Horse and carriage
By Mike on Friday 22 February 2008, 16:17 - Journal - Permalink
Yesterday afternoon Greg and I took dad to see his new home.
First, though, I made cheques out to various family members and got dad to sign them, reducing his assets by $10,000. I did a bit of his paperwork for him, and researched a few questions the financial adviser had left with us on Monday. I contacted the Department of Veteran's Affairs and told them we had been told to request from them a statement of mum and dad's assets and income. A Monty Python dialogue ensued:
'Have you provided this to us?'
'No, I was told you would provide it to me.'
'No, you have to provide it to us.'
'I was told specifically to call you and request, and I quote, a statement of assets and income.'
'This is prior to going into aged care, right?'
'Yes.'
'Well, the procedure is that you must provide those details to us.'
'My understanding is that you have a set of factors that you take into consideration when you pay my parents' pensions.'
'Yes, we do.'
'These cover their assets and income, correct?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that is what I am requesting.'
'Do you have power of attorney?'
'Yes.'
'Have you provided details of this to us.'
'I'm not sure.'
'I don't have any details of this here.'
'Then we probably haven't, but that doesn't matter. You can send the statement to my father.'
That done, we took dad to the same retirement village that now houses mum. First, dad demonstrated at his interview with the manager that he has practically no idea what is going on, or what is being discussed. Greg and I hardly had to say a thing. Dad's incoherence was eloquence itself.
Next we went to see his room. It is nothing like as nice as mum's; rather gloomy, worn, and not as large. During the discussion his bluff and machismo kept coming to the fore. This is perhaps a sign, I belatedly realise, that he is not feeling on top of things. When asked if he liked the room he said that when he was in the RAF he had to sleep in much worse conditions and it never bothered him. When asked if he missed mum, he said that he used to go away for years at a time and he was never one for getting upset or moping about. All this is more or less true, but more on this later.
Greg and I then walked dad up the slope to mum's building. It is about 200 metres away. The walk took dad 8 minutes. He shuffled along, acutely stooped. 'You're keeping a close eye on your feet, dad,' I observed. He denied this somewhat irritatedly.
We tried hard to imprint the route on dad's memory, calling attention over and over again to the turn at the top of the slope, the name of mum's building, and so on. None of this was sinking in, so when we got to the security gate I didn't bother trying to tell dad the number to press. He's just never going to remember it. He will always, it appears, need to be led up by someone, or taken in the bus that drives around the village.
I said to Greg as we entered, 'let's not make any signs that we know mum. Let's just see if she recognises us.'
It was quite fascinating. Mum was sitting with several other residents, but was facing the gate as we came in. First, she noticed our movement. Then there was something about us that caught her attention. Next, she thought we were familiar, then she knew she knew us, then she realised we were hers, then she wanted us to come over. All these stages were written clearly across her face, and the process of dawning realisation was very slow, we had walked maybe 15 metres, perhaps more, before mum put out an arm, a blended reaching and waving gesture. We led dad in through the glass door and mum stood up. They held hands, dad kissed mum on the top of her head and she actually bent towards him to be kissed. It's the first time I have seen this level of affection in years. There were a few words, very very few, then dad accepted the chair we pulled up for him, and the two of them just sat side by side in silence. Greg and I got some chairs for ourselves and sat about 5 metres away. After a little while mum wondered where we were, and beckoned us over. I asked her what she thought of the place. She pulled down the corners of her mouth and held a hand up, tipping it from side to side. 'So-so', 'not bad' this seemed to say.
She was looking cleaner than I have seen her since 2006. Her cheeks were red, fuller, the skin on her legs was looking better. She was generally more alert and better dressed than most of the other women there. She seemed to be content. I was pleased. At one stage she got up for a hug, and for the first time in many months no disgust swelled up in my throat.
It was now about 5 pm and residents were being led to the tables for dinner. Time for us to go. The lady who had been sitting next to mum put her hand out to me. I shook it.
'You know what would put a smile on my face?' she said. 'If someone were to take me home. I only live a short way away.'
'How long have you been here?'
'Years!' she said with feeling.
I tried to deflect the conversation.
'I think it's time for dinner, isn't it? Five o'clock?'
'I don't care what time it is!' she said with an intense expression. 'I want to get out of here.'
I found it quite disconcerting. She was led away.
We had been trying to get dad to decide to move into the room - just until mum is better, just for a couple of weeks, just to see how he likes it, just to let us do some repairs on the house, etc. Greg and I have now realised that dad is incapable of making the decision. We have therefore made it for him. He will move in. It is just a case of deciding the day.
Today's events have brought this question to the fore. I have my phone turned off right now. I took about 40 calls from dad today before doing this. As of this minute, another 16 have been made to me. Dad is complaining about being lonely, having no-one to talk to and nothing to do, and being abandoned by us. He tells us we don't seem to care about any of this. He does not listen to anything we say, he just keeps asking, over and over and over again, for us to visit. Greg and I were there yesterday. Rachel will be there tomorrow. Dad will get three visits from the social services today, but it's never enough. We have all grown fed up with it. Greg is right now calling Rachel and the manager of the village to see if we can move dad on Monday.
First, though, I made cheques out to various family members and got dad to sign them, reducing his assets by $10,000. I did a bit of his paperwork for him, and researched a few questions the financial adviser had left with us on Monday. I contacted the Department of Veteran's Affairs and told them we had been told to request from them a statement of mum and dad's assets and income. A Monty Python dialogue ensued:
'Have you provided this to us?'
