When we were first married Richard and I enjoyed a trip to India and Nepal - it lasted around three weeks. One of my memories from then is seeing wild monkeys jumping over the monkey temple. They were as numerous as squirrels chasing up trees in the woods near our house. Kathmandu was the place where I saw groups of mother-less children living rough, supporting each other, sleeping inside sacks - night after night. Such images don't leave you.
Now it is a place of great tragedy as the death toll from the earthquake rises ever more sharply with each bulletin. I will, of course, make a donation through the Red Cross to help in some small way.
For those of you who know my work I have long had an interest in Sierra Leone. My short story 'Austerity' - about life near Freetown after civil war - hints at medical poverty but in my revisions I will actively refer to Ebola.
On Saturday our house is an Open Studio - part of the Larkhall Festival and one of four art trails around Bath. Richard is donating 20% of proceeds from sales of his framed works - of the people of Sierra Leone - to the Ebola Fund. There is still work to be done in SL. Many families have been displaced and their monies lost through failed businesses, following the horrendous epidemic. The people of Sierra Leone still need support as they rebuild their lives. If you can please come along and support our efforts ( We are open Saturday, Sunday and Monday) & thanks for reading my blog.
Thursday, 30 April 2015
Thursday, 16 April 2015
Selective Reading
When is a bookgroup a hindrance rather than a help? When you have sooo much to read more titles simply become overwhelming rather than enlightening! Having just read the mighty Anna Karenina I found it, sacrilege I know, a distraction rather than a help. I don't think I have the tolerance, for the moment at least, for 19th century Russian aristocratic society with its curious mix of wealth and restrictions. Some beautiful phrases and philosophies, of course, but I feel I want to read shorter works. Eight hundred pages - as for Eleanor Catton's The Luminaries - is toooo much. It's simply because I want to work at my own novel - so I need the time and headspace now.
I feel I'm ready to read Polly Samson. As she's published a collection of short stories and written a novel incorporating a family member I feel she might be one for me to watch. So I may miss a couple of bookgroup titles and concentrate on writerly-supportive reading - thereby helping develop my own writing style.
It's a year since mum's stroke and of course one has to be cognisant of the fact that the upheaval has taken its toll; on us - the rest of her family; physically - simply moving mum and her belongings is a massive task; sorting out her house ( our childhood home) and the emotional impact of it all.
It could explain why my back has been especially painful for a number of weeks and why I'm so tired. On a happier note I may be able to use the skills of a professional author in a couple of months time. It would be wonderful to get a rigorous read through of 'Coming of Age' with a critique from a published writer. It's what I need now!
So back to the writing. Selective reading may have to be my priority ...
I feel I'm ready to read Polly Samson. As she's published a collection of short stories and written a novel incorporating a family member I feel she might be one for me to watch. So I may miss a couple of bookgroup titles and concentrate on writerly-supportive reading - thereby helping develop my own writing style.
It's a year since mum's stroke and of course one has to be cognisant of the fact that the upheaval has taken its toll; on us - the rest of her family; physically - simply moving mum and her belongings is a massive task; sorting out her house ( our childhood home) and the emotional impact of it all.
It could explain why my back has been especially painful for a number of weeks and why I'm so tired. On a happier note I may be able to use the skills of a professional author in a couple of months time. It would be wonderful to get a rigorous read through of 'Coming of Age' with a critique from a published writer. It's what I need now!
So back to the writing. Selective reading may have to be my priority ...
Sunday, 15 March 2015
Mothering Sunday and my birthday
As mum reaches her ninetieth birthday I'm getting closer to another milestone; I'm nearer sixty than fifty now. As well as the solar eclipse on Friday two other worlds have collided this weekend - it was my birthday yesterday - the first one where mum was not able to send me a birthday card nor ring me - and today is Mothers' Day - the first time I won't be able to pick up the phone to speak to her. Hey ho. The times they are a changing. I'm very lucky to have had an attentive and loving mum - many don't - and so lucky to have a mum strong enough to survive a massive stroke - again many don't.
Mum hates the phrase Mothers' Day and insists it's Mothering Sunday. She often went to the Mothering Sunday church service at St. Leonard's and always said it was a special Sunday set aside for girls in service - maids, housekeepers and the like - to go home to see their mothers.
Still next Thursday or Friday we'll go and see her. It'll be interesting to see if she can remember it was my birthday and Mothering Sunday. She'll likely remember some of it.
