Wednesday

The best word to describe today was ‘Indecision’. In the end we let The Dog decide how we were going to get everything done and it worked out pretty well.

We had to fit in a visit to Lesley’s dad, a visit to Mum and a hard enough walk to keep The Dog tired enough to remain calm while we got the other two items on the list checked off.

The routine on days like this had been to pack everything we need for the day – walking boots, food for The Dog, spare harness for The Dog, keys for Dad’s house, tools for jobs at Dad’s, Kindle in case Mum wants me to read and so on – then take The Dog on a short walk after breakfast so she can relieve herself before loading everything and everybody in the car and heading off. The Dog then gets her long, hard walk in Dad’s village as soon as we arrive there.

But The Dog is wise to this now. Humans packing bags means we’re going on an adventure. She won’t do anything or go anywhere and just stands by the car waiting to be driven somewhere.

“Let’s take her on a slightly longer walk before we start getting ready.” Lesley suggested, “Enough to take the edge off her.”

That sounded like a good plan. The Dog had other ideas. As soon as we got to the point where we choose to either go down the bridle path across the farm to the woods, down the road to the next village or the other way down the bridle path to the river and the nature reserve The Dog planted her feet.

“She wants the river.”

“But that’ll take ages. It took me two and a half hours last time.”

“Well, it’s her walk. At least she’ll be tired when we get to Dad’s”

To be fair, The Dog was right. It was a beautiful morning and I managed to nudge her round so that we didn’t get drawn into the two and a half hour version of the walk while still finding enough water for her to get a satisfactory paddle.

We got home, fed The Dog, had coffee and packed our bags.

Dad was as good as I’d seen him in ages. The extra help from the carers in the mornings is making a real difference. He just seems less worn out. He’s still very confused though.

“Dad?” Lesley asked him, “Why are there boxes of paracetamol on the dining table? Aren’t they supposed to be in the bag you take to the day centre?”

“I took a different box.”

“Show me.”

He took a packet out of his bag.

“They’re hearing aid batteries.”

“Oh.”

A quick audit shows he’s not taking nearly as many painkillers as he should be and the ones he is taking aren’t from that day’s section in his dosset box. His palliative care team say that if he isn’t taking painkillers then he can’t be in pain. But how can you trust anyone with his level of dementia? Dementia isn’t just about poor memory. It’s about poor decision-making and loss of agency too.

Mum does something similar. She will drink like she’s got a raging thirst if offered a drink from the table beside her. But these drinks are in her line of sight and within reach. She just fails to make the connection between “I really need a drink” and “There’s a drink in front of me” without being told to have a drink. We think Dad’s doing the same thing with pain and painkillers.

But, that said, he did seem OK and it was the least stressful visit in a long time. There wasn’t a lot to do. His webcam got re-installed and he even looked like he understood my explanation that the problem was down to his internet connection. And he enjoyed his tea which we picked up on the way to him. His favourite is a sandwich from Marks & Spencer. He managed half of it.

The Dog declined a very long walk in his village. Fortunately. The decision then was how to fit in a visit to Mum. Did we go home and have something to eat first and risk getting my backside stuck on the sofa and being very late? Did I drop Lesley and The Dog off at home and head straight back out thus delaying a meal I was more than ready for? The Dog looked calm and relaxed. She looked like she could cope with waiting outside in the car with Lesley while I went in alone.

So that’s what we did.

I’d only been in Mum’s room long enough to tell her I was there before hearing someone shouting down the corridor.

“NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!!”

It was Reggie.

“NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!!”

I realised straight away what that meant. Mum’s been shouting for me. The rooms at The Home are fitted with a mechanism which holds the door open unless they are triggered by a very loud noise such as a fire alarm. Mum had been shouting loudly enough to activate the fire door release. She’d done it more than once today. She hasn’t done it for months.

Reggie explained that Juliette had been so concerned about Mum’s sudden and extreme change in behaviour that she’d done a full set of observations and asked for a urine sample to be collected and tested for a UTI. That means using Newcastle Pads. That means it could be a few days before they get a sample they can test and if she needs antibiotics they might not be available until after the weekend.

While Reggie talked about Mum and Lesley’s dad, Mum carried on several conversations at once with us and the Other People she could see in the room with us. Most of them seemed to be standing behind me.

“Hey! You! Are you going to church!?”

“If I went to church Iris it would burst into flames!” Reggie replied.

She laughed at that. She seemed to be in a good mood and laughed a lot during the visit.

Then Mum told me something. I couldn’t make out what it was but it sounded like an instruction.

“Hang on Mum, I need to make a note of that. I’ve got a head like a sieve. You know I’m as daft as a brush. Have you got any idea where I get that from? Mum?”

She got what I meant immediately.

“Oh blimey! You’re rotten you are!”

More laughter.

Mum’s speech was quite good today. I could make out more of what she said than usual but felt like I understood less of it.

Mum’s carer joined us to present her report. Mum had been talking all day but had been drinking plenty.

They left. Mum carried on talking.

Eventually, she presented me with an escape route.

“Can you get Nicholas to {something indistinct}”

“Of course I can Mum. I’ll go and do that now.”

“Good”

As I headed to the lift I wondered if she’d had any idea who I was all along.

Bloody hell.

Author’s Note

My Mum is in a nursing home in a small village in the Thames Valley. The photo is not of the home. I used an AI image generator to give the reader some idea of the home she’s in.

All, some or maybe even none (you’ll never know!) of the names have been changed to protect privacy and hide real identities. If you think you recognise someone then let me know and I’ll edit the post or remove it entirely