'No, I was told you would provide it to me.'
'No, you have to provide it to us.'
'I was told specifically to call you and request, and I quote, a statement of assets and income.'
'This is prior to going into aged care, right?'
'Yes.'
'Well, the procedure is that you must provide those details to us.'
'My understanding is that you have a set of factors that you take into consideration when you pay my parents' pensions.'
'Yes, we do.'
'These cover their assets and income, correct?'
'Yes.'
'Well, that is what I am requesting.'
'Do you have power of attorney?'
'Yes.'
'Have you provided details of this to us.'
'I'm not sure.'
'I don't have any details of this here.'
'Then we probably haven't, but that doesn't matter. You can send the statement to my father.'
That done, we took dad to the same retirement village that now houses mum. First, dad demonstrated at his interview with the manager that he has practically no idea what is going on, or what is being discussed. Greg and I hardly had to say a thing. Dad's incoherence was eloquence itself.
Next we went to see his room. It is nothing like as nice as mum's; rather gloomy, worn, and not as large. During the discussion his bluff and machismo kept coming to the fore. This is perhaps a sign, I belatedly realise, that he is not feeling on top of things. When asked if he liked the room he said that when he was in the RAF he had to sleep in much worse conditions and it never bothered him. When asked if he missed mum, he said that he used to go away for years at a time and he was never one for getting upset or moping about. All this is more or less true, but more on this later.
Greg and I then walked dad up the slope to mum's building. It is about 200 metres away. The walk took dad 8 minutes. He shuffled along, acutely stooped. 'You're keeping a close eye on your feet, dad,' I observed. He denied this somewhat irritatedly.
We tried hard to imprint the route on dad's memory, calling attention over and over again to the turn at the top of the slope, the name of mum's building, and so on. None of this was sinking in, so when we got to the security gate I didn't bother trying to tell dad the number to press. He's just never going to remember it. He will always, it appears, need to be led up by someone, or taken in the bus that drives around the village.
I said to Greg as we entered, 'let's not make any signs that we know mum. Let's just see if she recognises us.'
It was quite fascinating. Mum was sitting with several other residents, but was facing the gate as we came in. First, she noticed our movement. Then there was something about us that caught her attention. Next, she thought we were familiar, then she knew she knew us, then she realised we were hers, then she wanted us to come over. All these stages were written clearly across her face, and the process of dawning realisation was very slow, we had walked maybe 15 metres, perhaps more, before mum put out an arm, a blended reaching and waving gesture. We led dad in through the glass door and mum stood up. They held hands, dad kissed mum on the top of her head and she actually bent towards him to be kissed. It's the first time I have seen this level of affection in years. There were a few words, very very few, then dad accepted the chair we pulled up for him, and the two of them just sat side by side in silence. Greg and I got some chairs for ourselves and sat about 5 metres away. After a little while mum wondered where we were, and beckoned us over. I asked her what she thought of the place. She pulled down the corners of her mouth and held a hand up, tipping it from side to side. 'So-so', 'not bad' this seemed to say.
She was looking cleaner than I have seen her since 2006. Her cheeks were red, fuller, the skin on her legs was looking better. She was generally more alert and better dressed than most of the other women there. She seemed to be content. I was pleased. At one stage she got up for a hug, and for the first time in many months no disgust swelled up in my throat.
It was now about 5 pm and residents were being led to the tables for dinner. Time for us to go. The lady who had been sitting next to mum put her hand out to me. I shook it.
'You know what would put a smile on my face?' she said. 'If someone were to take me home. I only live a short way away.'
'How long have you been here?'
'Years!' she said with feeling.
I tried to deflect the conversation.
'I think it's time for dinner, isn't it? Five o'clock?'
'I don't care what time it is!' she said with an intense expression. 'I want to get out of here.'
I found it quite disconcerting. She was led away.
We had been trying to get dad to decide to move into the room - just until mum is better, just for a couple of weeks, just to see how he likes it, just to let us do some repairs on the house, etc. Greg and I have now realised that dad is incapable of making the decision. We have therefore made it for him. He will move in. It is just a case of deciding the day.
Today's events have brought this question to the fore. I have my phone turned off right now. I took about 40 calls from dad today before doing this. As of this minute, another 16 have been made to me. Dad is complaining about being lonely, having no-one to talk to and nothing to do, and being abandoned by us. He tells us we don't seem to care about any of this. He does not listen to anything we say, he just keeps asking, over and over and over again, for us to visit. Greg and I were there yesterday. Rachel will be there tomorrow. Dad will get three visits from the social services today, but it's never enough. We have all grown fed up with it. Greg is right now calling Rachel and the manager of the village to see if we can move dad on Monday.
Comments
Michael,
I'm just the READER of your blog, and I was in tears with this post. Your description of your mother recognizing you was more than I was able to read. The kiss from your father - that was it. You are an incredibly gifted writer, you've wrapped me into this experience, and the sadness of this, all of this, just swamped me.
It probably comes naturally to you, but what may not come so naturally is the deep sorrow of it all. There is no good way to deal with any of this, and yet by writing your story, you find the way, the best way.
I have been profoundly moved by your experience. Thank you for having the heart to share it.
Patty