sitting in the meeting, I can just hear her saying “I used to work at Boots so I know what goes on, what they do”. And thus would be the end of my speaking career.

Dad 25.12.16

Fort Zinderneuf

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It’s about 10am and Mr Mason is talking to the man who has come to fix the dishwasher. The phone rings, disrupting their conversation and the caller is a man called Terry who is a neighbour of Mr and Mrs Mason snr. Briefly, he says he noticed the blinds were all closed at Mr and Mrs Mason snr’s house so he knocked the door. He could hear Mrs Mason so tried his doorkey. It wouldn’t work as the bolts were engaged behind the door. He got a ladder and removed  louvres about the front door and managed to climb in. Mrs Mason says she can’t wake Mr Mason up. Terry calls 999 and is asked if he can perform CPR which he does. Later he says he knew it was too late but he valiantly carried on until the paramedics arrived. Using their defibrilator, the sign comes up says not to resuscitate so Mr Mason is taken away to the morgue at a local hospital.

The blow is phenomenal. Mr Mason comes upstairs to tell me his father has just died and we are distraught. We start grabbing toothbrushes and clothes, dog food and anything else we can think of, shoving them into unsuitable bags, get in the car after asking a neighbour to watch out for a parcel which is due to be delivered and drive down to Hampshire.

This blog would be too long if I included a lot of detail but I’ll pick out the most important parts. Firstly, my father-in-law was a great man; kind, considerate, funny, well-travelled and a great but unassuming raconteur. He loved his wife, his son and the rest of the family unconditionally and could never do enough for us. We loved him back the same way, always looking forward to seeing him and the annual singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ over the phone for whoever was in line to hear the strangled version. His penchant for sticking things to his forehead was another welcome party piece.

Arriving at the house, Mrs Mason snr is sitting on the sofa in a kind of daze. We are also in a daze. People drift in and out. She asks repeatedly where Dad is. We tell her straight that he has died rather than the well-meaning person who tells her he has just gone out. It’s an extraordinary pain to hear devastating news repeatedly. We decide to stay the night and put Mrs Mason Snr in the single bed. The bedding on the double bed is a curious mix of sheets and blankets and we’re told they don’t normally sleep on the bottom sheet as such but sleep on top of the bed. What they cover themselves with, we don’t know. We go to bed early. I haven’t slept at all the night before for some reason and am living on adrenaline. To be honest, the house smells and it’s rather off-putting getting into bed, especially as that’s where Dad (as he will be known forthwith) died a few hours ago. Just before midnight, a confused Mum (as she will be called) comes into the bedroom, muttering about her feet being cold and she slides into bed next to Mr Mason, calling him George and holding his hand. I slide out the other side of the bed and putting a jumper on, go to sleep in a chair in the sitting room, covering myself with a coat. I don’t risk the single bed due to the urinary incontinence which has long been denied but is certainly present and get an hour or two’s uncomfortable sleep. In the morning, we have a cursory look for papers, eventually get a certificate from the local GP, pack a few clothes and leave for home but not before Mum finds a set of false teeth under the pillow I slept on. Hmmmmm.

Mum asks questions repeatedly, the same questions over and over, but she does get into the car without complaining which, given she hasn’t been out of the house for over 5 years, is quite something.

The days after that (and it’s only 4 since I last wrote in this blog) are a whirl of confusion for all of us. We start to get support services into place and I talk to so many people I can’t remember who is from what organisation or what they do. Every time we leave the house we come back to messages on the answerphone. At home, Mum can’t remember the layout of the house which, given she is restricted to kitchen, dining room and sitting room gets a bit frustrating. “Why don’t you go and sit down, Mum?” “Where shall I sit?” “In the sitting room, on the sofa”. “Where’s that?” “The room just through there, with the sofa in it” “Shall I sit on this chair?”, pointing to dining room chair. “No, sit on the sofa, it’s more comfortable”. “Where is it?” and so the conversation goes on until I physically take her there. There are moments of naughtiness when she can’t get out of a chair when her carers come. She becomes a very doddery old lady and the frustrating questions, like “Can I sit here? Am I taking your place? Is it all right if I put my arm on this cushion? Should I turn it over?” The very worst and most annoying repetetive phrases are “I can’t eat this” and “I can’t drink this”, both delivered at the same time as the food and drink are given to her. With the amount of shock and grief she is enduring, it’s not surprising she isn’t hungry but when it’s said every time and several times through a meal, it gets really irritating. There was one exception yesterday when she ate a cream eclair without a single word. Hurrah!

I can only imagine how she feels inside. We have some small chats when I go and sit beside her, mainly because she is quite deaf but also it’s a good excuse to go and hold hands and find out how she feels. Today she feels sad, not sad with us in the house but sad in her heart. She feels she’s been left. She regularly forgets Dad has died and I can only imagine the impact of that. We’re also grieving amongst the paperwork, wending out way through social services and trying to find papers so we can organise a funeral.

Oh, and yes, there’s me. On Friday we go to see the oncologist to get the results of the bone scan I had before Christmas. There is no sign of cancer in the bone but apparently I am riddled with arthritis. Woo hoo! Never have I been so happy to be diagnosed with arthritis. My oncologist is pleased that my tumour markers are gradually decreasing as well. The arthritis is in my neck, shoulders and spine, hips, knees and ankles. Riddled seems an appropriate term but it explains the pain I have experienced. He is keen for me to reduce my morphine to what I call ouch level – so that I can be aware of the pain and treat it accordingly. I am too tired to think about it or argue. Every appointment I have means we have to take Mum with us so she accompanies us to Chemotherapy, an appointment which only finishes at 6pm, an appointment at the Hospice and another to see the oncologist. She doesn’t complain too much but suggests repeatedly to Mr Mason that they just go home.

So, back to Dad. While the children were young, they spent a lot of time with him during the summer. He loved taking them to the beach, driving them to Marwell Park (when it was open) and they planned to buy a beach hut on Hayling Island until a storm blew most of them down in 1987. While driving them along, he would periodically sing or shout out random phrases or poems. There was the famous “Oh, wiggly stick!” but the classic was “Fort Zinderneuf”, shouted as they drove past the forts along the top of Portsdown Hill.

I can’t really do justice to a man who was so kind to me, who behaved as though it was a privilige to be in my company and who loved me unconditionally. He loved his son and grandchildren in just the same way and we will all miss him incredibly, as will Mum who was married to him for over 70 years and now feels lost and bereft. There are no words for that.

It’s not my grief

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I have been mulling a blog post over for the last couple of days, talking about my life, my weekend, my kids. Until today. I read a friend’s blog post which has rocked me to my core. Her son who has autism died today in the mental health unit he was staying in. He was a young man, just 18 and getting his life sorted. I never met him but I know and like his mum very much and I feel physical shock so I can only imagine how the family must feel. It’s not my grief but I feel it like a punch to the solar plexus. God only knows how they’ll get through the next few days/weeks/months but all I can do is send them love and feel slightly guilty that my family is still intact.