This morning, I woke up to a txt from H2 asking for the home number of Mum's Monday-Friday private carer. Urgently. This being Sunday, it all seemed a little odd. But it's the same old issue. The Tena pants needed changing and I had forgotten that the respite carer had to leave a day earlier than anticipated. I had catered for the Morning Poo but forgotten completely about the Evening Poo. Pumping Mum full of good healthy porridge oats definitely has its downside....! But like everything, there is a funny side to it all. The changing of the Tena Pants has become something akin to the Changing of the Guard. Our day, Mum's and mine, is marked off by the hours at which the change is necessary. Too early - and there is little point. Too late, and in the morning, it could mean a whole bed strip and change. Only one of our regular carers can manage The Change, which means that I have to time my day and that of the children's by the times at which I must get round to Mum.
Paddy, our lovely old dog, had an endearing habit of looking completely surprised, when he farted. It happened increasingly as he got older. Eyes wide and full of indignation, he had no idea that he was the culprit. Funnily, Mum is the same. When we get to The Changing of the Pant, she points to the offender and demands to know, who is the perpetrator? Who had the audacity to put That There? I haven't the heart to explain and besides, an explanation would be pointless. So I also pretend to be shocked, and demur. "I have no idea, Mum" I say. "But you can be sure, that I'll ask them not to do it again".
A couple of years ago, I had thought that double incontinence would be my tipping point. This would be the time, that I would no longer be able to cope with the extra demands of personal care and laundry. But thanks to porridge, I can almost set my watch by Mum's digestive cycle - and we are still OK. How will I cope when I can no longer persuade her to get out of bed? Or perhaps, when her weakening leg muscles can no longer support her? Will that be our tipping point? I mention it, only because my fellow carer in New York has reached the point at which residential care for his mother looks like the only option. He is all cared out, sorely in need of rest and recuperation himself, and his Mum, unwittingly, is "playing up" which seems to be another all to0 common facet of dementia.
I can't work it out, but it's real enough. Mum uses emotional blackmail much less now - though we still have the odd day of childlike, attention-grabbing behaviour. But La Grande Pancake is peverse beyond measure! She longs to help - it's her self-affirmation that she can still manage - but you could stake money, that whatever you ask her to do, she will do the complete opposite. You almost wonder whether this is a weird trick of the brain that requires 'Alice Through the Looking Glass' speak: ie. you say the exact opposite of what you mean in a sort of verbal hamburger double flip.
I hope our NY carer gets the home that his mother (and he) deserve so that they can rediscover a relationship that has fun/love/affection as its base rather than the daily grind and worry of care.
Meanwhile, I discovered this week that Jimmy Hendrix was a Seattle son. He's a bit before my time, but I didn't know that. And I had no idea that aside from grunge, Seattle's roots are steeped in musical history. I like the city - it retains something of its pioneer feel and I love its diversity. Odd, though, that the skyline, at least near the waterfront, and the sprawl of the city immediately behind, is not peppered with church spires as in many European towns.
Fear not to entertain strangers, for in so doing, some may have entertained angels unaware
