Thursday

An early start for Lesley today. A meeting with the funeral director and the celebrant he’d chosen had been organised.

It wasn’t going to be quick.

It was easy for me to arrange my Mum’s funeral services as the vicar had known her really well. She knew what Mum would’ve wanted and my family were content for me to just get on with it. It was the exact opposite for Lesley. Her dad hadn’t been to church voluntarily since he got married more than seventy years ago and her sister wanted what she refers to as ‘input’. Others may see it as ‘Total Control’ but she sees it as ‘Input’.

That left me and The Dog to get our walk done. It was one of those spring days where when it wasn’t tipping down with hailstones it was beautiful sunshine. I let The Dog choose the route as that’s easier than fighting with her for a couple of hours to get her to go where she doesn’t want to go. That just ruins The Walk for both of us. We did the standard fiesta of mud and floodwater.

The only non-standard part was when I spotted a pair of deer grazing in a field. I’d seen a lot of fresh footprints in the mud on the path and was on the alert after a dog-walker had posted in the local Facebook group to say that her dog was at the vet getting stitches after having been gored by a buck. I stood and watched them briefly as they stared at me and The Dog and I couldn’t understand why The Dog wasn’t more interested. The last time she’d seen a deer she’d nearly dislocated my shoulder as she’d taken off to chase it. That was when I looked down to see that The Dog was rolling in a huge fresh pile of fox poo.

The other point worthy of note was that we’d soon be able to take Lesley on that walk because it was very nearly not too waterlogged to do it in ordinary walking boots. Very nearly but not quite.

After getting home, washing and feeding The Dog, putting her stinky harness and my wet socks in the washing machine and putting my wet walking boots in the sun to dry off I got on with my tasks. I’ve still got some tax year-end stuff to do and I’ve still got to find the copy of Mum’s will that I used to be certain I had.

While hunting for paperwork I opened a box that dated from one of my worst periods of depression before the Millennium. It was mostly unopened mail from all sorts of authorities and accountants complaining about unfiled forms and unpaid bills. It felt like re-opening an old wound. In a strange way though, it was comforting to be reminded that I’m not as bad now as I was then.

“You should see the order of service that she chose!” Lesley told me when she got back.

“Not what I would’ve chosen but not worth having an argument over. At least she won’t be able to blame me when it turns out looking horrible.”

She’s been saying that quite often in the past few days. Having to accept strange decisions to avoid an argument and subsequent blame.

Lesley’s phone continued to be red hot all evening. One call was from the lead nurse in Dad’s palliative care team. I didn’t hear all the conversation but a few lines stuck out.

“I think the way he was treated was disgusting. I wouldn’t leave a dog to suffer the way he did at the end…

“I’d get to the home and ask the nurses where we were. They’d always tell me that they were waiting for something from your team…

“Your nurses consistently overruled the nurses who were with him every day, his GP and the consultants at the hospital. They delayed signing things off because they saw no change but how were they going to see any change when he wasn’t seen by the same nurse twice?…

“When he was first diagnosed with mesothelioma he was given the choice of spending his final few weeks in a hospice where they could manage the pain properly and because your team dithered and failed to acknowledge his decline he was denied that. Your nurses stuck to the line that he was strong and had ages left right up to the day before he died…”

The nurse did try to get a word in and the nurses’ visits got detailed. The professionalism of the nurses was described. One visit in particular triggered something because Lesley couldn’t remember it.

“Nobody came that day. I was there all day and my sister spent all 24 hours there. Did your nurse hide round the corner and go into his room when we went to the loo?”

The nurse gave the time of the visit.

“Oh! Her! She didn’t say a word to us. We were outside Dad’s room because he was being changed and a woman in uniform we hadn’t seen before went in, came straight out again, went to the nurses’ office and left before we knew what was going on!”

I can understand that follow-up calls to the recently bereaved can be difficult and emotionally charged but I doubt the nurse was prepared for the absolute roasting she got.

“You might want to take this up with someone later.” she said.

“Too right I do!!”

Bloody hell.

Author’s Note

My Mum was in a nursing home in the Thames Valley for a year and a half until she passed away in December 2024. My Father-in-law went into the same home the following January. But Lesley’s sister didn’t approve and made the situation so awkward that he had to be moved. The image is not of the home itself. I used AI to generate an image of a typical modern nursing home. Names and locations have been changed or hidden to protect the identities of those involved. Which, for the new home, is probably just as well.