The surgeon at New Cross hospital have done a good job on her face and she is now discharged. I will be glad to see it healed - last time I saw mum her face was full of black stitches - but in no pain. What a year this has been! The stroke was last April and we are just coming to terms with hospital visits, travelling with her in ambulances, seeing consultants and carers, nurses and nursing home matrons.
Mum has, thankfully, recovered from her bedsore, is eating well and enjoys a sherry. She still likes her cups of tea, isn't in much pain and likes to talk. It would be good to see her sitting out but she hates the hoist - preferring the comfort of her bed. Would I be any different aged ninety, following a stroke?
On Thursday we went for a birthday meal, a scrumptious fish platter. Yesterday - a dull, cool March day, we went for a bucks fizz and back for our party in the evening. Three of us, from two writers' groups, read fiction to our guests. My reading was from chapter one of my novel 'Coming of Age'. How timely that I interviewed mum long before her stroke so her recall about my great aunt, Eliza Augusta, the main protagonist, was very very sharp. Mina read her short story, The Barn and Sue read a powerful monologue as if written by a thug in a comprehensive school, with a frightening ending.
Each piece had its strengths - and were refreshingly different. It's all good prac for reading in front of an audience.
*
It's usually a sign that it's been a hard winter when daffodils are still closed by mid-March - my birthday. In fact it has been a sunny winter, but the last two weeks have been cool so the buds have stayed tightly closed. After a mild winter the daffodils can be over by March 14th, with yellow petals withered and turning brown - this year the plants are up and just ready to burst open. After a very cold winter, sometimes with snow and ice on the ground for weeks, daffodils might still be struggling to emerge from the still-cold soil. Maybe only an inch or two showing above the ground. My birthday is a good marker in more ways than one.
*
Now that I have some of mum's belongings in our house, safe from builders' claw hammers!, I was able to post an ensemble picture of mum and her favourite pieces of china for Mothers' Day aka Mothering Sunday. The photograph of her as baby - one she never liked - and the ornate Italian table centre appear in my novel 'Coming of Age '. The photograph is ninety years old and the table centre belonged to Eliza Augusta. All are important details in my novel. Important artefacts in my family history. Things aren't as important as people but they are reminders of lives led, the people who led them, and our lives as children. Happy birthday to me for yesterday and happy Mothers' Day. I hope mum can enjoy something of it!
Mum hates the phrase Mothers' Day and insists it's Mothering Sunday. She often went to the Mothering Sunday church service at St. Leonard's and always said it was a special Sunday set aside for girls in service - maids, housekeepers and the like - to go home to see their mothers.
Still next Thursday or Friday we'll go and see her. It'll be interesting to see if she can remember it was my birthday and Mothering Sunday. She'll likely remember some of it.
The surgeon at New Cross hospital have done a good job on her face and she is now discharged. I will be glad to see it healed - last time I saw mum her face was full of black stitches - but in no pain. What a year this has been! The stroke was last April and we are just coming to terms with hospital visits, travelling with her in ambulances, seeing consultants and carers, nurses and nursing home matrons.
Mum has, thankfully, recovered from her bedsore, is eating well and enjoys a sherry. She still likes her cups of tea, isn't in much pain and likes to talk. It would be good to see her sitting out but she hates the hoist - preferring the comfort of her bed. Would I be any different aged ninety, following a stroke?
On Thursday we went for a birthday meal, a scrumptious fish platter. Yesterday - a dull, cool March day, we went for a bucks fizz and back for our party in the evening. Three of us, from two writers' groups, read fiction to our guests. My reading was from chapter one of my novel 'Coming of Age'. How timely that I interviewed mum long before her stroke so her recall about my great aunt, Eliza Augusta, the main protagonist, was very very sharp. Mina read her short story, The Barn and Sue read a powerful monologue as if written by a thug in a comprehensive school, with a frightening ending.
Each piece had its strengths - and were refreshingly different. It's all good prac for reading in front of an audience.
*
It's usually a sign that it's been a hard winter when daffodils are still closed by mid-March - my birthday. In fact it has been a sunny winter, but the last two weeks have been cool so the buds have stayed tightly closed. After a mild winter the daffodils can be over by March 14th, with yellow petals withered and turning brown - this year the plants are up and just ready to burst open. After a very cold winter, sometimes with snow and ice on the ground for weeks, daffodils might still be struggling to emerge from the still-cold soil. Maybe only an inch or two showing above the ground. My birthday is a good marker in more ways than one.
