ANITA 14th October 1928 - 15th November 2010

7:48pm, I was heading towards the pharmacy aisle in the Supermarket when my phone rang. It was Mum’s Care Home. I’d already had a couple of updates on Mum’s condition since Mum was discharged from Hospital, so I wasn’t overly alarmed.

The Carer, H, began by telling me that Mum wasn’t well just now, that she’d suffered vomiting and diarrhoea earlier today. My heart sank a little, but I still didn’t guess what was coming.

“I took your Mum some tea to drink in her room at 6:50. I checked in again at 7:20 and she wasn’t breathing.”

I sat down on the floor.

“The Paramedics are with her now,” H said, her voice breaking into a sob. “They’re doing CPR on her, but haven’t been able to get her breathing so far.”

“So, it’s been longer than 30 minutes since she stopped breathing?”

“Yes.”

I felt numb and very, very calm, as is my custom in a crisis. It’s a practical trait but I always feel self-conscious about how cold it might appear to others. I told ‘H’ that I needed a moment to collect my thoughts. I told her that I was very sorry, since she was obviously so upset. I asked her what she thought I should do. She told me to wait and that she would ring again when they had news, maybe in 10 minutes.

I walked home and then rang the Care Home to tell them that I was going to drive over. ‘H’ told me that the Paramedics had ceased their attempts to resuscitate Mum. I asked her what the procedure was now and she explained that the Police would have to be called, since this was classed as a sudden unexplained death. Then the Undertakers would take Mum to the Hospital.

I asked that they delay until I got there, and I quickly packed a bag and drove over the Pennines.

‘H’ sat me down and warned me that I would find Mum still intubated (as an avid viewer of hospital dramas, I had anticipated this). Once I was ready, we entered Mum’s bedroom. The radio on her bedside table was tuned to Classic FM, and they were playing the Adagietto from Mahler’s 5^th Symphony, the piece used for the movie “Death in Venice”. I thought the radio was a lovely gesture. Mum was there in bed, sort of. I find I’m having trouble these days recognising faces, and Mum’s face looked smaller and most unfamiliar. She looked like a bit like a waxwork, but with an unconvincing blue/grey pallor. As I reached the end of the bed, I thought she’d opened an eye at me and was conscious, but it was just that one of her eyelids was slightly open, and my change of angle had made this look like it had just happened.

I asked ‘H’ to tell me about Mum’s last day, and we sat and reminisced for a few minutes. Then ‘H’ asked me if I wanted to be alone with Mum and I said yes.

Once alone, I sat closer to Mum and tried to talk to her. I stumbled over a few clichés about hoping that she was at peace now, and so on. Then I wanted to feel whether she was cold and I placed a hand on her forehead. The top of her head didn’t feel cold, but maybe the forehead was slightly colder than it ought to be… I wasn’t sure. I took some photos of Mum lying there. It felt horribly wrong, but I knew I wasn't quite "in the moment" and that I would need to see her again to absorb this. Then I pulled back the cover slightly and reached for her right hand and took it in mine, manipulating her fingers so that we were clasping each other’s hands. I don’t recall what I said then, but it felt more honest and meaningful. I put her hand back just as ‘H’ returned to tell me that the Undertakers had arrived. She tactfully suggested that I leave them to their work, and I guessed that Mum might have voided her bowels or something in the hours since death and that ‘H’ was kindly trying to preserve my last memory of her. I went back to the Lounge and answered the Police Officer’s questions. Before long, the Undertakers were wheeling their trolley back through the Lounge with Mum in a body bag. I could make out the place where the material was tight over Mum’s nose – a surreal moment trying to determine the contours of my Mother’s face through polyester. Then she was gone.

It looks like there will have to be an autopsy, since Mum wasn’t seen by a GP within the past 7 days (Hospital Doctors “don’t count”, apparently, and won’t sign a Death Certificate in any case). I will have to correspond with the Coroner to arrange the funeral details once he has released her body later in the week.

