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Today was a kind of nothing day in that nothing singularly spectacular happened, although also everything happened. I'm feeling the pressure today and have a HUGE headache. I missed my Rock Choir session and went to bed at 8pm. It's now 3am. I'm writing this to help me process things, to refer back to when (hopefully) life improves and because writing helps. On the surface, I'm coping well, trying to smile and wave (penguins - Madagascar). I worry if I stop, everything will implode. For tea I had a large bag of Doritos (Chilli), a box of Maltesers and a slice of toast with Bovril. I don't care!
Dad's becoming more and more frail, more and more deaf, more and more unable to see due to cataracts and more and more bloody obnoxious. He rang a few nights ago saying he needed eggs. In an attempt to avoid him asking me to take him shopping, because that in itself is mind-blowingly traumatic, I got the eggs and took them over after work. It was my intention to take them in and leave. If I don't get home for 5.30, my tea, cooked by my partner, is a dried congealed mess with the culinary appeal of a lukewarm cowpat. My partner cooks for 5.30 as he's home all day and is diabetic so has to eat at specific times. He goes to bed at 8.30 as he is up at 3am.
Every time the hospital, doctor, social worker, district nurse, bank, chemist or ANYONE wants my dad, they call me. No matter whether I'm at work or driving, shopping or on the loo, I get the call saying they've tried to call him but got no reply and expecting me to jump to it. That's because he can no longer hear the phone - if he could, he wouldn't be able to hear the person on the other end anyway. I get MANY calls for him.
He's currently waiting to have his cataracts done, an endoscopy and possibly, depending on what they find there, a second bigger and longer stent fitted. He had to go to have a blood test today and Ant said he'd go too. They both went ON THE BUS about 2 miles and when they got off the bus it was pouring with rain and they had to walk a good 10-15 minutes up a hill to their house. They were both soaked through and so dad went to bed for the rest of the evening. I felt bad about them going on the bus but I was working. I have a job 9-5 three days a week, but of course hospital appointments and doctors appointments are when they are. Sod's law says this will usually be on a day I work. Yes they could get a taxi but they don't know how to book one, as neither has a mobile phone and are too tight to pay for one anyway. They both have a free bus pass.
So yesterday I took the eggs round after work at 5, and then wanted to leave, however Ant became very panicky that he'd get shouted at because he hadn't woken dad when I was there, so I went up to dad's room myself. The first three times I tried, dad said 'go away and wake me at 6.30.' Finally he realised it was me and woke up. Ant had already told me they'd tried to cut the grass because it's now a foot high and has never been allowed to get this long before. They couldn't cut the grass because they couldn't open the garage doors to get the lawnmower out. They couldn't open the doors because the car was in the way. The car is in the way because it's been there since September when dad allowed the tax then insurance and finally the MOT to run out. The silver green Ford Focus now has a lovely green furry coat of moss. Anyway, they couldn't move the car (which is on a backwards slope) because the battery was dead.
Dad had to tell me all this too as he has to micro-manage everything, me and Ant included. He still sees us as 4 year olds. He yabbered on about all the above and that he had run a cable to the car to try to charge the battery. The cable was still outside and the rain was hammering down.
'Why didn't you just let the handbrake off,' I asked, 'and let it roll backwards?'
Dad looked at me like I was a stupid child and shouted over me in monosyllables 'Be-cause the key is not a man-u-al key - it's mech-an-i-cal and won't work with-out the batt-er-y!' Now, I'm no mechanic but every car I've ever had allows you to use the key to open the door even if the battery's flat. I had no energy left to argue any more. He asked if I could get my partner and son to take a look.
I changed the subject. Dad your new stent appointment is a week Friday at 1.30. I'll take you there...'
he interrupted 'What? When? Why wasn't I told? Nobody told me that! What's going on? I haven't been told about that. What's happening?'
'They phoned me today. That's what I'm here to tell you!'
