At nine o’clock last night, I was sitting in semi-darkness in Mother’s living room, grateful for the sound of a busy bell as Not Cat cantered briefly back through the door for a rest in his explorations. Mother came home at four yesterday afternoon.
On Monday, when I called the ward, I was told transport had been booked for the morning and to expect her between nine and midday. So I drove up in the evening, calling the AA out after the first third of the journey when the car behaved oddly.
At half past twelve yesterday, wondering if I should be putting lunch on, I called the ward again to find out what time Mother had left.
She was still there.
Transport, I was told, had been booked for the afternoon and she could be home anytime between one thirty and nine in the evening. So I could have gone to get petrol in the morning after all. And slept a little later. Or even driven up yesterday morning and enjoyed Monday night in my own bed.
I know the hospital staff are stretched, but they don’t have a monopoly on being busy and having to juggle demands. Sometimes I find them quite cavalier in their attitudes.
Anyway, the important thing is Mother is home.
She looks frail and is certainly disorientated. But she recognised her flat, and the moment the ambulance crew had left, up she got to go to the loo. I went with her, guessing correctly she’d be wearing some form of incontinence pad that she would first struggle with and then discard.
While she was sitting on the loo, I helped her out of her trousers and into a fresh Tena pant. For some reason I started counting. Maybe it’s the influence of Janh’s counting backwards from two hundred cycling up hills. I don’t know that would work for me. Cycling up hills is not something I’m planning to do anytime in the next century. So one two, buckle my shoe, I said. Three four knock at the door. Mother joined in. I counted, she completed the rhyme. The only one she got stuck on was nineteen twenty. Continue reading