Crappy New Year

This post is brought to you in partnership with Arniston Bay, a lovely crisp white, a sauvignon blanc, I think, but then again I don't really care because it tastes damn good, especially after chugging the first glass Amy Winehouse-stylee. I think I'm ready for my third.

It's nearly the 3rd of January and I still haven't had my Christmas dinner. I was so poorly with a cold over Christmas that I couldn't eat anything never mind cook it. Capt Scarlet got the cold soon after I did and he didn't want anything either. We decided to have our lovely leg of pork for New Year's Day instead (no turkey for us, we do things different at Casa di Calamity of course).

So, New Year's Eve rolls around CJ and Capt S are feeling a bit better and the pork is nicely defrosting in the fridge. CJ is having her dialysis, Capt S is moseying around town trying to avoid the mayhem at the Next sale when he gets a call from my Dad. He's feeling really ill, could we pop round as he thinks he needs some help.

We arrive to find that he can barely breathe and has chest pains. He's called the doctor and arranged for a house call but the doctor calls back to say that he might not be able to come. Excuse me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I call the surgery and they tell me that another doctor will come instead but they can't tell me when, he's already on his rounds. Dad's feeling really bad so I dial 999 and an ambulance is soon on its way.

According to the Number 27 Bus Principle (you know, you don't see one for hours and then 5 arrive at once) the doctor arrives at the same time as the ambulance and I thought we were going to have Gladstone bags at dawn on the drive but they eventually cooperated and pronounced that Dad had pneumonia and possibly a heart attack and whisked him off to hospital.

I should add at this point that my 73-year old Dad is my dotty, doddery, sweet-but-with-a-mercurial-temper, frail 76-year old Mum's carer. She can't be left alone for more than a couple of hours at a time, it's New Year's Eve and no-one in the medical/caring profession actually gives a shit about our predicament. Nope too many parties going on tonight and tomorrow's a bank holiday.

I've been living with her since New Year's Eve, only a matter of 3 days but it feels like a lifetime. She's missing Dad terribly and every morning I have to explain where he is and deal with the floods of tears that follow as she's convinced he's not coming home again. Only someone with a parent with dementia can really relate to how bad things have been. If I was able to care for her in my own home it would be one thing but I'm living out of a carrier bag (all the suitcases are in the loft). I managed to call the Social Services today to see if we can get some respite care for Mum while Dad's in hospital. They're supposedly treating us as an emergency referral ... they'll call back in a couple of days.

I've never stayed at my parent's house before, they moved out of my childhood home about about 17 years ago to downsize to a pokey little bungalow. I always dreaded the thought of staying because they live on the edge of some woodland and their 8 legged visitors should be seen to be believed - those 'little' buggers look like they're made out of Twiglets and you can hear them clicking when they walk across the carpet. I am mortally afraid of spiders so I can tell it's taken some cojones to sleep there.

To make matters worse my parents sleep in separate rooms due to Mum's illness, and my Dad's room is never heated and it is heaving with damp and mildew. It's absolutely awful and I suspect a large contributor to his many chest infections. I scrubbed it from top to bottom today, but it's only one room in a damp house, granted the worst, but there is far more scrubbing to be done.

I get to spend the night in my own bed tonight because Captain Scarlet is on watch - I have to be up early to head out to dialysis in the morning. Poor guy he's in charge of feeding and entertaining Mum - I can't make her eat anything apart from bread and jam and the occasional slice of cake. Her 'meal' times are about 2 hours too early for mine so I've not had a proper meal myself for several days, I'm surviving on tea and cake the same as Mum.

Capt S went back to work today but has taken tomorrow off so I can dialyse, I can take over again tomorrow night, my aunt can cover Friday because I need to dialyse again Saturday morning, back to me on Saturday afternoon but I'm supposed to go back to work on Monday and am in despair over what to do if my Dad isn't home by then (and let's bear in mind a 73-year old recovering from pneumonia isn't going to be fit for much himself). I feel so guilty for missing my home, my bed, my husband. I hate this. I'm only a mile from home but I may as well be on the Moon. It's so lonely, and thankless, and worrying, and ...

PS: I've had a sore throat for 2 weeks, I saw our practice nurse today and she says it's viral, there's no treatment apart from rest and plenty of fluids and maybe some honey & lemon. I'm screwed - I'm a diabetic kidney patient so honey and fluid (apart from some medicinal wine) are a luxury I can't afford. And I still have a 4 pound leg roast and all the trimmings that needs eating.