Have you ever had a strange desire to commit murder, an overwhelming urge to punch someone, a totally inappropriately timed, spontaneous burst of maniacal laughter? A black sense of humour that can only be appreciated by someone that has shared a similar journey, tears that come unbidden while you are negotiating the poxy traffic on the Auckland motorway after a 10 hour day of utter crap or when you are being so in control organising "stuff", tears after realising you have just banged your head on the same wall as usual with no result knowing full well you will be doing the same tomorrow. The inability to form words that link together coherently when you are trying to show how well you are coping, not being able to dissolve completely for fear of never gathering yourself back, the fear you will not be there. The guilt. The shifting sands of paperwork that need to be done, just when you think enough trees have been sacrificed you discover a whole new pile of paper to put ink on. The stress of misplacing the EPOA we signed the relief when you find it. Yes these are interesting times indeed
I am in the process of assisting my Mother into residential care. I use the term "assisting" as a bit of a salve for my bullying, and tough loving attitude in recent times with her, there is nothing worse than making your Mother cry, unless it is refusing to help her when she calls for help, then you cry. She is currently in Thames hospital, has been there for the past 12 days. This is her 5th admission in 3 months, and comes after she had been at home for 6 days. Those 6 days against the advice of her doctors, the social worker, and expressly against the wishes of her son and grand daughter, and the desire of her daughter, who is her primary remote support person.
An interesting comment she made the other day about sums up what it might be like. “You know I used to worry about being a burden to you, now I don’t care”. I love her to bits but so help me, she pushes her luck
What a real eye opener this process has been, and continues to be. The darkest humour comes from standing in your living room, with piles of clothes all over the place and a little stack of labels. Your fingers are crossed that your iron is hot enough, when you pick up the first pair of knickers and iron in a name label. The biggest frustration comes from the way the wheels turn, oh so friggen slowly. The calls from one service wanting to know what is happening and not knowing, the calls to the service that should know and learning nothing useful. Day in, day out. Attempting to explain to your unwell Mother what is happening…
The funniest things can save you from utter despair though, buying a single chair for her, the room she is having at the rest home can’t fit any of the sitting furniture she has at home. She is not robust, last weight recorded was 29 kgs, so I opt for an electric lazyboy, she simply could not manage a lever operated one, it tilts up to assist the user to stand up. The young fella in the shop called it a Granny chucker
Originally Posted by Gubb
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I didn't think!!! I experimented!!!
I used to work in a rest home and I feel for you - I know how bad family members feel and how much stress the family/carers are under.
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