Monday 6th November 2017

I thought instead of the usual blog about the day, I would instead write about what I am feeling, as over the past few weeks there has been little time for that, after driving between here and Suffolk and then driving up and down the length of Suffolk and Cambridgeshire visiting Mum at hospital and tidying her house.

My overall feeling is one of anger. Anger at her for not having learned her lesson from her heart attack just over seven years ago, sinking back into a world of sloth, sitting in her armchair for 23 hours a day smoking and eating shortbread or pringles. She gets up to make drinks and to visit the bathroom. I have found out in the last seven weeks that she cannot now walk to the garage at the back of her house, so gave up her buggy, relying on a neighbour's daughter or community travel to get her into town. Not only can she not walk to the garage, she cannot walk to the bins either to take out the rubbish in her life.

She relies on people for everything. Sheila comes in for four hours per week, and in one of those visits gives Mum a shower as she cannot do that herself, and social care only allows for one shower per week. Sheila dusts, vacuums, washes up, takes out the rubbish and the all the other things Mum cannot do. A gardner comes in twice a week to mow the little square of lawn she has and to prune the small rosebushes she has. Inbetween all this, her friends and neighbours do the chores when Sheila isn't there, meaning, that Mum really cannot look after herself any more.

She is just 73.

Anger too that she did not heed those warnings, and Tony did not have the benefit of one but two warnings to change. Like my Dad, he passed away quickly, but we would have liked to he having another chance.

Anger too at the drain Mum put on the NHS, not because she inherited a disease or caught something, but because she would rather spend the twilight of her life sitting in her living room turning everything a pale shade of brown and helping to reduce the shortbread mountain.

Anger at the fact that it came down to myself, and Jools, to run round after her. For me to move up to Suffolk for three weeks, and for her calling Sheila 19 times in the first four days in hospital, getting her running chores like she was some kind of employee. Poor Sheila needs the money Mum pays, so cannot say anything, let alone refuse, but there is anger on her part too.

And most anger that I, despite what she has done in years past, has to be the one, the dutiful son, who drops his life to go up there, leaving wife, cats and house behind. And what did I get? Moaned at behind my back. Bugger that, bugger it all. I have managed to get some stuff out of all this that I wanted: visited 30 plus churches, had lunch with Dougie, and generally found myself useful. But I still resent it, and makes me angrier.