I am in shock, I think. I am still feeling very calm and I’ve been able to say some very rational things to the people here about how it’s comforting to know that Mum died quickly “at home” and without suffering a long-drawn out death in Hospital. I know she was glad to be back in familiar surroundings and that she died sitting in the chair by her window, where she always told me that she enjoyed listening to the birds outside. I just wish I’d been perceptive enough to see this coming, that I’d consciously said my goodbyes to Mum whilst she was alive, if that makes any sense.

Perhaps I’m calm because I’ve already done my grieving for Mum. Over the past 3 years I’ve come to terms with her loss because her Self, her deliberate Self, the Mother I knew, was already gone. I took guardianship of the helpless, happy, loving, child who took her place for a time. And doing that forced me to grow up a little. It forced me to give something back. It helped me adjust my opinion of myself just a little bit to the positive. I did some good things for Mum and gave her peace of mind and security and care when she needed it. And that gives me some peace of mind, too.

She left me, as graceful in her departure as she was throughout her life. I’m grateful to her for all of this.

Thank you, Mum.

update

Mum was expected to be in hospital only a few days. She is still there.

On days when I haven't been able to visit, I've rung the ward where Mum is convalescing. The usual routine is that I ask the Staff Nurse how Mum is doing. The Nurse fails to recognise Mum's name. The Hospital staff are calling her by her first name, which Mum has never used and to which she doesn't respond. No matter how many times I correct this, they haven't altered their information in 2 weeks.

Then, when I ask again, the Nurse puts the phone down before I finish and goes to speak to Mum, who of course says that everything is fine, which the Nurse reports back to me. I then have to inform the Nurse that Mum has dementia and is hardly a reliable source, and that I was asking about the progress of her recovery and not her mood.

When I called a few days ago, the news I got back was alarming:

"Oh yes, we've had someone in to assess your Mother for Nursing Care and we're attempting to place her in a Home."
"Excuse me?"
"We've assessed her as unable to walk, so we need to find her a Home."
"She's IN a Care Home ALREADY."
"Ah......... er......"

The phone was handed to someone else, who repeated the above statements. She explained that my Mother's Care Home is listed in their records as a "Residential Home". I took the opportunity to correct this misperception and informed them that the Home is more than adequately equipped to deal with Mum and that there is a dedicated Nursing floor in the building, should nursing be required. I got the distinct impression that I was being humoured at this point.

I rang the Care Home in a state of panic. They reassured me that Mum could not be taken off their hands without their own assessment taking place first. The member of staff, who sees Mum regularly, told me that Mum is often uncooperative with people she doesn't know and that, in her opinion, Mum was probably unwilling to trust the strangers who were attempting to get her to walk. She said that she had seen Mum refuse unfamiliar Care Workers in the Home.

Just as my blood pressure was returning to normal, however, the member of staff said: "We'll make our own assessment and decide then whether she can come back onto the household."

I was perplexed because Mum being unable to walk isn't a new situation. She was in a wheelchair for a few months back in 2008, around the time of her 80th birthday. After that, the local GP gave her some cortisone shots to her knees and Mum was able to walk with relative ease almost immediately. When Mum's knees started to trouble her again this year, I requested that the shots be repeated, but this wasn't done. I couldn't understand why this same situation was now threatening a change of environment. The member of staff informed me that fees for the Nursing floor were substantially higher, upwards of £900 per week. My heart sank. The fees for Mum are currently £625 per week and her income is £400. Taking on a shortfall of £500 per week would mean that we would run through Mum's capital quickly.

I experienced a lot of paranoid thoughts at this point. I thought that the Home was probably seeking to maximise profits by taking the opportunity of Mum's assessment to charge more, even though she has been in the same condition in the past with no question of changing her care. Then I started to worry that this was all MY fault, because I had informed the Home of the reason for Mum's infection - the inadequate hydration regime. I felt that we were being persecuted now for daring to criticise.

I despaired and sank into helpless inactivity.

