Wednesday 6th December 2017

And so came the day that Mum was to be discharged, and all preparations were in place. All there was to do was wait. And wait.

The phone calls started at half seven that the transport was planned for nine. I should have known better than actually expect it to be on time. I take the last of the stuff to be cleared, and wait.

Finally, at 11, she arrives home, in the back of an ambulance cum bus thing. It is a logistical nightmare to get her into the wheelchair, out of the vehicle, through the narrow entrance to the path and to a point where she could stand up and enter the house using her frame. She was wearing just a nightgown, and it was cold outside. She said she was fine, but this wasn’t a good start.

Mum is back in her armchair, puffing away like she has run a marathon, but after 13 weeks she is back. Within an hour, the carer comes, and thankfully is very professional, and goes through a questionnaire, and while talking about her current issues, pointed to where the vein was taken out of her leg, her hand pushed the pad protecting it, and blood started to come out. Not huge amounts, but enough to give cause for concern.

We called the district nurse office and they told us to call her GP. We called the DP surgery, but could not get past the receptionist who refused to put the call through to the doctor. We were told to call the ward she was discharged from. We called ward 16, and they said nothing they could do, but ring the district nurse, thus completing the circle.

Jeez, this was hard. The carer’s boss called the nurses and suddenly the nurses were on their way. 3 of them. They arrived, two qualified nurses and a trainee, they assessed the wound, redressed it, and were away in 20 minutes. That wasn’t hard was it?

The afternoon passed with Mum watching TV, eight hours of it as it turned out, soups and quizzes, and her not moving except to go to the loo. Just as I feared. I work on the computer, trying to block the sound of the TV out, but as I am sitting within 6 feet of it, it was hard.

In the evening, I go to the chippy. Fish and chips is one of the things Mum said she was looking forward to. I get cod and chips for us both, and take it back, reducing by half the chips she had. She eats about half, which is OK. I eat a piece of fish that overhung the plate on either side, and I very much enjoy that.

I realise that nothing much is going to change here, and that I am wasting my time. I am sad about that and the fact that the hard work the three of us have done for her is greeted without one word of thanks.