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.

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"

will he be there when we get home?

Our relatives, D&G, visited Mum yesterday.

D was a bit glum on the phone this morning. She said that it had been saddening to see Mum so confused and lost for words, that there had been less of the "woman she was" there.

As usual, they had eaten lunch together in the restaurant downstairs from Mum's flat. At the end of the meal, when they were getting up to leave and take her up again, Mum asked, "Will Greg be there when we get home?"

For me, that one little sentence is so rich with pathos that I can hardly bear it.

If I was counselling someone else in my position about this I would probably try to reassure them that they were at least remembered and wanted. But it doesn't help. I just feel so desperately sad.

spare me your charity

A couple of weeks back, our relative D rang. She and her Husband are briefly back in the country from one of their long trips (I think this one was South Africa again). Anyway, they'd been over to see Mum and D had noticed that Mum's wardrobe was pretty depleted. I told her that I was well aware of the situation and that I'd bought clothes for Mum at Christmas which had also quickly wandered.

"Well that's not good enough, Greg! Just not good enough!" she said.

I told her that I knew the Home would always dress Mum and that, at the moment, it didn't seem a good idea for me to go and spend any more money on clothes when I was really struggling to make Mum's monthly payments just to keep her there. Mum's pension income falls short of her Care payment by about £600 per month. I've successfully applied for a Government allowance that covers a little more of the ground but there's still a shortfall and, until I've sold Mum's old apartment we're down to our last couple of thousand pounds.

D absorbed this and said, "Well, what if I were to buy your Mum some clothes?"

I told her that I'd be very grateful because we could use the help and, particularly since she would have a better idea of what to look for in skirts etc. I thanked her over and over for her generosity.

D rang me today to say that she was heading back to see Mum on Sunday and that she'd been shopping. She listed a few items that all sounded good. She kept mentioning how much she'd spent (£107) and how well she'd done to get this or that discount. It's no coincidence, I thought to myself, that the wealthy have a zest for a bargain. Finally, she told me that she'd bought some perfume for Mum, too, and said "I mean I bought it - that's from me."

I got a sinking feeling.

She asked me how I planned to "settle up" with her for the clothes.

[pause for breath]

I'm lucky it was a relatively small amount, I suppose. I counted to 5 in my head and told her that I'd send her a cheque right away and I asked her please NOT to buy any more stuff for Mum as neither Mum nor I can really afford it.

I'm thinking of writing a parable where someone's "help" ends up putting the benefactee out onto the street.

closing the closet door again

"Oh, don't you look handsome with a beard!" says Mum, as I enter her room.

I've been bearded for 2 and a half years now, and Mum wasn't so complimentary back in 2006. This is just one of those plausible comments that Mum makes which disguise her lack of any true memory.

I hand her a large Easter Egg and notice fresh flowers in the room. She tells me that she has no idea where they came from. After a few exchanges, we fall into a conversation about the telephone and how she's just not using it (I haven't seen any billed calls for a good 10 months now). I ask her if there's anyone she'd like me to ring and I'm unsurprised to hear her nominate her Cousin. I dial the number and get through and am astonished to hear that the Cousin visited Mum only last week (so that's where the flowers came from). It's really great to hear that another family member has visited Mum. Before I hand over the phone I get to hear all about how well Mum looked and how lovely the building and facilities are.

After the call, Mum announces that she'd really like a boyfriend, though she's unsure that a suitable candidate is going to turn up any time soon. I tell her that I feel exactly the same way, and she stuns me by asking me 4 times in the next 10 minutes if I've met a nice girl recently. I'm trying not to correct her these days but just work with her reality, so I find myself making the sort of throw-away excuses I had to make to relatives all through my teens and twenties.

christmas

I'm not spending Christmas Day with Mum this year. Bringing her to my home isn't possible any more: she wouldn't be able to manage the stairs to get to the bathroom. Besides, over the past year she has increasingly looked lost or unhappy when out of her new home and has visibly perked up when returned to its familiarity. The alternative is for me to spend the day at the Home with Mum and the rest of the residents (yes, they're all celebrating Christmas there rather than going to their relatives). I must admit that I'm choosing me this year and spending the day cooking a big meal with friends.

Merry Christmas All

[photo is the doorway into Mum's room, with cards]

sticking to the story

My relatives, D&G visited Mum today. 