Today, the acting Manager of the Care Home telephoned me to inform me of the Nursing assessment, unsure if I had been informed. I questioned her vigorously on her reasons for treating Mum differently this time and she was obviously surprised to hear that Mum has been in precisely this state before without anyone changing her status. She told me that since 2 other residents on the household were now also in need of nursing care, Mum's change of status would be too much for the team to handle and that Mum would have to return to the Home on the Nursing floor.

"So the other 2 people get to stay in their familiar surroundings and Mum is penalised?"
"Not penalised... but moved."

I went into a long explanation of our finances and she eventually reassured me that the increase in fees would be met by a Local Authority subsidy of £108, although I was not at all convinced that £625 + £108 = £900. It turns out that newcomers to the Home are being charged £795 per week and that Mum benefits from a discount for having been there from the start. The £108 is based upon the discrepancy between £795 and £900. The Manager assured me that we would not notice a hike in our payments if Mum was assessed as requiring a move to the Nursing floor.

After much grizzling from me, we eventually agreed on Mum coming back to her familiar surroundings for 2 weeks, giving her a chance to feel at home and possibly receive cortisone shots to her knees. After this 2 weeks, the assessment will be made about her future.

I'm visiting the Hospital and the Care Home tomorrow.

Hallowe'en Fright

The phone rang a little after midnight. It was from the Care Home. Mum was on her way to Hospital. They told me that she had been throwing up, had suddenly gone very pale and clammy to the touch. They would call again if there was more news.

I arrived at the Hospital in the afternoon. It was alarming to walk in and see Mum looking so altered. She was canted over to one side in bed and looked dishevelled and shrunken. Her left hand was shaking as she pawed distractedly at the cannula fitted to the back of her right. "Hello Mum", I said and she gaped blankly before peering out of the door past me, looking down the corridor to the activity around the administration desk on the unit. After a few more attempts to get her attention I asked her outright if she knew who I was. "You...are...Greg", she said, eventually. She couldn't have looked less interested.

I went to find a chair so I could sit beside her bed. On my return, I noticed that Mum's arm was still shaking and I wondered if she was nervous, so I reached out to hold her hand. As her hand rested in mine, I felt the coldness below and realised that the bedclothes were soaking wet and soiled. The window was open and Mum was sitting in a draught in her own filth - she wasn't shaking, she was shivering!

I closed the window and called a Nurse into the room. As he went to get someone else to replace the bedlinen, I noticed that Mum's IV drip was empty and that her oxygen mask had slipped. How long had she been like this? How long would she have been left like this until someone had noticed? I began to panic about the future and how I would cope when Mum was more seriously ill.

The Nurse came back in to check on Mum's vital signs. They were low, and he fiddled with the oxygen supply before replacing the mask on Mum's face. I was ushered out of the room while they changed Mum's sheets and gave her a couple of blankets.

The Staff Nurse gave me a rapid summary of Mum's condition and their treatment plan, but his accent was strong and he peppered his talk with so much jargon that I ended up deciding to ask someone else. The other Nurse, who'd brought the clean sheets, was much better - warm and chatty - and both Mum and I warmed up chatting to her whilst she brushed Mum's hair.

She told me that Mum's illness stemmed from an infection in her bowels, brought about by impacted waste which was, in turn, due to constipation. The reason for the constipation was dehydration. She said that anyone brought in from a Care Home was always dehydrated - they just don't push sufficient liquids in these places. She told me that the Hospital had given Mum a couple of enemas to stimulate a bowel movement and had performed an endoscopy to inspect her inflamed innards. She thought Mum would be here a few days yet.

By the time I had to leave, Mum was doing much better and I didn't feel quite so conflicted about leaving her as I had before. I believe my visit helped the staff see that Mum wasn't some unwanted husk. Someone cared how she was doing.

A close friend just told me: "it's a good thing you were there for her today". And for once I feel able to accept that I have done something good for Mum.

82

I'm let onto the household by F, a jovial Zimbabwean care worker, and we walk up together towards Mum. I see her looking at us both blankly, her mouth hanging open. I know she's been told I'm coming but I'm curious to see if she'll recognise me. Nothing. A few steps away, I relent and say "Hello Mum". She checks both my face and F's face before deciding that it was me who spoke. Then she beams.

