It’s a sad old time

I think I left you in this position …

We are now into week three of full time living with Mary. She came out of hospital on 27 June and we put in place a rotation of care, which included us two days a week. A further decline and a medicinal pump drive (which is a precursor to end of life) led to us moving here. We came here both committed and determined to see this through. The carers, Amanda and Luisa – who are both fab – continue to support the process. And Amanda has stepped up and filled all sorts of gaps. She has been magnificent for Mary. As a result, she has been brilliant for us. It has been and is now a team effort. That does make it easier.

But it’s not emotionally straightforward, even as an ex-military bloke. Being with somebody you know incredibly well (and love), as they obviously decline, is tough even when you have reconciled the outcome. It is clearly no fun for Mary. She is bedridden, now pretty much non verbal and has no interest in any particular stimulation. [For the very few of you who know Mary, I’m sorry if this is in any way distressing, but I do want to tell the story.] We don’t really see the decline, but others who see her less regularly, point it out.

could be any remote place, but it’s Surrey

The lack of a known endpoint, for me, is now a struggle. That sounds a little callous, but it is what it is. And I know C feels it too. How long are we committed for (noting that we are responsible for everything when Mary leaves us, which is going to take some time and effort)? How long do these things take? When we ask the experts (daily visit by the district nurse, for example), they shrug their shoulders. Nobody knows. 

In this period of stasis, we can’t get any of our own stuff done. Not really. Our life is four hours away and, even though we aim to pop home tomorrow to do some admin and see our Jen – who has had another minor operation and needs a cuddle – we can’t afford to miss a night because that’s, inevitably, when things happen. 

But … we also know we’re doing a good thing. And without us Mary would be in a home; it’s as simple as that. And that is the last thing she would have wanted. She is peaceful here. She has someone with her nearly all the time (Amanda and Luisa sleep in a recliner in the same room) and she can see her garden, which is magnificent. Visitors come here because they know where it is and they know it will be the least distressing as it can be (and they will be offered a cuppa!). And those travelling from afar get a bed. 

post run, in my caring position

In a home she would see some people, but nowhere near as many. And the staff would be good, but would not spend the time with her – she would be on her own for big chunks of time. 

So get on with it Roland! Ok then.

Finally I have had a couple of remote sessions with an AI expert for book 9 (And the Machines Came Too.) I hope to be able to start writing on 1 September. We have continued to run every second day, there are a couple of fab cafes within walking distance which give us both a break when we can, and we are making a conscious effort to walk in the afternoons when we are not the lead with Mary. I’ve forgotten how fab some pieces of Surrey are.

All-in-all then, we’re OK. When Mary does go we will have no ‘older person responsibilities’ left, and can head off into the sunset without fear that we’re abandoning someone. That’s going to be a fabulous feeling.

Till next time … stay safe.