D rang, as usual, to give me a report. It seems that the cortisone injections to Mum's knees might be doing some good, because Mum was no longer confined to a wheelchair and was getting about with the use of her stick again. Apparently Mum was very bright and cheerful and seemed better than at the big party a few weeks back. They shared a nice meal in the Bistro downstairs where Mum apparently ordered Cumberland Sausage only to say "I don't like sausage" when it was served. [Mum is quickly becoming the Child I will never have]

D said, "I hope I didn't put my foot in it, but I mentioned about you leaving your job and she didn't know anything about it."

I told her that I'd planned to keep the news from Mum until I had confirmed my arrangements. There's no sense in confusing Mum with plans about travel when I might be held up for a few months selling her apartment and getting my own affairs in order. D reassured me that Mum had very quickly said, "Oh, well he was never happy in that job anyway and I've told him for years that he should go overseas."

Whilst that isn't quite true, I was glad to hear that Mum was tacitly supporting my decision.

When I rang the Home, however, I heard a different story. 

Apparently, Mum was in tears and very distressed after D&G left, worrying that I had been "sacked" and would never get a job again. I spoke to Mum and told her that I hadn't been sacked, that the company had offered us all a package and that I had decided to go for it so that I could do some travelling. By the time I mentioned travelling, Mum had already forgotten the package and was saying "but you'll need some money for that". I think there's going to be some turbulence ahead for Mum as she remembers fragments of this conversation. I've explained the situation to her Care Worker so that she can correct Mum when she distresses herself.

As soon as I've worked out what I'm going to do I'll have to start telling Mum a stripped-down version that I can repeat and repeat like a bedtime story until she knows it by heart and owns it.

big badda boom

So we had the big family do today: the one that my relative D organised to celebrate my Mum's 80th in front of the wider family.

My day didn't start too well. I'd been up until 2am burning a slide show to disc and setting it to music (a desperate attempt to regain some sort of input in a day that had been taken out of my hands). I woke at 7am and hurried across the country to pick up my Niece, only to find that I could have slept in an extra hour since the clocks had gone back the night before... We got to the Home in good time and found Mum in her wheelchair, unable to take a single step now, so that I had to lift her up and place her in the car seat. She made horrible noises of pain even though I was as gentle as I could be.

When we got to the venue, it was beginning to spit with rain, but I had my golf umbrella prepared. Mum still complained that she was getting wet [ * important]. We got her inside and found that the function room was upstairs and there was, of course, no elevator. Mum announced that she needed the toilet and my Niece and another relative took her into the Ladies. Then the relative came out to tell me that my Mum needed a new skirt and underwear [ * Mum had thought it was the rain making her wet, but it hadn't been]. I drove back to the home with D, where we ended up having to search the laundry for clean underwear.

Back at the Inn, some male relatives had supervised Mum's ascension to the upper floor in her wheelchair, carried aloft like the Queen of Sheba. My female relatives got Mum changed and we began the meal. The food was excellent but Mum was pretty out of it: she didn't really recognise anyone save me and D and didn't take part in any conversation. I had to cut up her food for her. She was falling asleep before the dessert came.

We trooped back to the Home, where the Function room had been laid out very nicely by the Care staff for the second half of the celebration, where Mum's fellow residents could join us. There was a full buffet but none of us were hungry any more. Mum was quite bewildered now and didn't seem to understand where she was: she kept saying that she would need to go upstairs to use the toilet, and I couldn't make her understand that she was back home now and mere metres from her own facilities. While everyone else enjoyed the slide show, Mum couldn't keep her attention on the screen and ended up looking sideways at something else.

It seemed to me that poor Mum was being put through an assault course of demands and psychological disorientation and, not for the first time, I questioned who this was all being done for.

By 6pm the relatives were beginning to say their goodbyes and I had formed two conclusions about the day:

(1) I was glad that the wider family had finally seen where Mum is now living, and were impressed with the facilities

(2) D had learned that she can't do this to Mum again (I made sure she acknowledged it out loud)

An odd thing happened to me today. One of the new additions to our family by marriage is a capable chap I'll call C. During his student years he had done a stint working with the elderly and infirm and he spent the day being very practical and take-charge. He was wonderful with Mum. After a year of coping single-handed with this situation, it seemed like I was constantly chasing my tail today, running around looking for my car key (in the ignition), thinking that someone had stolen my umbrella (again in the car), losing the DVD with the slide show (again in the car). I was hot and sweaty and confused and I found myself wiping tears from my itchy eyes and telling C that I believed his competence was allowing me to finally let myself go to pieces a bit.

birthday: part II

Mum was inching her up the corridor to her bedroom when I arrived. She was unable to work out how she could turn around to greet me so she froze, clinging to the railing with one hand and holding her stick in the other. Her face was bright red and peeling, as if from a bad sunburn. A staff-member told me that they'd found some face products in Mum's bathroom again - she's under instruction not to use these as they encourage a fungal infection that is inflaming her skin.