*
Now that I have some of mum's belongings in our house, safe from builders' claw hammers!, I was able to post an ensemble picture of mum and her favourite pieces of china for Mothers' Day aka Mothering Sunday. The photograph of her as baby - one she never liked - and the ornate Italian table centre appear in my novel 'Coming of Age '. The photograph is ninety years old and the table centre belonged to Eliza Augusta. All are important details in my novel. Important artefacts in my family history. Things aren't as important as people but they are reminders of lives led, the people who led them, and our lives as children. Happy birthday to me for yesterday and happy Mothers' Day. I hope mum can enjoy something of it!
Thursday, 22 January 2015
A lot to be grateful for
So glad people are telling me they read my blog. I'm equally pleased we are planning another evening of readings - from our own writing - two writers' groups sharing their work. It gives us a chance to get used to performing in front of others. Modern writing and new writers performing quietly, away from the small screen, amidst current re-enactments on television : old events and seasoned campaigners. Cromwell in Wolf Hall to Churchill to Eichmann.
We live in interesting times and I feel there is much to be grateful for. Our country is at peace, we have no burning at the stake nor public executions. No Wolf Hall. My friends and I live comfortably, with freedom of choice, in warm houses and with plenty to eat, while the temperatures drop outside. Perhaps we owe our freedom and comfort partly to the leadership of a man who fought for Great Britain many years before I was born. Sir Winston Churchill.
It is fifty years since I saw his waterborne coffin being carried on the Thames - through the medium of television. I was a child and knew who Churchill was, of course, but it is the commentary - the phrase ' his final journey' which has remained with me. What did these words really mean? Had he planned his final journey, had he travelled this way before?
It was a spectacle for television - all the more meaningful, I would say, its being filmed in monochrome against a grey winter sky. A sombre spectacle.
Another sombre spectacle is the filming of the Eichmann trial. Another 'leader' or at least a deputy leader who commanded so much power millions died.
Now to current events. Prince Andrew - who was born slightly after me - is defending himself by speaking to people of his innocence in front of millions, again through the medium of television. Leon Brittan has died and one newspaper says he will be hunted beyond the grave. Both Prince Andrew and Leon Brittan have denied any wrong-doing. I, for one, am glad I am not in the public eye. I like my privacy and I cannot believe I would enjoy TV cameras being pointed at me. Then I see Emma Healey for the Costa First Novel Award being interviewed by Nick Higham. She's written a book about Alzheimers. She's known now. Her life will never be the same again.
The TV is prominent in our lives and it's so easy to switch between vastly different worlds. We move from those who fought against evil to those who perpetrated it within seconds, using the remote control, (or the press of a virtual button on the ipad). If we don't like what we see we can forget it. Unless of course we are the one at the centre of the storm. The one with the cameras on us. Which brings me back to performance evenings.
Some of us are naturals at reading out our work to an audience. It can be quite scary even to someone like me who taught schoolchildren for 32 years - an 'unappreciative audience' ? But reading aloud to others is nothing truly frightening in the scheme of things - we have a lot to be grateful for in an uncertain world. We are not fighting for our lives or scraping money together to live in an overcrowded flat. Today, hours before I watched extracts about Churchill and Eichmann, I read about a father and son who died in Syria, not from bullets but from the sheer cold.
It's good to reflect that we have a lot to be grateful for.
We live in interesting times and I feel there is much to be grateful for. Our country is at peace, we have no burning at the stake nor public executions. No Wolf Hall. My friends and I live comfortably, with freedom of choice, in warm houses and with plenty to eat, while the temperatures drop outside. Perhaps we owe our freedom and comfort partly to the leadership of a man who fought for Great Britain many years before I was born. Sir Winston Churchill.
It is fifty years since I saw his waterborne coffin being carried on the Thames - through the medium of television. I was a child and knew who Churchill was, of course, but it is the commentary - the phrase ' his final journey' which has remained with me. What did these words really mean? Had he planned his final journey, had he travelled this way before?
It was a spectacle for television - all the more meaningful, I would say, its being filmed in monochrome against a grey winter sky. A sombre spectacle.
Another sombre spectacle is the filming of the Eichmann trial. Another 'leader' or at least a deputy leader who commanded so much power millions died.
Now to current events. Prince Andrew - who was born slightly after me - is defending himself by speaking to people of his innocence in front of millions, again through the medium of television. Leon Brittan has died and one newspaper says he will be hunted beyond the grave. Both Prince Andrew and Leon Brittan have denied any wrong-doing. I, for one, am glad I am not in the public eye. I like my privacy and I cannot believe I would enjoy TV cameras being pointed at me. Then I see Emma Healey for the Costa First Novel Award being interviewed by Nick Higham. She's written a book about Alzheimers. She's known now. Her life will never be the same again.