He looked at me in a moment's silence while he caught up. 'But why didn't you tell me? Nobody's told me about this. How am I meant to know if nobody tells me? I haven't had a letter. Anyway, I thought it was Friday.'
'No dad, Friday is for your cataract pre-op!'
'But you just said it was the stent. Make up your mind.'
'Dad. The stent is a week Friday, the cataract pre-op is this Friday.'
'But that's the same thing!'
After twenty minutes or so. I hoped he'd understood. He was silent for a short while, then his long bony arms appeared from under the duvet. He was wearing his old gardening jumper. His arms did a kind of Tommy Cooper thing to each syllable, determined to be in control 'Right! if the appointment is 1.30 then you need to be here to pick me up at about 12.15...'
Sick of his trying to micro-manage my time off needlessly, I turned to Ant and said we'd talk the day before to organise it all.
'Are you listening?' he snapped.
I told him I'd have to go, we'd sort it out nearer the time and told him to go back to sleep. I turned to leave and he muttered something about me never staying long enough for him to get any sense out of me. I'd been there an hour already, during which time, he'd told me to leave him sleep, snapped and shouted at me, told what to do, shouted at me, treated me as if I was an imbecile, tried to micro manage me picking him up for the next hospital appointment and generally been an obnoxious pig.
As I got into my car, shaking with frustration, a neighbour came up and asked how he was. I know she was being kind and clearly she didn't know him very well. I can't remember what I said to her because then she asked how I was and I lost it (again). One big snotty mess (again).
Knowing I would have missed my tea (yet again), I drove to the local shops on my way home and parallel parked Freddie next to a huge Range Rover type thing. As I grabbed my bag to get out, I saw the passenger of the Range Rover, trying to squeeze between my car and hers to get in. The spaces were narrow, and her car was wide, so she was having a bit of bother. Her husband started moving the Range Rover forward so she would have more space. As she passed my door, I heard her say 'Crappy parking by the way.' Wrong time, wrong place, wrong person lady.
Before I knew it the words 'Fuck off, Bitch.' had escaped from my mouth, loudly and clearly. Furthermore, I was more than ready to get out and give her more words of advice, physically even, should the need arise.
She, sensibly, took one look at me, and sensing that staying there wouldn't be her best option, gave me a half hearted look somewhere between shock, anger, fear and sympathy, got in the car and left.
For my part, I wasn't proud of myself. This isn't my usual form of greeting when encountering strangers in the street. Previously I'd have done virtually anything to avoid confrontation. Probably in a similar situation I'd have bent down to pick an invisible something from the car floor and locked the door. However, that was before and this was now. Good job she left. I got out of my car and realised my parking was a little out of line, although that wasn't the point. Instead of being ashamed, I was proud of myself for being assertive. I think though, that this is an example of me being a woman on the edge. I only hope my mad axe murderer tendencies don't surface and get me into serious trouble. Hide the axes please.
During the past 2 weeks I have;
1) Taken dad to have his flu jab.
2) Taken dad shopping (3 hours of hell) Lidl and Morrisons
3) received 23 e-mails from Ant saying how unhappy he is and how upset he is at being bullied.
4) Taken a plastic petrol can full of petrol for his lawn mower to dad. £13.11
5) Taken eggs to him
6) Arranged for his drains to be repaired.
7) Arranged for a rail to be fitted at the top of his stairs
8) sorted out his repeat prescriptions and driven to his GP to sort them
9) had a quote for replacement windows as his are misted and letting in ants
10) Bought him some tablet sorting pill containers he's asked for, for daily use and taken them round (still in the packet 3 weeks later).
11) Cut his hedge after work
12) Arranged for rails to be put outside his house
13) met with his social worker at his house and listened while he told her he didn't need any help
14) Met with Ant's social worker ... ditto
15) Met with Ant's support worker.
16) Taken dad to have his covid jab
17) Taken Dad to his hospice appointments
18) Organised his boiler service
19) Paid all his bills (using POA) - I have to call his bank and go through MANY layers of security each time while listening to the bank answer machine on repeat telling me I can do it all online (I can't).