Mum's white hair and red face seemed cruelly mocked by her white blouse and red skirt.

I gave her my arm and we slowly made our way to her bedroom. I've never seen her move so slowly and in so much pain. I kicked myself for not buying her a 'walker' rather than this silly photo frame.

When we got to her room, I let her use the toilet in privacy, but she had to call me inside since she couldn't find the toilet paper or the toilet flush (she was turning to her right when both are to the left).

I sat next to Mum on her bed to show her the digital photo frame. The first picture that came up was one of Mum and my Dad. Mum poked the glass, leaving a smudge over his face. 

To my horror, she asked: "Tell me, who's he?"

I died inside.

We watched just about all of the 400 or so photographs as they displayed. It was so difficult to keep Mum's attention on the slideshow, as she kept looking away to the bathroom door. I found myself announcing what we were seeing, because hearing her pathetic guesses was heartbreaking. By the end she was getting better at spotting childhood "Greg" but she occasionally turned to me when my Dad came up and said "that's you, of course." Mostly, it seemed, she just wanted to go to the toilet again.

Afterwards, I got 2 plates and some cutlery from the kitchen and I cut us each a slice of the cake I'd brought. It was a shame to cut into it, but it proved to be equally delicious as it was beautiful. Mum didn't use her fork but instead grabbed chunks of rich chocolate sponge and chocolate truffle sauce by hand and crammed them into her mouth, making a mess everywhere. When she had eaten most of her slice she became distressed looking down at her chocolaty hands and told me that she couldn't understand how they'd become so dirty. I fetched some napkins.

             

After cleaning her up and helping her down to the Lounge again, I started to feel very sad and I decided that I had to go. In any case, I was supposed to be at work this afternoon and it was already 4:30pm. I had a two-hour journey home ahead of me, followed by a delayed "afternoon shift" that would take me through to midnight or later.

On my way home I pondered my unhappiness. I realised that I had put myself through a LOT of stress to get every detail perfect for someone who could no longer appreciate these things. Who had I really been doing this for? Myself, maybe? Mum would have been happier to be taken out somewhere instead. It's late and I'm exhausted ... I'll have to come back to this.

* I have chosen photographs that make Mum look a LOT more lucid than she proved today because I just can't bear looking at the ones I've discarded.

birthday: part I

I've spent the last week in a continual panic, trying to cope with an increasing workload piled on top of me by my increasingly unavailable Manager. At the same time I've been trying to get everything in place for my Mother's 80th birthday (today).

As I've mentioned before, one of my relatives has taken it upon herself to organise a family get-together for Mum at the end of the month, and has taken the preparations so far out of my hands that I have not been allowed to invite Mum's closest relation "because there's not enough room". In many ways, what's being planned for the end of the month has little to do with Mum any more and is really about my relative, who always exhausts herself micromanaging these things and then has a nervous breakdown at the event, when her guests want to do their own thing, and declares that she's never going to organise ever again!

I decided that I couldn't let today go by without marking it in person, just Mum and me.

To that end, I found the most wonderful cake at the weekend, which is a chocolate sponge surrounded by what look like Shoji screens. The chocolate bird's nest and rose are somewhat over the top, but I'm excited at the prospect of eating gold leaf!

I also bought a rather expensive but elegant Sony digital photo-frame and I've spent the last 4 nights delicately teasing photographs from albums (quite scary when they've been glued for decades) and scanning them into my computer in order to transfer the images to the frame. I was up until 4am Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, and 2am last night, working until I couldn't safely wield the blade any more. Last night I painstakingly re-titled the images with numbers, hoping to display them in an order showing Mum's lifetime, but when I finally came to upload them at 2am this morning, I found that the frame's slideshow ran according to other criteria and photographs from the 1940s and 50s were, for some reason, distributed across the other decades. 

Oh well, nothing I can do about it now. And the photos do look amazing. I hope she doesn't cry. I've telephoned the Home and made sure that they're expecting me. They've agreed to present their own birthday cake with the evening meal, so that mine is the first that Mum sees.

It's midday and I'm about to set off.

Happy Birthday, Mum!

birthdays

My 13-year-old Niece stayed with me this weekend. Naturally, Grandma was a topic that came up in conversation.