It's her 82nd Birthday, and we admire the flowers sent by my Brother-in-law, open the cards that have come (significantly fewer this year, but still treasured). Then I open the huge box of clothes I've brought. I spent last night sewing labels into each and every one, and I've taken photos of them all. I'll be interested to see how long they remain in her wardrobe.

After lunch (and much birthday cake), I take Mum downstairs for a hair appointment. When the hairdresser is ready for us, I help Mum over to the  washing station, noting that the seat she's been sitting on is now soaking wet. Mum is oblivious, and I wait until her attention is elsewhere before I find some paper towels and set about cleaning up. Dementia is like being a passenger in an aircraft coming in to land through cloud: it's rarely a smooth descent and there's no indication of how quickly the ground is racing up to meet you. This wet seat hits me like a little air-pocket.

Back on the household, F tells me that my visit has made his day and that what I've done for my Mum has warmed his heart. I'm always at a loss to respond when someone praises me like this. It's not as if I'm looking after Mum personally at home - that would be heroic. I feel guilty for accepting his high regard.

I'm not the pilot, I'm just another passenger on the plane.

turbulence ahead

I had a phone call on Thursday to tell me that Mum had "had a fall" just outside her room and was on her way to hospital to be x-rayed. I was tempted to get in the car straight away but I was advised to wait until the results were in. It turned out that there were no broken bones and Mum was back by the evening. I resolved to drive over on Friday.

I arrived in the early afternoon, and found Mum quite happy and not suffering any pain. Sitting in the Lounge, we had a cheerful conversation with a few of the other residents. Mum's face darkened a couple of times when she told me that she hadn't fallen but had "been pushed over by two girls". It was clear to me that she was referencing a childhood story that she repeats frequently, but the Home had launched an investigation into the incident on the basis of Mum's allegation. I was able to add some context there, hopefully saving them some trouble.

Life in the household is very calm these days. A couple of the more troublesome residents have moved on (one died, the other was placed in another home), and the atmosphere has noticeably improved. The staff have more time to spend with the residents and the residents, in turn, aren't annoyed or distressed by the old troublemakers.

However, there's a problem ahead.

The Home has decided to create a "High Dependency Dementia Unit" to cope with exactly such difficult cases. And they have decided that they want to base this Unit in Mum's household. The Relatives were "consulted" last week (I was unable to attend), but apparently the meeting went badly. The Home presented a fait accompli, telling the Relatives that the plan was going ahead - the specialist staff had already been hired. In turn, the Relatives told the Home that their elderly charges were happy and settled and were NOT to be moved. It seems that the Managers were a little stunned by the vehemence of the reaction. This might look like a stalemate, but I was told that they will simply wait for natural attrition and then move more "challenging" cases into the vacated rooms.

This means that the idyll is doomed.

Of course, this all comes down to money. There is FAR more money to be earned from the State in looking after difficult charges. I am bitterly disappointed that this organisation - a charity - is behaving in a fashion more suited to a business in seeking to maximise profit ahead of the wellbeing of its existing residents. I'm all for them starting up a new unit, but I wish they would leave their existing clients to enjoy a peaceful and relaxing end to their days. If only a "calm and pleasant" unit was prized (and priced) as highly as a "complex and unpredictable" one.

Mum could, of course, be moved to another household in the Home, but she would lose contact with the staff members on whom she currently depends, to whom she has grown close. Also, I chose Mum's room very carefully - it is at the end of the household, away from the noise of the Lounge and with a very pleasant view over the garden and a field. If Mum were to be moved to the first available room in another household, she is bound to suffer from the upheaval and she would inevitably be placed in a less advantageous room. As someone who is paying full whack for Mum's care, I feel outraged that decisions like this have been taken without my consent. It's like paying for a good hotel room and then being switched to a budget chain after a few nights.

