Things are always going on in the background, and what can comfortably fit into a single blog entry is only a part of what's happening on any particular day. Why do I say this? On Thursday the nurse came to start feeding pills into my parents - I documented that, and yesterday I gave a quick resume of my mother's decline into dementia.

Meanwhile...

After her visit, the nurse calls the case manager to say that she is worried that my mother has a urinary tract infection. The case manager calls me to say it is important that we get this seen to immediately, and suggests I call my mother's GP. She also asked whether it is possible for Rachel to be present at the time of examination. I call the GP and ask her to drop by to see my mother after her surgery hours. I call Rachel to ask if she can get over to our parents' house. I call the case manager to tell her the GP's visit has been arranged. The case manager calls the GP to remind her that if the nurse is to administer whatever the GP prescribes, then an authorisation must be sent to the nursing service. Meanwhile my dad has called me three times to tell me that his computer appears to have died. I suspect that the tripped circuit breaker (I didn't tell you about how my parents were without electricity overnight, did I?) has either caused the computer to switch itself off, or that the computer has tripped the circuit breaker, and needs to be checked out. Dad has also called Rachel three times to raise the alarm that the fridge is empty. This is hard to understand because:

  1. the fridge is not empty
  2. if it were, he could easily go shopping, as he does every three or four days anyway,
  3. hot meals are delivered daily.

Nevertheless, we must accept that he looks into the fridge and for some reason starts to panic - our job is to stop the panic.

Next dad calls me to say that the GP has been around but hasn't done anything. I ask if she left a prescription. He says no. I ask him if he is sure, as I was certain she would. He checks with my mother, who doesn't even understand the question. I listen helplessly at the end of the line while they start to argue. Eventually dad comes back on the line and says that there is a piece of paper. 'Good,' I say, 'that's for me. Can you put it into the big blue envelope that you use to hold my mail?'

'What blue envelope is that?'

'A big blue plastic envelope that you keep near your chair. You put my mail and anything else for me in it. Can you put the piece of paper in there?'

'I don't know what blue plastic you're talking about. A blue plastic thing?'

This is frustrating, because he uses the envelope every day, so I don't know why he has suddenly forgotten what it is, or how to remind him, since it is large and probably in plain sight. Then suddenly he remembers, 'Ah! I know what you mean. Yes, good idea! It's right here. I'll put it in there and you can get it this evening.'

'No dad, it's tomorrow I'm coming over.'

'You said it was today.'

'No, it was always going to be tomorrow, dad.'

'Oh, all right then,' he says, obviously very disappointed. He depends so dearly on us being there to help.

And all of this may be for absolutely nothing, since no-one, not even the GP, who did not actually examine my mother, knows whether she has an infection. The nurse reached the conclusion from four clues:

  1. there was a urine-like smell in the house (possibly the cats' litter tray)
  2. mum had a fall recently (could be due to any number of causes)
  3. mum has been getting irritable with Rachel (could be a resurfacing of her old suspicions about Rachel's motives)
  4. mum had once suffered some mild incontinence (several years ago)

Anyway, that was all yesterday (Friday).

Today dad called me four times to ask if I was coming over. Of course, this had been agreed since Thursday, but he keeps forgetting. When I get to the house I find the GP's prescription, but also a letter she left for the nurse, asking her to take a urine sample and deliver it to a local pathology lab. I ask dad where the receptacle is; he doesn't know. Rachel is also there, and has brought our niece Cassy over. I ask Cassy to start searching the house for a small plastic container with a yellow lid. She goes into the kitchen and spies it right away - on the window sill. In the mail there is also a prescription for Aricept for my father, from his GP. I take the two prescriptions to the local chemist, but he needs extra paperwork, I drive back to the house, find it, and return to the chemist. Back at the house mum is looking tired. I decide to capitalise on this.

'Are you tired, mum?' I ask.

'Yes, dear.'

'I've just been to the chemist and I have something for you.' I give her the antibiotic tablet, which she washes down with a cup of tea. A minute or two later I ask her if she is feeling better now.

'Yes, I think so.' she smiles.

So, good. I've been able to start the antibiotic course. I write a letter to the nurse so she will know all about this tomorrow and be able to continue the course. I leave the letter, the pills, the sample kit and dad's prescription in the medicine box. This is padlocked so that mum and dad cannot mix things up, and ensures the nurse can leave notes for me and vice versa.

All that done, I:

  • check out dad's computer (and his alarm clock radio), both of which shut down when the power circuit cut out
  • shovel up the dog-shit outside the house, hose the grass off and spread citronella oil
  • feed the cats
  • make sandwiches, cover them in cling-film and leave them on the table
Meanwhile Rachel has delivered clean laundry to the house, been to fetch fish and chips for everyone, and helped to tidy the kitchen. She takes her leave of mum and dad, saying that she will be returning to Queensland tomorrow. Though they do not know when they will next see her, they act very unconcerned, almost uninterested.

There's more, but I think you get the idea. There are dozens of minor tasks that ought to be attended to each day. We just take what we feel ready to handle. On evenings when we do not leave food for mum and dad, they are likely to eat just a slice of bread and butter for dinner. We know it is not really enough.