I was explaining to her that Grandma often gets her muddled up with my Sister, and will typically dredge up a story from our 80s schooldays and attach it to my Niece's name. I explained that it wasn't just her, though, and that Grandma sometimes thought that I was still at school, myself.

My Niece told me that last year she'd received a birthday message from her Grandma that said, "Happy 24th Birthday!" It was hard not to be slightly amused at that one. I sometimes wonder what it must be like to grow up with a dotty Grandma. At least my Niece will know what's happening if her own Mother begins to get things wrong.

Mum's 80th is just over a week away. She's finally caught up with the age that she's been telling everyone for the last 3 years. We're having a family get-together later in the month. I'm planning to scan a pile of photographs and make her a DVD of memories which we'll project onto a wall during the event. I think I might buy her one of those digital picture frames for her Birthday and load some of them onto that.

now and then: a visit

My Brother-in-Law and my Nieces were in the country last weekend (one of my Nieces is starting school in the UK). I picked up Mum and took her to see them. Here's a photo of Mum with my Neices (that's me hunched down behind the chair). We spent a lovely afternoon together eating, looking at photos and catching up.

On the day it seemed like business as usual, with me shepherding Mum through hurdles (physical and mental) as patiently as possible. In some ways I could see a deterioration in her: I had difficulties helping her up the steep stairs in the house whenever she wanted to use the toilet, and she told a story about giving away a toy dog 3 times while we were there and a further time on our drive back. But I just smiled and let it pass - Mum hasn't got so many stories these days so I should let her enjoy those she can still remember.

However, looking at this picture I am struck by how much happier and healthier Mum looks now. It sends me back to the following pictures I still have on my phone, taken last December when I decided that I needed to intervene in Mum's life.

times are hard

Mum had some visitors today.

D just rang me to tell me that she and my Uncle spent a pleasant afternoon with Mum, taking her out to lunch at the place where we will be hosting her 80th Birthday party later this year. D said that Mum appeared well. They had asked her if she was settled and happy and she had assured them that she was, and had extolled the staff and facilities.

D said, however, that Mum was noticeably quieter than on previous encounters, and that it had been difficult to engage her in conversation. Also, Mum had seemed a good deal more confused than at their last meeting. 

For instance, Mum had announced that they were now forced to sleep two to a bed at the Home, and that the lady sharing her bed last night had rolled over and fallen to the floor.

When I heard this, I wondered whether this was Mum time-travelling back to her Depression-era childhood (Mum was born in 1928 in Boston, Massachusetts). 

D told me that she had questioned a staff member at the home and discovered that the doubling-up idea had originated with Mum's neighbour, who cannot find her way back to her bedroom in the evening and had wandered into Mum's room and exclaimed "do we have to sleep two-to-a-bed now?" The rolling out of bed incident had had happened to another resident ('screaming lady') a few weeks ago.

D told me that when she questioned Mum's version of events, Mum had become uncharacteristically angry and insisted that it had happened exactly as she had described.

family wedding

My favourite member of staff at the Home had made sure Mum visited the hairdresser, had bathed her and had picked out and accessorised an outfit for her. She told me that Mum had been asking every day of the week whether Greg was coming. It’s gone into Mum’s 'Life Plan' * now that they don’t tell her about anything more than 24 hours in advance.

In the car, Mum turned to me and asked, casually, how things were “back home” and then asked after the health of a couple of relatives who have been dead for 12 and 30 years, respectively. My heart sank a little: Mum was trying to prove competence again, which is seldom a wise tactic on her part because she inevitably proves just the opposite.

Or maybe she was just time travelling again and was visiting a time when these relatives were alive - in that case, who was I?

At the Church, I helped Mum down the steps and we shuffled up the aisle, past our remaining family. I saw a couple of them visibly shocked at the transformation in Mum as I helped her gingerly into a pew. For her part, it didn’t seem like Mum recognised anyone at all.

After the Service and the confetti and photographs, we made our way to the Reception venue (a 20 minute car journey). En route, Mum asked me 6 times where we were planning to go for lunch. Each time she had no recollection of a wedding or where we might therefore be going. Irritated, she took to pointing out things in the villages we passed through, saying how she’d seen whatever it was last week and was amazed that it hadn’t moved. This is something I’ve noticed Mum doing for about 6 years now – she experiences unshakable déjà-vu and treats my logical proofs that she’s never been there before with unconcealed disdain.

