Whenever the nursing home's number flashes up on my phone, it sets me off into a little bit of a panic. The only reason why they might ring me is to say mum isn't well or has had a fall or that they need me to accompany her to hospital.
Sadly, that number has flashed up more regularly in recent months and here we are in February 2017 and I've already made two trips to A&E with her:
A week into the New Year and she made her fourth trip to A&E. On one hand, thank goodness it wasn't anything serious (not a fall this time) but on the other, I was quite upset with the way the nursing home had handled it. Without going into detail, they did exercise a duty of care but in this instance it could have been dealt with a little more sensibly, given the time of day and the state of the weather. Any visit to A&E, under any circumstances, is difficult enough but thankfully after several hours in number 17 in Majors B she finally got back to the familiar surroundings of the nursing home, a pack of antibiotics in hand.
Fast forward to this week and yet another fall, and mum's fifth A&E visit. On this occasion a member of staff accompanied her earlier in the day and I went to visit in the evening. Lo and behold, we were back in that very same little cubicle, 17 in Majors B, and one of the nursing staff and I recognised one another. Mum was very good on this occasion, and the staff managed to take x-rays and an ECG, take blood and observations.
During this occasion I learnt from the nursing home staff that went with mum that one of the residents, a very pleasant old lady with white hair who always wore slippers without socks on her feet, and who never said a word but always smiled whenever I or anyone else said Hello to her, had passed away. I had noticed I didn't see her recently, but you don't always see all the residents every time you go. She was in room 1. Some months ago, the lady in room 4 passed away. Mum lives in room 3.
After mum was taken in for her x-rays, a chap came out on his trolley after having his done. "Lovely day, isn't it?" he said with a wry smile, not 30 seconds after screaming at the top of his lungs with some broken limb. They carted him off somewhere and we gave each-other a nod as he left.
5 minutes later and mum was moved to another area. Outside this scanning room was an old chap in wheelchair, wires and patches all over him, up his nose, on his chest, sticking out of his hands. We had a little chit chat and I learnt he had been there 5 hours already. When mum came out, I wished all the very best and he did the same. I wonder what happened to those people.
The doctors were happy that she was OK to 'go home', and on my way out I said to the staff, in the nicest possible way, that I hope never to see them again.
Earlier in the month I turned 38. Mum doesn't know - she doesn't know who I am anymore, let alone when my birthday might be or how old I am. She doesn't even know what time of day, day of the week or year it is. She's still there, but very much not-there anymore. I imagine her in the nursing home right now, shuffling along the corridor and into the rooms, exchanging niceties with other residents and not understanding any of their babblings any more than they would understand hers.
I started this blog two years ago, when our lad wasn't yet born, and when we both had a shadow and sadness over us from what happened not long before that, which is another story I haven't delved in to. This time last year things were a little too much for me, and while I got over a poor spell of health back then my nerves are a bit wrecked right now, especially after the drama of the last couple of days. Whether I keep this blog up until Year 39, who knows; I wonder if mum herself will make it until then.