I have made several attempts to speak to someone at the Home about this but have been fobbed off, told that someone will call me back, which doesn't happen. On Friday, I was told that the person who had been avoiding my calls was now on leave, but that the General Manager would speak to me later - he then left early. I am becoming annoyed about this. I intend to pursue this one and raise some publicity about what's happening.

school report day

I found Mum sitting at the desk in the Lounge, having just taken a call from a relative. She couldn't remember who it was that had just rung off. Her Key Worker told me that it was her Cousin.

Mum looked well, but was wheezing and very out of breath by the time we got to the armchairs. Ever since my Father died from Pneumonia, I've been alert to low lung function, so I checked with the Key Worker, who showed me records to prove that Mum had been seen by the Doctor. Apparently, all is well with her lungs, so it's a bit of a mystery why she's short of breath. Mum and I sat there smiling and holding hands, with nothing much to tell each other about our lives.

The Key Worker took the opportunity to sit with me and go through Mum's 'Life Plan', checking that I was still in agreement with various protocols in place around Mum. The only one that had changed was that the sensor under her mattress now alerts staff immediately once she rises during the night, so that they can come and help her in the bathroom. Originally, the alarm had only sounded if Mum didn't return to bed within 10 minutes, giving her time to see to herself. She is past being able to cope now, and the Key Worker was quite frank that Mum is now essentially incontinent.

It was surreal to be sitting next to a beaming Mum all the time that this was being discussed. The Mum I used to know would have angrily denied most of the stuff we were covering. Sometimes it makes me feel so guilty that I find it easier to like this version of Mum. She's much more easy-going and non-judgemental.

We discussed Mum's activities. Mum always claims that they don't do anything, but it turns out that she goes to every single event in "The Venue": sing-alongs, poetry readings, bingo, movies and dances. I was treated to some charming anecdotes about her participation. It seems that Mum is going through a bit of a jewellery-flaunting phase, and regularly returns to her room to add another rope of beads or a broach to add interest. She's still competing for the attention of any young men who come onto the household, with a view to securing a boyfriend.

The Key Worker asked me what I thought of the ever-changing decorations around the room. I told her that I felt reassured, as a relative, to know that the staff themselves were taking the trouble to make artwork for the walls - this month the walls are alive with Easter Eggs and Bunnies and there were some South Park-esque wall decorations which included real twigs and artificial birds. I told the Key Worker that seeing the effort that the Care Staff put into the decorations helps me believe that they are committed to more than their shifts. This went down well because, apparently, the Management are considering installing permanent artworks and banning the "tacky decorations". I was asked to complete a questionnaire on the issue and I was lavish with my praise of the team's efforts. I made the additional suggestion that maybe the residents themselves should be involved in making the decorations, but conceded that this would probably require more staff members to supervise the activity.

This is when I learned that the Care Team are also resisting the Management's decision to cut staffing to the level of 2 workers per household. As the Key Worker told me, this would mean that the residents would be unsupervised any time that both workers were needed to lift or bathe someone. The staff are currently documenting everything that they do in an effort to justify the presence of the third staff member. I am somewhat alarmed that the Management is trying to cut costs in this way whilst the fees I'm paying rise ever higher.

Mum's overall 'Well-being' report was very positive: she's relatively active and participative, sociable and friendly. She shows some awareness and can ask for help. I left the Home in the evening, feeling happier about the Care Staff, who seem more attentive than they were last year. I've seen a marked improvement over the past months, since the Gerry Robinson TV documentary. Simple changes, like sitting down to eat alongside the residents, can make a huge difference in normalising the experience for everyone.

christmas 2009

I arrived around 4:30 in the afternoon to find Mum's household quiet, with half the residents out on family visits. The lounge was dripping with decorations and the dining area set up as one long table, where a buffet was being set up. The Lead Care Worker was dressed in Santa garb. She told me that Mum had suffered a little accident today.

My heart skipped a beat, but she quickly explained that she'd visited Mum's room earlier to find that she had vomited copiously everywhere, having entirely scoffed a large box of biscuits. (Hmm... I think that must have been my Brother-in-Law's gift). Apparently, Mum had been very distressed that I might find her in this state and they'd spent time restoring the room (and Mum) prior to my visit. It's still strange for me to imagine Mum being anxious to impress me - it seems so backwards, but I guess I'm the Parent now.