At the Reception, Mum ate unenthusiastically, glancing at me in her inscrutable way and replying in the vaguest terms to questions from other guests. She lasted longer than I had anticipated, but a couple of hours after the meal she’d had enough and suddenly asked to go.

As we said our goodbyes, I stood beside her and quietly announced each person as they came up to her, but she didn’t seem to register either names or faces. She didn’t even appear to understand the significance of the girl standing in front of her wearing a big white meringue…

Safely installed back at the Home, Mum gained confidence and gave me the first true smile of the day. I sat with her for an hour or so and she regaled me with the usual stories about the other residents. Here she was happy and engaged and interested in what was going on around her, in a way that had been lacking all day.

[*a continuously-updated document stating Mum's memories, relationships, life events and her wishes and needs]

plans

I tried to ring Mum in the evening to hear how yesterday's visit had gone for her, but she was already in bed by 9pm, most likely exhausted by the excitement. So I rang again just now.

Sometimes our conversations remind me of those I used to have with my Nieces when they were very young - no matter what I asked them I'd get a one or two-word answer. All Mum could tell me was that it was all "very nice" and I got "yes" and "no" answers after that.

Then she perked up with: "I suppose you know that D has got her teeth into arranging a party for my Birthday."

Family get-togethers are D's speciality, and I'm grateful to her for wanting to arrange this for my Mum's 80th in October and I'm sure she'll do a better job than I would. D and I had an initial scoping discussion last night. 

It sounds like Mum's already told everyone in her flat that she's having a big party.

"Do we know who's coming?"

"Well, your Birthday is a long way off yet, Mum, so we've got plenty of time to invite people and arrange everything."

"Oh....er.....when is my Birthday."

I still get little shocks at things like this. I suppose it's because the accepted model is that those with dementia lose their retention of recent events but remember the older, core stuff with great clarity. But it's more complicated than that, of course. The holes in the Swiss cheese aren't just in the top inch - they can be anywhere.

finances

When I first realised that Mum needed more sheltered/assisted accommodation, I worried how we were going to pay for it. True, Mum had a reasonably generous pension coming in each month from my Dad's old firm which topped up her finances nicely. But it seemed that every home I looked at charged almost double her income... and most of them were places I wasn't happy to show Mum anyway. I realised that I was going to have to sell her apartment and use the proceeds to pay for the shortfall each month. After a few selfish moments where I lamented my vanishing inheritance, I set to finding the best place for Mum at whatever the cost.

As my entries from last year show, I was lucky to find a place that not only surpassed all the other 'standard' and corporate homes I looked at but was also a little cheaper. We're still losing around £160 per week on top of Mum's pension, but that's a whole lot better than losing another £350 every week. Okay, I'll stop dancing around it - the place costs £560 per week and Mum's income is around £400.

Since December, I've calculated that the proceeds from selling Mum's apartment ought to see her alright for another 20 years. Of course, if her money runs out sooner, the State would step in to make up the difference (this is where you start commenting bitterly, those of you from the US). It's a comfortable situation for Mum and that's all that is important, but I'm aware of the irony that she'd get the same level of care if she had nothing (6 out of the 8 people in her household don't pay a penny) and that's all my Dad's hard-earned cash disappearing down the drain.

So I believed for the last 5 months. But then a couple of weeks ago I fell to chatting with a distant relative about Mum's situation.

"You need to buy a flat or a house with the money and the rent will pay for the shortfall," she said.

I'm such an idiot. Why didn't I think of that? I rent out a house myself, so it should have been obvious. The rent raised could cover the shortfall and we would still have the asset at the end!

I'm posting this not just to how dense I can be, but as an option for those in my situation. It's currently my intention to do something like this when I get around to clearing Mum's apartment and selling it (falling market permitting!)

It could be that there's a flaw in the plan. Judging by my past performance, I ought to see it by August.

worries

Our phone conversations are short. Mostly, when I ring, Mum has very little to tell me. She says that she hasn't been doing anything, that she can't remember what she ate, and then she pretty much wants to hand the receiver to a staff member so that they can speak to me instead. I don't know if talking on the phone is too much for her or if she's upset with me and doesn't want to talk.

Mum has rung me three times now about money. Today she told me that her purse only contains a £10 note. Now I put five £20 notes into it on the 26th December and the staff tell me that Mum hasn't left the building since. Everything that can be 'bought' there is included in the fees for Mum, so I'm worried that someone has taken her money. Worried and a bit depressed.

I know that it's early days as yet, but no-one has visited Mum apart from me.