The TV is prominent in our lives and it's so easy to switch between vastly different worlds. We move from those who fought against evil to those who perpetrated it within seconds, using the remote control, (or the press of a virtual button on the ipad). If we don't like what we see we can forget it. Unless of course we are the one at the centre of the storm. The one with the cameras on us. Which brings me back to performance evenings.
Some of us are naturals at reading out our work to an audience. It can be quite scary even to someone like me who taught schoolchildren for 32 years - an 'unappreciative audience' ? But reading aloud to others is nothing truly frightening in the scheme of things - we have a lot to be grateful for in an uncertain world. We are not fighting for our lives or scraping money together to live in an overcrowded flat. Today, hours before I watched extracts about Churchill and Eichmann, I read about a father and son who died in Syria, not from bullets but from the sheer cold.
It's good to reflect that we have a lot to be grateful for.
Friday, 19 December 2014
The Happy Prisoner - Monica Dickens
For years - as a child - I looked at the pink cover of this book. It has been on the bookshelves in mum's sitting room for half a century - the Mermaid edition of the 'The Happy Prisoner'. The archaic illustration on the front cover shows a youngish man in a very old-fashioned wheelchair. He's in a contraption with a high back but with a single wheel at the front. What fascinated me as a child was the pretty cottage in the background, a well- dressed woman serving tea on a tray and this young chap wrapped in a blanket. An odd but intriguing scene.
So now, as I clear mum's house, very gradually, I fancy I will actually read the book whose cover held me in its grasp for such a long time. The irony is my family couldn't find the copy on mum's bookshelves so I had to search Google and Alibris to find the exact edition. Finally I found the Mermaid series - the whole could be a good present for a minor collector.
I have only recently learned Monica Dickens is the grandchild of the more famous Charles. All the more reason to actually look inside the cover and discover her as a writer. It was a timely read in that mum is a 'happy prisoner' in her bed - unable to walk.
So now, close to Christmas, I have a purchased copy of the book and mum has moved, finally to a nursing home in which we hope she will settle.
*
Since I last wrote my blog such a lot has happened. At the beginning of November our senior district nurse filed an incident report against mum's care agency as her health was deteriorating The nurse said all her ailments were avoidable ( with proper care). After Remembrance Sunday mum began to decline and didn't want to eat. All the local medical professionals wanted her in hospital - I was so relieved at this suggestion. I had already told mum - the weekend of 15th November - that if she didn't eat she'd have to go into a ward. So on the evening of Tuesday 18th November she was back in a hospital bed - all her test results came back sound but she was debilitated by not eating enough.
So, as I walked past the Acute Stroke Unit, I thought we were back to where we started on April 20th. Easter Day. Mum had had a massive stroke.
*
Charlotte Ward got mum eating and drinking again so she was ready for discharge quite soon - medically fit for travel. But no-one thought she should be at my brother's home nor my home without 24 hour care. The care package hadn't worked at our house and my brother couldn't contemplate an extra carer in his house 24/7 on top of his full time job as a solicitor. Again, I was quite relieved. I knew mum needed a nursing home but it's a huge step. We found one near the hospital in Bath. But even that took some doing. So few beds and just because we want a place doesn't mean the home will take a patient and all the while we had to convince mum this was a 'convalescent home' . A white lie.
My brother became convinced that Atholl House near his home in Tettenhall was the right place for mum. So, finally, after a lot of planning, and a curious journey north, she has a bed. Mum was drinking tea when I left her there, and I was happy with the hygiene and the atmosphere. Mum's room is large and bright and the day rooms are good for visitors. A cuppa always on hand. I was happy to leave and will be happy to return.The 'happy prisoner' is settling in to her new situation.
The final irony in this circuitous journey from A&E and Acute Stroke Unit on April 20th was travelling up in the ambulance on Tuesday 16 December. The conversation went thus:
'Dave', said the ambulance driver.
'Yeah, Dave,' said his number two.
'The ambulance has gone in to limp mode. Ring the depot and get an emergency vehicle.'
So Dave-number-two rang for a replacement vehicle.
'Hello Roy. We need a rescue vehicle. We are at Bridgwater,' said Dave-number- two.
'No we aren't,' I piped up, ' We are at Broadwaters near Kidderminster. 17 miles at most from the nursing home.'
