Paradise Lost
Yesterday, the Communist was struggling to remember the name of the nursing home where he stayed earlier this year.
It was called Harrogate Lodge, but he couldn't remember the name, only the vague sound of the words.
"You know," he said, with a smile, knowing it was quite a good joke, "Paradise Lost."
Today, at the Care Planning Meeting, a little bombshell was dropped very early on. Unbeknown to the Communist, he does need care at night-time: they turn him in his sleep to prevent bedsores, and, each time, it takes two nurses to do it.
I swiftly took in the meaning of this single piece of information. It means that, unless he gets a lot more mobile than they're currently expecting, it means that he can never come home. They can provide people to come in, in twos, up to four times a day: but not at night. The cost of a private night sitter is more than sixty pounds a night, and it would need two.
But they're about to discharge him from hospital, into the first nursing-home bed that becomes available, and then we'll have to find him a good nursing home that's near his house. Then, with luck, he can be brought home to visit sometimes, in a taxi that will take a wheelchair with him already in it, because the only way of getting him from the bed to the wheelchair is with a hoist, so you can't get him into an ordinary chair.
All this was explained and agreed and I know he understood it: but then, right at the last minute, he determinedly had one last try.
"When will I be able to go home for good?"
Everyone said a lot of guff about taking one day at a time and seeing how it goes: they didn't lie, but they didn't tell the truth.
I thought it, though.
"Never, Dad. You won't be going home."
Paradise Lost.
It was called Harrogate Lodge, but he couldn't remember the name, only the vague sound of the words.
"You know," he said, with a smile, knowing it was quite a good joke, "Paradise Lost."
Today, at the Care Planning Meeting, a little bombshell was dropped very early on. Unbeknown to the Communist, he does need care at night-time: they turn him in his sleep to prevent bedsores, and, each time, it takes two nurses to do it.
I swiftly took in the meaning of this single piece of information. It means that, unless he gets a lot more mobile than they're currently expecting, it means that he can never come home. They can provide people to come in, in twos, up to four times a day: but not at night. The cost of a private night sitter is more than sixty pounds a night, and it would need two.
But they're about to discharge him from hospital, into the first nursing-home bed that becomes available, and then we'll have to find him a good nursing home that's near his house. Then, with luck, he can be brought home to visit sometimes, in a taxi that will take a wheelchair with him already in it, because the only way of getting him from the bed to the wheelchair is with a hoist, so you can't get him into an ordinary chair.
All this was explained and agreed and I know he understood it: but then, right at the last minute, he determinedly had one last try.
"When will I be able to go home for good?"
Everyone said a lot of guff about taking one day at a time and seeing how it goes: they didn't lie, but they didn't tell the truth.
I thought it, though.
"Never, Dad. You won't be going home."
Paradise Lost.
posted by Daphne at 12:24 am
3 Comments:
Oh god Daphne, that sounds so hard. I really admire how you are facing it all head-on - it sounds like he is a very strong man, and that he understands the reality but maybe just wants to be told otherwise... Bug hugs all round, to all of you. xx A.
I don't know what to say and that's so lame. But I offer a hug from afar and I wish you continued strength, your love for your father shines through your words.
x
Many thanks to both of you - much appreciated.
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