It’s strange. The build up to Mum’s “internment” has been more dramatic than the actual event.
To recall, she fell in December, banging her head and revealing to the doctors that her heart and diabetes are both in need of attention.
Increasing a medication sorts her arrhythmia out (I think it’s a beta blocker).
Her diabetes is a bit more curious.
She’s reliant on injections now – despite the carers saying type twos never become type ones.
Anyhoo, medically she’s properly drugged up now.
Being a “bed blocker” they moved her to the most awful care home over Christmas for an assessment of her social needs.
After some dithering she was assessed as having a high level of need and her path toward a residential home was set.
We had visited a few and found a decent one nearby which is where she is now.
Financial assessments have to be done after which all but a little of her income will go toward her “board”.
We pay a little and provide furniture for her room.
Everything is labelled including ornaments as they tend to go walkies with a few of the residents.
The two long corridors are at right angles and the top end is secured with a coded door.
Her room is large enough with a cupboard/wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bed side table. It’s en suite too.
There’s a dining room, mostly kept locked and a large sitting room where various activities take place.
The foot lady comes on Fridays and the hair lady comes on Mondays.
Laundry is free, though she’s still washing out two scabby pairs of knickers leaving a drawer full unused, and mail is discreetly held by staff for relatives.
Do I still feel uncomfortable? Well yes I do. Head says I’m making her safe, heart says I’m betraying her. Tho’ I’m not.
Gill has all but cleared the house where nothing of any real value was found.
The charity shops have done well out of it and I’ve found a treasure of old photos, certificates etc all tucked into books and hidden in sewing boxes.
Her memory is about three minutes long and now, after the event, a local carer has told Gill that Mum often waited for the mail man (postie) on the street in her nightie. Nice to know.
Official wind ups of utilities etc has started tho we haven’t told her landlord, the local council, yet. They are a bit sharp about clearing the house when you do tell them.
The good news is that head v heart battle is being won by the noggin as my sleep patterns return to normal.
My brothers will be told when everything is done to avoid interference. “One dog, one bone” Dad used to say.
The oddest thing is that clearing her house feels like dealing with a death but without the funeral.
Glad it’s all but sorted.
Trust you’re well.