Saturday

Compared to what had been going on recently, today was as near ‘normal’ as it had been in months. My only task had been to go and take a look at the Number One Candidate for the venue of Mum’s wake.

It was a lovely country pub. All low beams and cosy atmosphere. In all the years we’ve lived here I’ve only ever been up that lane a handful of times and didn’t even know it was there.

Unusually for me, I got there a few minutes early. Waiting for the manager to arrive gave me the chance to have a wander round on my own for a bit. I’d made my mind up that this was the right place before I met her. Provided they had disabled access it was a done deal.

I paid the deposit and headed home.

“Can you stop at Waitrose on the way back? I only want a couple of bits…”

Two items required. Both out of stock. Again. That store has become utterly pointless.

I went back to helping Lesley search for a care home for her dad. Mum had been in three different homes and I’d looked at six when making my choice. I’d looked at countless CQC reports and I like to think I know my way around them. I’ve also known Lesley’s dad for more decades than I care to think. I know his tastes and I know his needs.

But the main point of the exercise seemed to be to meet Lesley’s sister’s needs. Without having seen it or read anything about it she was insisting on a care home near his house.

Her stated criteria were that one of his friends from the day centre had been moved to this home and  he had been able to continue having lunch at the day centre. It would also mean Dad could keep his current GP.

We couldn’t get past what we were sure was the real reason for her choice. It was a fancy new place that looked like a hotel. One of those places that the family like the look of visiting rather than one that their relative would like to call home and feel comfortable in.

But my reasons for writing the place off weren’t just down to my prejudices and inverse snobbery. It didn’t look like they offered the care he needed. They would cope with his dementia but he wasn’t far away from needing palliative care too and they didn’t seem to offer it. It hadn’t occurred to her that that would mean the upheaval of another move.

Also, this ‘friend’ of Dad’s, a bloke he never had a good word to to say about by the way, hadn’t been seen for a while. He wasn’t in the Day Centre’s photos of the Christmas party and the staff there didn’t even know whether he was still alive or not.

“I can’t get to that home by train and I just can’t do that drive day after day while he settles in like you did for your Mum. And she just doesn’t care.”

“The thing that really pisses me off is that she doesn’t value what I’ve done, what I’ve seen and what I know.”

I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that that was what pissed me off almost my entire working life.

And then I added…

“She wants him to fork out an absolute fortune for something palatial with facilities he won’t use and food he won’t eat and he’s just going to be asleep all day.”

Lesley’s sister was sticking to an opinion formed entirely without the benefit of thought, knowledge or experience.

She’s more like her Dad than she knows.

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