One and half hours later the patient was fine, but the ambulance was sick. I found myself in a pub and mum was fast asleep, oblivious to it all. I'd given her a valium at ten o'clock.
If this isn't a black comedy I'm not sure what is but we hope mum will have a happy Christmas - near the majority of her family - and manage to enjoy something of the best of what a nursing home can offer. Meanwhile I will be searching her bookshelves for the 1952 edition of. 'The Happy Prisoner' and I hope the two Daves got rescued in time for a cool Yule.
So now, as I clear mum's house, very gradually, I fancy I will actually read the book whose cover held me in its grasp for such a long time. The irony is my family couldn't find the copy on mum's bookshelves so I had to search Google and Alibris to find the exact edition. Finally I found the Mermaid series - the whole could be a good present for a minor collector.
I have only recently learned Monica Dickens is the grandchild of the more famous Charles. All the more reason to actually look inside the cover and discover her as a writer. It was a timely read in that mum is a 'happy prisoner' in her bed - unable to walk.
So now, close to Christmas, I have a purchased copy of the book and mum has moved, finally to a nursing home in which we hope she will settle.
*
Since I last wrote my blog such a lot has happened. At the beginning of November our senior district nurse filed an incident report against mum's care agency as her health was deteriorating The nurse said all her ailments were avoidable ( with proper care). After Remembrance Sunday mum began to decline and didn't want to eat. All the local medical professionals wanted her in hospital - I was so relieved at this suggestion. I had already told mum - the weekend of 15th November - that if she didn't eat she'd have to go into a ward. So on the evening of Tuesday 18th November she was back in a hospital bed - all her test results came back sound but she was debilitated by not eating enough.
So, as I walked past the Acute Stroke Unit, I thought we were back to where we started on April 20th. Easter Day. Mum had had a massive stroke.
*
Charlotte Ward got mum eating and drinking again so she was ready for discharge quite soon - medically fit for travel. But no-one thought she should be at my brother's home nor my home without 24 hour care. The care package hadn't worked at our house and my brother couldn't contemplate an extra carer in his house 24/7 on top of his full time job as a solicitor. Again, I was quite relieved. I knew mum needed a nursing home but it's a huge step. We found one near the hospital in Bath. But even that took some doing. So few beds and just because we want a place doesn't mean the home will take a patient and all the while we had to convince mum this was a 'convalescent home' . A white lie.
My brother became convinced that Atholl House near his home in Tettenhall was the right place for mum. So, finally, after a lot of planning, and a curious journey north, she has a bed. Mum was drinking tea when I left her there, and I was happy with the hygiene and the atmosphere. Mum's room is large and bright and the day rooms are good for visitors. A cuppa always on hand. I was happy to leave and will be happy to return.The 'happy prisoner' is settling in to her new situation.
The final irony in this circuitous journey from A&E and Acute Stroke Unit on April 20th was travelling up in the ambulance on Tuesday 16 December. The conversation went thus:
'Dave', said the ambulance driver.
'Yeah, Dave,' said his number two.
'The ambulance has gone in to limp mode. Ring the depot and get an emergency vehicle.'
So Dave-number-two rang for a replacement vehicle.
'Hello Roy. We need a rescue vehicle. We are at Bridgwater,' said Dave-number- two.
'No we aren't,' I piped up, ' We are at Broadwaters near Kidderminster. 17 miles at most from the nursing home.'
One and half hours later the patient was fine, but the ambulance was sick. I found myself in a pub and mum was fast asleep, oblivious to it all. I'd given her a valium at ten o'clock.
If this isn't a black comedy I'm not sure what is but we hope mum will have a happy Christmas - near the majority of her family - and manage to enjoy something of the best of what a nursing home can offer. Meanwhile I will be searching her bookshelves for the 1952 edition of. 'The Happy Prisoner' and I hope the two Daves got rescued in time for a cool Yule.
Sunday, 16 November 2014
Testament of Middle Age
I have been reading Vera Brittain for book group and to help with setting the immediate post-war atmosphere in my own novel 'Coming of Age'. Looking after my mother who had a massive stroke on Easter Day resonates, for me, with Vera Brittain's observations, as a battlefield nurse, in 'Testament of Youth'. On page 394 she compares the post-operative soldiers in her WW1 hospital for the battle-wonded with the medical patients - some of whom are delirious.
She writes
'These acute medical cases were a disturbing contrast to the sane, courageous surgicals. Wounded men kept their personalities even after a serious operation, whereas those of the sick became so quickly impaired...'
