Pass me another beer
Well, that’s been a week. To be accurate it’s been a bit of a couple of months. Italy was tough as we all had covid, then we had a difficult time with a close family member, C’s mental health hasn’t been great … and now 10 days with mum. Interestingly she was more malleable when she was poorly. Since then it’s been v problematic, and that’s an understatement.
We got her through her UTI. It was messy and tiring but, in the end, worth all the effort. By Monday she was weak, but she was making complete sense. And we managed to get her into a routine, but it was clear that she wasn’t capable of looking after herself in the way that she had before. It’s a combination of both mental fragility combined with physical weakness. On occasion she shows peaks of strength in both of those departments, but most of the time she sleeps. So …
We looked at three homes. The one she wanted to go to is in the village. It has only a reasonable reputation but she was incapable of rationalising that. She wanted to go there because it’s ‘in the village’ and people could visit her (they were all 5 minutes drive away, but she couldn’t get that). C and I looked at the furthest and discounted it straight away (I’ll go through numbers in a minute in case you’re interested … it’s all important stuff). We did the village one and neither of us were overly enamoured. In the end we took mum to two: a swanky, 60-bed place in its own fabulous grounds where the fee for her (minimal nursing) was £1075 per week, with no additional charges; and the village one (£870 a week) – 19 bed, and a bit threadbare, with a few more dementia patients than I would have liked. (Mum has dementia, by the way, but it’s v early days and she can be quite lucid.)
Mum turned down the swanky one on the spot. Indeed she didn’t want to go there in the first place. Once there she was rude and difficult, but the manager handled her well. From my perspective it was lovely – more smart country house hotel than residential home. But mum wasn’t convinced – at all. I was expecting the same reaction at the village one, but mum took to it. So much so that without much prodding she decided to stay. Simple as that.
Inevitably it wasn’t as simple as that. The following day I was the worst son in the world. And more. I don’t want to share the details, but after nurse-maiding her through her short illness and everything else we’ve been through, it has been a struggle. In the end, on the second day, I couldn’t take any more. So I put in train Plan B, which was care in the home. I told mum that we would get her assessed this Monday and have care in place on Wednesday. We would leave the same day (our nerves not up to staying … and with care in place she would be safe).
Before I finish the saga, let’s talk money. As far as I get it you have to pay for any care until you have no more than £23,250 in savings. It doesn’t matter what the care is – and you should apply for attendance allowance and mum has that – but the council will not get involved until you’re down to that figure. In terms of owning a house, this assumes you haven’t got empty property. If your house is lying dormant the council will expect you to sell it. But if you have family members living in it, or have it rented, then they don’t count it.
The council guy told me that when mum’s savings got to £30k to give him a call and then the council would do a care assessment and then talk cash for when the total reached £23,250. I understand that if mum’s in a home they will pay for most of it and ask for a contribution, depending on her income. In short, therefore, your house and £23k is safe, if you engage with the council. If I have this wrong, please let me know.
Anyhow, I was now working on decent care in the home (we were looking at around £600 a week and rising over time with her destined for a care home at some point). C and I were frantically working out how to pull this off. The problem is mum still needs food; she still needs to pay her electricity; she has a gardener and cleaners … and you can keep adding up the figures. How do you organise that? Plus, of course, we wouldn’t be able to rent out the house, something we would do if she were in a home to supplement mum’s income. It was all doing our head in a bit. [I’m coming to a punchline, but I would like to add that throughout Henry has been a joy.]
Anyhow, after I had visited her this morning where the Plan B hadn’t changed, mum phoned me. ‘You’re not want to hear this’, she said. Of bugger, what now? ‘I’ve decided to stay in the home. It’s the best place for me. I’m safe here and have all my needs met.’ (I’ve paraphrased a longish conversation.)
Phew. And, although she has wobbled (she just been on the phone threatening to come out, not that she can), the plan for her to stay is in place. She will stay at the home she wanted to move into pretty much indefinitely. We will make it work. We have to.
That’s the short story. The longer story is more painful and with plenty of tears. But we’re there. We will sort out mum this week and head home by the weekend. We might be on a flight to Saudi a week on Friday. I hate to sound callous, but mum has reached that stage of her life. The living must come before the v old, I’m afraid. She’s safe, secure and all her needs are provided for.
In between times we have taken Henry to the seaside three times. Every time he has loved it. He has been a saviour. When I have been close to tears he has made me laugh. C too. He loves her. He won’t sleep unless he’s grabbing onto her hair. We have been v lucky to have him in our midst at this tortuous time. Well done him.
Stay safe everyone.
