My Story

I've no doubt that my story will have a familiar ring to many of you. Both my elderly parents needed nursing home or hospice care.

I was 20 years old when my mother died at the fairly young age of 51. She had fought a courageous battle against ovarian cancer for 2 years. When she was first diagnosed the doctors gave her just 6 months but she threw herself into every cure that she could think of.  From trying a macrobiotic diet to juicing raw food including  one combination that's difficult to forget - raw, juiced liver with strawberries.  That mix alone would be enough to put most people off, but not her. 

She returned to her faith and went regularly to church, all to no avail. I even made buckwheat dough that I used to roll out and put on her stomach where upon the dough drew out the excess water that was filling her stomach quicker and quicker as the weeks went on.  She also used to go to the hospital and have her stomach drained of the foul pus that was steadily poisoning her body, but as the hospital visits got closer and closer the doctors suggested that she went to a hospice and although she didn't like the idea, she went. I'm glad to say that in spite of her misgivings, the hospice proved to be the very best thing that she could have done. 

The staff there were fantastic, it was a place of peace and quiet, not at all like a hospital but more like a hotel where my mother and the other residents could live out their lives in relative comfort.  In fact, she felt so rested there that she was strong enough to come home after 6 months to celebrate what would be her last birthday.  She stayed home for a couple of weeks and then returned to the hospice for a further 6 months before deciding that she wanted to be at home to die. 

After she passed that left just me and my father who was considerably older than my mother, in fact, 18 years older, and when she died he just went to pieces.  A heavy smoker who also liked the odd drink (well, every day, starting with a couple of small ones at lunchtime followed by 2 or 3 more in the evening) he was now 70, had emphasema, caused by the smoking, brittle bones caused by the steroids which were supposed to help the emphasema, coupled with a gentle decline into the realms of dementia.  We lived in a flat above the shop which had 44 stairs, a landing halfway up provided room for a chair and an oxygen tank so that he could gain enough breath for the last leg of the stairs.

Of course, at that young age I had my own life to lead but I did my best to look after him.  I didn't go out nearly as much as I would have liked for fear of what I would find on my return.  One time I'd gone out and on returning around 10pm found him sitting in a chair with blood running down his arm.  I recall asking him what has happened but he couldn't remember.  The broken electric socket and overturned ashtray stand told a different story, he'd got up, had a dizzy spell and fallen, knocking over the stand and crashing into the electric socket on the way down. We bought an old fashioned chamber pot or 'po' as they were called and installed it under his bed so that he no longer had to make his way in the dark to the loo.  I'm ashamed to say I hated emptying that thing but there was no way to avoid it.

Another time, in the middle of the night, I suddenly woke up without knowing why, but I knew there was something wrong.  I could hear a strange noise coming from his bedroom and although I was really scared at what I might find I knew that I had to go in and see what had happened.  I'll never forget the look on dad's face, his eyes were all cloudy and staring, he didn't know who I was and I couldn't get him to wake up properly.  He was having what was to become one of many future strokes.  I'd already called the ambulance which seemed to take an age to get to the house, in reality it was probably only minutes before the paramedics came and he was soon on his way to hospital.  

I called the doctor and he came round (in those days it wasn't difficult to get a home visit).  He suggested putting dad in the hospital for a couple of days so that not only could I have some respite but also so that dad could be looked after 24/7.  This sort of thing began to happen with increasing regularity.  The one good thing was that inspite of his protestations about going into the hospital he was always much more cheerful and relaxed after he'd been in.  I knew that deep down he realised that he needed more round the clock care that I was able to provide and he was really just 'stamping his foot'.  This was a man who'd always got his own way during his life and I know that it must have been very difficult for him to relinquish that freedom.

Clearly I had some serious thinking to do

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