I liken this to the fragmentation of my mother's personality after her stroke. Thank goodness we are not dealing with dementia but how different would it be if she were in a hospital bed following an op for cancer, for instance?
As it is my mother, as I knew her, wouldn't recognise herself when she wakes up and calls 'tea' as if shouting above the heads of people queueing up at drinks stall. Mum hasn't kept her personality entirely, but nor has she lost it entirely. She is in pain now and is eating poorly. The pain can be alleviated with paracetamol, thankfully, but her immediate concerns overshadow our conversations.
Last Sunday mum watched the Remembrance Sunday service and had a roast dinner with us. The family were down but since then mum seems less than herself again. She isn't 'talking to dad' meaning her own father anymore. Nor is she asking when the wanderer will return. By this she means my own father- he died in 1993.
Her personality has been diminished by this dreadful stroke. She is comfortable in her medical bed - with a super quality air mattress, but never have we been so concerned with bodily functions and interpreting the needs of someone trapped in a weakened body. We persevere and have good friends but I do wonder whether her care package is good enough. Considering the huge costs heaven help us if the NHS folds. Private care, as I see it, is run for profit and is very poor value for money.
She writes
'These acute medical cases were a disturbing contrast to the sane, courageous surgicals. Wounded men kept their personalities even after a serious operation, whereas those of the sick became so quickly impaired...'
I liken this to the fragmentation of my mother's personality after her stroke. Thank goodness we are not dealing with dementia but how different would it be if she were in a hospital bed following an op for cancer, for instance?
As it is my mother, as I knew her, wouldn't recognise herself when she wakes up and calls 'tea' as if shouting above the heads of people queueing up at drinks stall. Mum hasn't kept her personality entirely, but nor has she lost it entirely. She is in pain now and is eating poorly. The pain can be alleviated with paracetamol, thankfully, but her immediate concerns overshadow our conversations.
Last Sunday mum watched the Remembrance Sunday service and had a roast dinner with us. The family were down but since then mum seems less than herself again. She isn't 'talking to dad' meaning her own father anymore. Nor is she asking when the wanderer will return. By this she means my own father- he died in 1993.
Her personality has been diminished by this dreadful stroke. She is comfortable in her medical bed - with a super quality air mattress, but never have we been so concerned with bodily functions and interpreting the needs of someone trapped in a weakened body. We persevere and have good friends but I do wonder whether her care package is good enough. Considering the huge costs heaven help us if the NHS folds. Private care, as I see it, is run for profit and is very poor value for money.
Monday, 22 September 2014
My next novel?
I remember pieces in The Observer telling the rest of us what it was like living with a parent who was dementing. I also remember a radio play revealing the madness brought about by an elder ( now known as Alzheimers) tap, tap, tapping all day long at her daughter's home. This was a revolutionary story thirty five years ago.
Now, I wonder, do I keep a diary and produce a work - a novella? - relating to the care system from my point of view - the daughter of ... We have had a very difficult few days. We thought the Care Company's package - agreed in June with site visit, costs and timings - was agreed. Then, ten days before mum was due to live with us temporarily for two months - respite for my brother - I 'found out' the company had no staff. We have rung about thirty five nursing agencies, care services, NHS and social services since Thursday. We have contacted friends and friends of friends. We have a quasi package ready for Monday ... we think .
Finally my family will rally round on Sunday and help out - it was either that or mum would have had to have gone in a care home in Bath - precisely what we have been trying to avoid.
I would like to hear from anyone who has experience of the care system for an elder - more specifically a stroke patient - especially in the Bath area. Apparently certain areas in the UK are under a terrific strain carer - wise. Bath is one of those areas, it seems.
Now, I wonder, do I keep a diary and produce a work - a novella? - relating to the care system from my point of view - the daughter of ... We have had a very difficult few days. We thought the Care Company's package - agreed in June with site visit, costs and timings - was agreed. Then, ten days before mum was due to live with us temporarily for two months - respite for my brother - I 'found out' the company had no staff. We have rung about thirty five nursing agencies, care services, NHS and social services since Thursday. We have contacted friends and friends of friends. We have a quasi package ready for Monday ... we think .
Finally my family will rally round on Sunday and help out - it was either that or mum would have had to have gone in a care home in Bath - precisely what we have been trying to avoid.
I would like to hear from anyone who has experience of the care system for an elder - more specifically a stroke patient - especially in the Bath area. Apparently certain areas in the UK are under a terrific strain carer - wise. Bath is one of those areas, it seems.
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