20) Spent MANY mind-blowingly frustrating evenings taking phone calls from dad who calls to tell me things I've already sorted and trying to micro-manage me and my time whilst he can't hear me and Ant shouts at him from the same room via the phone 3 feet away and thus also straight into my own ear to translate (in some fashion) what I need him to know.
Meanwhile my daughter has been in hospital having a major jaw re-alignment operation and is currently at home recovering but needing me. I have a job and a family of my own.
I spoke to another neighbour of dad's last week who I have known since I lived there in 1992, lovely man. Salt of the earth type etc. He said he thought I may as well live there as it appeared I was there more than I must have been at my own house. I said not effing likely and he agreed. I said I wouldn't mind if it had been an ordinary house where I could sit and have a nice cup of tea with the lovely father I wished I'd had and perhaps moved in for a while and looked after him while reminiscing about the good old days... 'But your dad's a TOSSER.' he said.
Fair point! Glad that one's been clarified.
Despite that, this Friday, I have to collect dad from his house at 8.30 to take him to the hospital for 9.15, then drive to work where I am supposed to start at 9. Then collect him again when the hospital call to tell me he's ready. - this during a working day.
Tuesday I have to take him to his hospice appointment.
The following Friday I have to take him to a different hospital a good 10 miles away, again on a work day, take him to the ward, and go back to work. He stays overnight and I go to collect him the next day. (a 30 mile round trip for me).
The following Thursday is his cataract operation, providing the pre-op went to plan. Again I have to take him and bring him back.
He rang me today to ask when his windows are to be done. I have called the window chap a week or so ago and asked for a rough quote based on my own measurements. If that was OK I would have the survey done and the proper measurements taken. We did this and I had to make about six phone calls to make sure he was in and awake when the window people came. They came and sent the quote. I then had to go round there (yet again) to check he was happy and could see the quote and explained it to him. He wanted the opening on the top window to be lower so he could reach it - by 4 inches he said. A lot more phone calls and emails and he says he wants to see a sample of the window (like the double glazing salesmen used to carry around in the 80s). He wants to see this because despite me telling him they are recommended by Which magazine and have all the trade stamps and a friend of mine works there, he still wants to see for himself. I asked why he didn't ask the window people when they were there measuring. He said they came and went so quick he didn't have time.
My partner, our son and I went to see dad's car the day after. I got the key, we opened the car door with the key, released the brake, moved the car and I went to tell dad. He stareted to tell me the whole lawnmower tale - again.
'We've moved the car. The garage is open!' I said.
Dad made a face like I'd just thrown water in his face, making it clear he wasn't happy I had dared to speak before acknowledging his words. 'You can't open the door because the battery...'
'Dad! The car is moved and the garage is open!' I said loudly and clearly.
'Listen will you girl!' he said, 'You need to get another battery to be able to run a cable to the car in order to get...'
'DAD! THE CAR IS MOVED ALREADY! We moved it with the key - we didn't need to start it. I said that yesterday.'
There was a silence. He finally understood. In an attempt to save face he said 'Well I couldn't get the door open.'
My son appeared and said, in a normal voice. 'We opened the door with the key and let the handbrake off. You didn't need to start the engine.'
As I stood there, they both had a conversation man to man. Dad heard every single bloody word. I had to walk away.
Within 10 minutes, my son had persuaded my dad to sell him his clapped out Focus for £75. My son is a mechanic and will get it to MOT standard and sell it. Otherwise the car would only be good for scrap as it has no MOT or Tax.
Today, when everything got too much, I asked my partner of 28 years if he would help take my dad to some appointments to take the pressure off me.
'No' he said.
'Why,' I asked - knowing the answer of course but wanting to hear it.
'Because I hate the man and I don't want to!'
Does anyone else ever want to just walk away and go live in a mountain shack by themselves forever?
Answers/comments welcome.
I need a break - and a pint of alcohol - and a box of Galaxy chocolate and some sleep.
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