Who laughs wins

I say I say I say. My dad has dementia. It is not funny.  He is though. When he came downstairs one morning with just one sock on and was asked why, he looked down at his foot and said it's empty. Another time when he went to go out with different shoes on and was informed of the fact, he said they had argued. The other afternoon I touched the top of his head. I was worried that he may have a temperature as he felt so hot. I have been thinking a lot, was his reply. Strangely he can still find his way to the bookies in the town centre, a 10-minute walk away. Ma bumped into him as she was walking back from the market. Ah, she told him, we can walk back together. He smiled saying I don't pick up women in the street.

This week both he and Ma were in hospital in the same ward but in different bays  having both been struggling with chesty coughs, Ma probably due to the weak immune system leukaemia has left her with and Dad because his lungs are degenerating progressively, I think that's kind of how the doc put it. When we were told that he too would be admitted two days after his beloved Pamela he just said, it's becoming the fashion.

 We had been to the surgery when the GP said she wanted him to go to the ambulatory centre for tests at the hospital  straight away. It was 5 PM and we spent the evening sitting in high backed chairs  as they carried out a series of tests. I don't know whether it was because she was Asian, but as one doctor was writing notes after examining Dad he wanted to share with her something of his heritage. He told her proudly, I'm from Burma. She did not look up or respond. He said it again. She did look up then.  Pardon, she replied. I'm from Burma, he stated once more. Oh are you, she said and went back to her notes. No smiles, no engagement. I guess just too busy.

Finally after midnight he was admitted.  We were exhausted. Dad knew that Ma was in the ward.  But for some strange reason he thought that the elderly gentleman in the bed next door to the one that had been allocated was mummy.  He went up to the bed and bent over its occupant saying Pamela Pamela. He got such a fright  when the head covered in a mop of grey hair not dis-similar to Ma's turned towards him. This poor patient had severe dementia and just writhed in the bed with a stream of incomprehensible sounds coming from his mouth. His limbs were constantly moving and in the darkened ward with just a feint light from the corridor he did not look human. It was as if some creature was lying there. That's dementia for you. Not funny! Dad got very upset. I don't want to stay here, he's mad, please take me home, he said. We managed lto get him into bed and I told him I would stay until he fell asleep. Suddenly he became very sensible, lucid, my parent, the one in charge, who had the control. No you go home, get some sleep, I will be alright, he whispered.

 I went home and my son Rory was still awake bleary eyed. He'd cooked a delicious fish dish so even though not sensible to eat at this hour I tucked in and watched some rubbish on television while having a little weep at the thought of both parents in hospital.  I thought after what I should've done was watched some Dave Allen on YouTube, he always makes me laugh - the one about the bishops shoes – who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning? A classic.

Dad was only in for 24 hours as they gave him oxygen as well as  steroids, anti biotics and something else I'm not sure what. Ma is still there in her usual good spirits, spreading her wonderful warmth and good humour.

Who Cares Wins

Who Cares Wins. The first of my blogs. 

We have to care. If we don't what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning? I have had my share of life's ups and downs and there were days when I did not want to get out of bed, did not want to wash I was so overcome with grief and trauma. I felt like I was swimming in dung and every now and again I would see some light and come up for air. My family and friends were the light, the oxygen I needed. When I faced my own life threatening illness and spent terrifying hours in intensive care one Christmas just a few years ago, as I felt myself slipping away there they were again to help pull me through. Friends have often told me I should write a blog - so here I am! It's stories that can breathe new life into our veins, give us the oxygen we need, to help us care. I grew up in a small house, among rows and rows of identical houses on a large overspill council housing estate, in fact the locals called it rather bluntly the 'spill. 

My parents did not have much but what they lacked in material things they made up for  In personality, love and care, and both blessed thank goodness with boundless energy and a great sense of humour! My mother was the clever creative one who made sure we could all read and write before we went to school. It was her love of  telling stories through drama, writing scripts, sketches and pantos for our school PTA that has been passed down through the generations. My father was the sentimental emotional one who shared stories and songs with us of his life in a world so different to that around us growing up in the Seventies,  a world of hot sun, exotic food and golden temples in a land then called Burma, where he was born in 1931. They cared for us, their family, our friends, work colleagues, and they taught me how to care through love, sharing and telling stories.