AN ORDINARY MAN - PART 4 - THE FINAL CURTAIN PART 1

 

This is an account of the last few years and months or so of my Father’s life told without embellishment in the hope it will help fellow sufferers of such ailments as are often seen in the elderly, as well as their loved ones and carers.  Although my father’s life was, it could be said, a long one, I am certain that it could have been longer and definitely less uncomfortable had the welfare state looked after him properly as he had every right to expect, having paid into it all his life (except he would say for the government-funded ‘Holiday’ in Burma for the duration of WW2).

 

My Father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease during a hospital stay in 2009 resulting from an unexplained fall at home which had left him confused and frail.

 

He had been increasingly unsteady and having difficulty with walking and other functions for the previous 2 or 3 years, which we in our ignorance put down to AA: ‘Age and Arthritis’.  Up until that time he had been very agile for his age, still doing our gardening and repairs, and playing football with the grandchildren he adored.  He had also looked after my Mum really well during her illness and up to her death from cancer in 2001, just before their 60^th wedding anniversary. never complaining and doing all he could for his ’Sweetheart’.

 

He had had both knees replaced a couple of years earlier when already in his 80s, due to arthritis, and always thereafter sung the praises of this operation to anyone who would listen.  I always thought the NHS should pay him for the advertising! Of course he was the author of his own good recovery, being a model patient; he did all the after-care exercises religiously and for as long as he was able right to the end of his life.  The operations did immediately improve his walking just by at least relieving the pain in his knees, and I believe ‘mind over matter’ helped give him more years of partial mobility that he wouldn’t otherwise have enjoyed.

 

That was him all over though; he always tried his very best to get over any difficulty he had and always developed his own strategies and coping mechanisms with whatever life threw at him; he had coped well with diabetes since his early 60s, saying he had too much to live for not to do his best to survive, and this belief kept him going. He even signed up to help students studying diabetes, and looked forward to their visits.

 

Parkinson’s crept up on us all quite unrecognised.  To us, it meant constant shaking, and we failed to spot the symptoms even though my brilliant craftsman Dad was beginning to find back in 2005 that he could no longer hold his precious tools to make the wonderful models and other items for his family – a source of great regret to him as his tribe of Great-Grandchildren increased rapidly!

 

We just put this down to AA, as we did his failing mobility, which often took the form of ‘freezing’ in mid-stride, unable to go back or forwards. On one notable occasion this happened halfway up the stairs when he was staying at our house as he had done most weekends since Mum’s death. We ended up with two of our boys at the top of the stairs and three behind him, eventually managing to haul him onto his back on the landing; very disturbing for all concerned, especially the man himself, as he thought we might think he wasn’t trying – and as we all knew, he never ever gave up trying to get better.

 

I could slap myself for not realising sooner that something was very wrong indeed.

 

It was only after an unexplained fall at home in 2009 when he was taken, very confused and poorly, to the local hospital where he was fitted with a pacemaker and had his diabetes thoroughly monitored, that a very perceptive young doctor took me aside and asked some questions.

 

‘What is his handwriting like?’

 

I was able to answer that for a couple of years now Dad had been saying to me: ‘Why is my handwriting getting so small?’

Up until then his hand had been very bold, neat and elegant in the old-fashioned italic mode, and he often wrote letters and notes to family and friends, not to mention sending cards to everyone on his long Birthday list!  He had even begun to write his memoirs, covering his war service in India and Burma, all in longhand and very easy to read at the beginning – though with hindsight looking through the hundred or so pages it was easy to see how his writing was slowly deteriorating.

 

‘Have you noticed his facial expression becoming fixed?’

 

Here again, now I came to think of it, I had indeed noticed a particular blank stare sometimes, quite unlike his usual jolly smiling expression, but again to my shame I put it down to AA.

 

‘Does he ‘freeze’ when trying to walk?’

 

Yes indeed.  The Doctors described his shuffling gait and inability to pick his feet up when trying to cross a slightly raised threshold which left him rooted to the spot down to a ‘T’.

 

The die was cast. Parkinson’s Disease was diagnosed.

 

Dad had for a long time been having problems walking upstairs to the bedroom or bathroom in his maisonette and sometimes was so miserable because he had a little accident – merely because of mobility, for he never was and never did become truly incontinent.  However because of the uncaring and indifferent nursing care he experienced whilst in hospital he feared he was on the way to becoming just that.  One of his worst fears was being thought a ‘dirty old man’. When I visited him in hospital one day he told me he had been pressing his bell for assistance for over an hour before someone came. He told the male nurse who eventually turned up that he needed the toilet (now) urgently.  The man if you can call him that said he would be back to see him ‘in a minute’. Another hour later (remember Dad had all his faculties and was timing this by the clock on the wall) he returned and said ‘You’ve got a pad on you’ll have to do it in that’.  Dad said : ‘I am not a baby I’ve never done that’.  The ‘nurse’ left him to it. Dad held on for as long as he could but then, as he told me, he had to ‘let it all go’.

 

Because of his RAF jungle experiences during the war. Dad had always had a horror of being dirty, especially in the toilet department, and was dreadfully upset when this person returned and scolded him for messing up the bed.

 

That was the first time I saw my Dad cry, and marked a turning point in his decline.

 

The whole family was due to go on holiday on the Saturday for 2 weeks in our usual place by the sea in Hayling Island; Dad always loved being with all the kids and I decided it would do him more good to come away with all the family rather than continue to be neglected and upset in hospital.

 

He was duly discharged, but forced to sit in the ward for 5 or 6 hours whilst his medication was prepared, and of course this meant several toilet visits – a complex procedure as he was all padded up for the journey – which I had to deal with without help from staff.  Eventually my husband hit the roof, banged the desk to attract the attention of the nurses as they sat chatting and studiously ignoring him as he demanded to know where the meds were.

 

Having received a dismissive reply, he then barged through the door of the Pharmacy labelled ‘No Admittance’, and asked the Pharmacist where his meds were. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, understandably rather alarmed as my large bearded husband in full flight is a magnificent but scary sight.

 

She however replied that she had sent them up to the ward hours ago.  And indeed they were found in a cupboard by the nurses.  Many excuses and apologies were made, and a caring and humane bank nurse found us a wheelchair (the others said there were none available) and wheeled him down to our waiting car, packed with holiday equipment.  The rest of them got on with their social calendars.

 

At last we were on our way.  Poor Dad.  Not too comfy but looking forward to getting out of jail free.  We eventually arrived at our lodgings at around 6.30 pm, somewhat later than the 2pm we had anticipated.  Still it was lovely to be with all the family, who had already done most of the unpacking for us.  Fish and chips were purchased and much enjoyed, and they helped me put their beloved Grandad to bed.

 

It was not an easy holiday for any of us; Dad was far from well and needed a lot of looking after, as well as the mental stress of coming to terms with the PD diagnosis.  But at least he had the kids round him and fresh sea air to breathe.

 

Carers had been arranged for him on return from Hampshire, so a whole new chapter began in his life story.