We found Mum asleep in bed, with a bad case of bed-hair (there will be no portrait of Mum this week). I gave her my present, which was a mostly a selection of size 16 clothes from Marks & Spencer, and I set to work ironing in some identity labels. Mum sat on the bed, looking adoringly at me and chatting away.

We moved through the standard checklist of conversation that comes up every visit nowadays:

1) have I heard from my Sister?

2) how is my job going?

3) who is that man in all the photographs on the walls?

answers: (1) "nope", (2) "umm" and (3) "your Husband of almost 50 years"

Mum's reply to answer (3) was, "Really? I never thought I'd hang onto a man THAT long!" (It's becoming apparent that Mum was something of a Man-Eater in her early years).

When I'd finished doing the labels, we walked down the corridor to the Lounge and joined the rest of the residents, who were sitting watching "Happy Feet" on TV. Mum introduced me to everyone.

In light of the documentaries I've watched recently, it was interesting to note that the staff members on duty were busy up the other end of the room getting on with their tasks whilst the residents were left in the care of some animated penguins. When I sat down amongst them they all became a bit more animated themselves and each of them was keen to have some interaction with me (I've noticed that they mostly ignore each other). They'd ask me how the penguins had been trained, or where penguins lived, or whether the penguins were really talking, because it seemed like they were talking... Each of them looked very happy that I was there to respond to them and I saw the truth of what Gerry Robinson had noticed - the importance of someone simply being there responding to the residents rather than merely servicing them.

However, it's obvious that there IS interaction at other times and I think the Care Home had done a good job of Christmas this year. The decorations were pretty amazing and spoke of a lot of effort expended, and I heard that there had been Carol Singers and parties in other households leading up to the big day.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

behind closed doors

London: The Saatchi Gallery

I'm at the top of the stairs, looking down into the basement gallery at the exhibit "Old Persons Home" by Sun Yuan and Peng Yu. A dozen or so very lifelike old folks are patrolling the floor in motorized wheelchairs. "Lifelike" isn't really the word because every one of these figures is either slumped forward in sleep or keeled over in death. The chairs are fitted with remote sensors to prevent collisions. They edge across the room in an endless dance of seemingly random charges and parries.

I'm the only visitor in the room, and I don't think the young gallery attendant has noticed me. She looks bored and is repeatedly stepping in front of one of the old guys, frustrating his attempts to move forward out of a corner. The hyperreality of the figures and the pathetic futile motions of this old fellow to get out of his trap begin to work on my emotions and I suddenly feel I'm witnessing a cruel case of casual bullying.

What previously was a gratuitous one-joke artwork suddenly means something more disturbing to me. I want to know that nothing like this is happening to my Mum.

a lovely little stranger

I watched a couple of excellent Dementia documentaries on the BBC this week.

The first, "Can Gerry Robinson Fix Dementia Care Homes?" was a terrific exposé of how even what I'd consider the better care homes can fail to stimulate their charges. Gerry Robinson, an industry 'fixer' toured examples of both high-scoring and 'failing' homes (although I've seen a lot worse than those shown in the programme). In one very interesting case, 2 homes were owned and operated by the same man: one excellently at £750 per week and the other 'failing' at £400 per week. The difference in the staff and their willingness to sit with their residents was marked. Gerry Robinson caught hold of this crucial quality-of-life issue and ran with it, grasping that a happier atmosphere would encourage both full occupancy and better staff retention, improving life for the residents AND ensuring a profit for the owners. This particular owner, however, failed to support his staff, penny-pinched over their meals and fretted that his care homes hadn't been quite the cash-cows he'd hoped for. The camera lingered over his £4m stately home and high-end cars as he whined.

