Just a few photos tonight from the boat. I have not been in great spirits today, and I’m going to have an early night and hope that dos the trick. Michèle thinks the period we are now is putting us all under great strain, with lockdown easing but not over, the prospect of an imminent recession of biblical proportions, a future which seems precarious. She’s right I think. Lockdown is ending not with a bang but a whimper and the messages are very confused. I can hope that it’s this strain which is making my bossy neighbour behave as she does, it is probably what is amplifying my anxieties in response; feeling trapped, not sure in which direction we are headed. I shall be glad to get back to the boat next week to take delivery of my repaired seating cushion and find a balm in nature.
MasterB will be able to renew his acquaintance with the ducks.
Who’s that on the gunwale?
Listening to ducks above his head
I’ll be glad when the week ends.I didn’t anticipate that work would be easy, but it has been more of a strain than I thought. Just getting there each morning has seemed a major achievement. This morning two occasional workers came in. Unknowing of my situation, one of them began to talk about how dental problems could lead to dementia. They both laughed and expressed horror. I sat mute and tried not to cry. It felt like they were being disrespectful of Mother. They weren’t, but that’s how it felt. I was reminded of Maria’s comment about wearing black to remind others that you might not be quite normal, maybe a bit touchy, a bit vacant. I wanted an armband.
Correction: I want an armband. Continue reading
Oh the relief.
For the last few days I have had one foot metaphorically in Suffolk. I’ve been ready to pack my bags, scoop up Not Cat and head East. Mother has had a chest infection that was not responding to antibiotics. We had a bit of a wrangle with the home.
Aunt was very concerned when she visited. Mother was off colour, off her food and wheezing. No one seemed to feel a doctor’s visit was necessary. Aunt disagreed. The doctor was called. Aunt called me. I called the home and asked them to ask the doctor to call me when s/he visited.
I stayed home, sorting and shredding old papers in Mother’s files. Finally the ‘phone rang. Not the doctor; the senior nurse at the home who told me the doctor had thought her ‘more than capable of passing on a message’.
Not the point. If we didn’t think the staff capable, Mother wouldn’t be there. I still wanted to speak to the doctor. Fortunately, that was achieved. It was the out of hours service who did not know of the protocols we had agreed with the surgery back in March. She gave me some good advice, said my mother was on antibiotics and expected to respond in forty-eight hours.
I sent an email to the home expressing my full confidence in the staff and explaining I still needed to speak to her doctor myself. Continue reading