In the past I had always felt dread at the prospect of seeing mum because of what might be waiting - the combination of the sounds and the smells and the trauma of seeing her in a bad state made those visits so difficult for all of us. I tried to put how I felt down on paper but I don't think I could ever truly convey the emotions we went through during those awful first few months.
There has been a definite shift to the other end of the scale now. Dare I say it, I do enjoy going there and the time I spend with her, something which should always have been the case but was almost impossible given the stress and worry we all felt. I don't think about work or the house move or how little sleep my wife and I may have had because our little one has been up during the night. It's all quite therapeutic just to sit there and hold hands and help her eat and drink and listen to whatever she might have to say, which sadly is getting more and more nonsensical.
So there is of course that underlying sense of sadness despite the smiley faces and pretty pictures on the walls and cheery music from the CD player. It's difficult to stay upbeat when your mother is screaming and wailing because she's fighting off the staff who are trying to deliver the personal care she needs.
But anyway, there is a reason for this change in dynamics. One of the more louder residents, the little but very vocal white-haired old lady I've mentioned several times in this blog, has now been moved to another home.
It's an awful thing to say but it's clear to see how the aura has changed with her not being there. The home is much calmer, and the residents look far more relaxed, mum included. It was always unsettling to have this lady weaving in and out of the rooms, telling the other residents to get a move on (who are quite happily sitting there completely oblivious to her ramblings half the time), banging on doors and windows, crying out for people that were not there and wanting to be let out. I've witnessed several times how other residents have got agitated to the point that they do speak up, which is often out of character. I'll never forget the "she's a nutter" moment from one of the old gents there.
The bruising from mum's falls has gone down and she's looking far less gaunt and haggard than she has done. Her medication has been changed too, I know that much - and she does appear to be eating more, which is a result of my sister and I always bringing fruit and snacks in and encouraging her to eat with us. The staff appear to be doing a better job of helping her at meal times and there hasn't been any sign of UTI or chest infection or other illnesses, so on the whole she appears a lot more healthier which is encouraging for us all.
What got me sad on one of my visits was learning of the death of another resident.
It was in fact my mother's neighbour, in the room right next door. Mum would not have known who she was. I hadn't known what the hushed commotion was all about that morning while I was sat with mum in her room. The staff had got the other residents together in the day room or ensured they were safe in their own rooms (those that were bedridden) and I had seen people busy in and out the main entrance and via the back gate through the garden. We closed the door while they moved the body.
Mum of course hadn't a clue what was going on, and neither did any of the other residents. It struck me how the staff carried on as normal, but you could see they couldn't truly get used to it, despite having probably seen it so many times before. That lady might have been someone's mother, someone's sister, someone's aunty, and another family affected by dementia. I wondered if there were pictures on the walls of that lady, and that one of the staff had the task of quietly taking them down. It also made me think about the inevitable; and I prayed that it wouldn't happen for a long long time yet.