The second documentary I saw also focussed on stimulation as a key to the care of those with Alzheimers. "Alzheimer's: The Musical", part of the 'Wonderland' series, centred around the retention of song memory long after other functions are long gone and the "Singing for the Brain" initiatives that exist in parts of the country. There were scenes where some quite far-gone and unreachable sufferers became animated by the sing-along and participated so vigorously that they became indistinguishable from their partners and the volunteers beside them. The documentary included many poignant stories of couples involved and gave, I believe, an accurate picture of people today coping with partners with Alzheimer's.

One participant, Ted, talking about his wife, Hilda, crystallised how I think about Mum sometimes:

"I can't reach her. She's gone. She's disappeared... She's a lovely little stranger, but that's all she is, really"

who's who

We're sitting downstairs in the café, for a change. I'm wolfing down a huge salad I bought en-route and Mum is eating her way through my gift of a box of Krispy-Kremes. As usual, I have asked what she's been up to these past few weeks and she has no idea.

Then suddenly she says: "We saw a movie yesterday. It was called [Mum's name]"

I put 2 + 2 together and realise that the DVD slideshow I made for Mum's 80th Birthday has re-surfaced. It seems that she watched it this time.

Upstairs, the Chief Care Worker tells me that Mum watched it with a few others and they were asking who everyone was and she was narrating each photo. They're mostly the same pictures I put in her digital photo frame which, as usual, I have to turn on when we get to her room. The first picture that comes up is my Father in his 20s, about the time that they met.

"Now, you'll be able to tell me," she says, "Who is HE?"

veronica

I've not had much to report for the last month, which is good news in one way.

This morning my impish iPod gave me a nudge in the form of Elvis Costello's "Veronica".

"Do you suppose that waiting, hands on eyes,

Veronica has gone to hide

And all the time she laughs at those

Who shout her name and steal her clothes..."

I never imagined, back when this single came out, that this would ever become my reality.

a confession

I visited Mum yesterday and shopped en-route for some new clothes for her, as a Christmas present. It was pretty exhausting trailing around the various stores looking for her taste in light summery clothing in creams or beige when everywhere is stocking heavy winter party clothes in black and purple.

This leads me to confess something that I've held back on writing about all year. I've considered myself pretty honest and open about everything on this journey, good or bad, but there's one thing that I haven't recorded out of shame and that is what has happened to Mum's clothes.

When I moved Mum into the Home this time last year, she had a very fine wardrobe of clothes - in fact she had so many that her wardrobe doors could not quite be shut. Within about 6 weeks I was noticing that individual items were missing: I'd come to take Mum out for a meal and think "I'll just get Mum's favourite warm top" and it wouldn't be there. The lead Care Worker on Mum's household would say "Oh, it's probably in the Laundry", but these things never turned up again. By Autumn this year there seemed never to be anything in Mum's wardrobe at all, and I noticed that Mum's jewelry box had been forced open by someone who couldn't work out the hidden catch. Mum was invariably wearing something that I didn't recognise when I visited, and I felt dreadful about it. However, since Mum was content and oblivious to all of this, I didn't mention it to her.

But, you see, it's all my fault: I should have labelled all Mum's clothing before she arrived. I had, in fact, bought sew-in labels over the internet and had them ready. But in the days before she went into the Home, when she was living with me, I was run so ragged in dealing with Mum minute-by-minute that this was the one last job for which I never found time, and I handed Mum and her clothes over to the staff in a state of exhaustion. 

I've since felt so guilty about all Mum's lovely clothes going missing. I know they weren't lost in the laundry - someone took them and I think I know who. I arrived unannounced once and walked into Mum's room to find the lead Care Worker coming out of Mum's en-suite bathroom with the jewel box in her hands. I can't prove anything and I don't want to cause any problems because this is someone who is very attentive to Mum and is the only person Mum knows by name. I know that Care Staff aren't highly paid, and I'm sure it's tempting to relieve someone like Mum of her nice things since she is unlikely to notice.

So, along with the hundreds of pounds of clothing I bought yesterday, 

I bought a laundry pen and sat in a car park writing 

Mum's room number and name on the washing tags of each and every top, cardigan, slip and panty. I have no illusions that this will prevent the cashmere cardigan from disappearing, for example, but at least this time I've done what I can.