The many and various ways I pass the time now has a new addition. Usually it involves drinking coffee whilst sitting at a computer keeping in touch with chums, or sipping wine sitting on our tiny terrace catching the sun, and wondering what else I can do to avoid any cleaning or tidying or putting away of stuff and things that aren't even MINE. And now I am going to type this blog. Provided that doesn't become a chore as well, in which case...

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Home from Home

Our Ma is now ensconced in the Residential Care Home of our choice.  The Family's choice, that is - not including Our Ma. When one gets to ninety-three and a half and has the short-term memory of a goldfish circling its bowl (yes, I know that's not what scientists say about goldfish these days, but the metaphor is too good to part with on the grounds of scientific accuracy) then one cannot be a party to any decision that involves comparing and contrasting, or even an explanation longer than - say - three brief sentences, as by the time the middle and end part of the process are reached the beginning is utterly lost.

So she has been presented with a fait accompli, and By Jove! how swiftly and decisively has The Family accomplished "the thing which is already done".  It's less than a fortnight since the dreadfully taxing day when we realised the time had come to move towards the residential care option as a matter of some urgency, and now she is there.  Ensconced.

I packed her clothes, toiletries, medication, a few bits of adornment like strings of beads, one or two personal items for her bedroom, and some favourite photos from the sitting room, whilst The Husband kept her occupied with repeated reiterations and rehearsals of what was happening and why.  "A week's respite care whilst the engineers assess its condition and try to fix the lift". This is the wheelchair lift that was installed a quarter century ago when The Husband's father was paralysed after an operation to relieve pain and pressure in his neck.  Our Ma, when she was first widowed, called it The Cellar, and kept spare bottles of booze and mixers in it and used it like a dumb waiter.  Attagirl, Our Ma!

Latterly, though, she has been unable to use the stairs safely, for perhaps the past five years, and so it has been her sturdy electrical conveyance between the two floors of the house.  However it is now flaky and unreliable.  She spent a long spell trapped in it (with her carer unable to open the half door to let her out) a fortnight ago, and that, as they say was IT; the proverbial straw that proved to be the final unacceptable added burden on the backs of her relations.

I shan't add much more to today's blog, as this whole matter of settling Our Ma into her new place of residence and gradually filtering the information to her that No, she's not coming home again, is going to be ongoing for the foreseeable future.  How easily this will be achieved depends on Our Ma.  How well Our Ma can cope depends on a whole host of variables, not all of which, in fact few of which, we have any hope of controlling.  And I don't want to speculate and surmise, so I will cease and desist, Dear Reader, until I have something else to say

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