by Cathy Glass
As I drove my thoughts too were with Amanda and the care home. Visiting a home like Oak Lane House wasn’t the same as taking a child to see a parent in hospital recovering from an illness or operation, which I’d done before. Those parents had physical conditions from which they would recover. Amanda was going to get steadily worse, and if Melody was going to see her mother then it would need to be at the care home. There wasn’t an alternative. Amanda could no longer live independently or attend the Family Centre and Melody needed to see her mother, didn’t she? But was there a cut-off point where Neave would take the decision that it wasn’t appropriate for a child to see their parent in the final stages of dementia? I didn’t know. This was all new to me. But I had concerns.
As we settled on the dual carriageway I glanced again in the rear-view mirror. Melody was still staring through her side window, clutching the basket on her lap.
‘Are you pleased you saw your mother?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘She said some strange things, but you understand she couldn’t help it? I’m sure she knew who you were and was pleased to see you.’
‘I know she still loves me, but she’s got worse.’ How quickly this poor child had had to grow up, I thought.
‘Would you like to see her again?’
‘Yes. Can we go Monday, Wednesday and Friday like we did at the Family Centre?’
‘The care home is too far away to go on a school night. Neave said once a week, on a Friday evening or at the weekend when you don’t have to be up early in the morning.’
‘Can we make Mummy some more cakes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will I be able to make another basket?’
‘I think that will depend on the activity the occupational therapist is doing. The occupational therapist is the lady who organized the basket-weaving and sat with you at the table,’ I explained. ‘I expect she does lots of different activities.’
‘Good.’
So I thought that, overall, seeing her mother had been a positive experience for Melody and one she was eager to repeat. Had it not been, I would have had grave concerns about taking her regularly, although ultimately it would be the social worker’s decision.
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time we arrived home. The rest of the family had had dinner and were doing their own thing. Having taken off our coats and shoes, Melody and I stopped off first at the living room where Lucy and Paula were watching television.
‘Hi,’ Lucy said, glancing at Melody. ‘Did you see your mother?’
‘Yes. We made a basket.’ She proudly held it up.
‘Wonderful,’ Lucy said.
‘So you had a good time?’ Paula said. ‘Did your mum like the cakes?’
‘Yes, we ate them all.’
‘Good.’
They returned their attention to the television and Melody and I went into the kitchen where Adrian was making himself a sandwich. At his age he was constantly hungry.
‘Look what Mummy and me made!’ Melody said, holding up the basket.
‘That’s very good, but won’t it leak?’
It took Melody a moment to realize Adrian was joking. ‘You don’t put water in it, silly. It’s for fruit and sweets and things in my bedroom.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, feigning amazement. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘Did he really think you put water in it?’ Melody asked me after Adrian had left.
‘No. Adrian likes a joke. It’s a lovely basket.’
I pinged our dinners in the microwave and Melody and I ate together. It was nearly nine o’clock when we’d finished, and Melody was yawning. I was exhausted too, not just from the drive at the end of a busy week, but emotionally – from seeing her mother’s dementia and experiencing this type of care home for the first time. It had been draining, although I thought it would probably be a bit easier the next time, now we knew what to expect.
Lucy and Paula had turned off the television and were in their rooms. Melody called goodnight as we passed their bedroom doors. She had a quick wash and I went with her to her room. She positioned the basket on a shelf and then put in some of the small toys and knick-knacks she’d been buying with her pocket money. I admired the result, then, yawning again, she climbed into bed.
‘Do you think Mummy will be in bed now?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I would think so.’
I sat with Melody for a while, wondering if she’d want to talk more about her mother, but she was so tired she fell asleep straight away, her face resting against her teddy bear.
Downstairs I cleared up our dishes and then sat in the living room and wrote up my log notes. As well as wanting to do it while it was still fresh in my mind, I find writing cathartic, and my thoughts were full of Amanda. Now I’d seen her in the care home I could picture her in the lounge and her bedroom. She was one of the youngest residents and it was so sad knowing her life would end like this – her condition steadily worsening until she lost all grasp of reality and couldn’t do even the most basic tasks.
Paula, Lucy and Adrian came into the living room for a quick chat before going to bed, which brightened my mood. I felt I hadn’t seen much of them today, but we had a reasonably leisurely weekend ahead when we would all be together. At eleven o’clock I went up to bed and surprisingly slept well, although my first thoughts on waking were of Amanda, as were Melody’s.
‘Do you think Mummy is getting dressed?’ she asked me as I went into her room.
‘Yes, or she might already be up,’ I said. I put her clothes out ready.
‘What will she do today?’
‘Get dressed, I suppose, have her breakfast, then perhaps do an activity or watch television.’ Or just sit in a chair and stare into space, I thought but didn’t say.
‘Can we go swimming?’ Melody asked.
‘Yes, it’ll be tomorrow this week, as we need to go shopping today.’
I left Melody to get dressed and when she came down to breakfast Lucy and Paula were already at the table eating theirs. Adrian had left earlier to go to football practice. Melody joined the girls at the table and as I made her breakfast in the kitchen I could hear her telling Paula and Lucy about her visit to the care home – not so much about her mother but the other residents there.
‘One man tried to pull his trousers down,’ she giggled, ‘and another kept going “boo-boo” and walked like this.’ She stood and demonstrated, shuffling her feet and drooping her bottom lip as the man had done. I heard Lucy and Paula laugh too.
I didn’t feel comfortable hearing those poor residents being mocked, so, leaving what I was doing, I went over.
‘Those people can’t help it,’ I said. ‘All the residents at the care home have dementia. I don’t think we should laugh at them.’
They took my point. Melody sat down; she was too young to appreciate why ridiculing them was unkind, and Lucy and Paula hadn’t really thought about it.
‘So you were pleased to see your mum?’ Lucy said, understanding – and changing – the subject. ‘And you’re going again?’
‘Yes. Next Friday or Saturday.’
‘And she liked the cakes?’ Paula said.
‘We’re going to make some more for next time.’
I returned to the kitchen. They were good kids, but all children need correcting sometimes, and for Melody, laughing at the men was probably also a coping mechanism.
Paula came shopping too, as she needed some more shoes, while Lucy stayed at home. I went shopping most weekends and I was gradually building up Melody’s wardrobe. Melody liked to spend her pocket money, but whereas before she’d been spending it on herself, now she wanted to buy things for her mother.
‘I want Mummy to have ornaments on her shelves in her room like I do,’ she said.
She spotted a charity shop and knew from when she’d lived with her mother that the donated items stocked by these shops were much cheaper than in the stores. Inside it was a treasure tr
ove with plenty of choice. Apart from the rails of clothes, shoes, belts, handbags and so on, there were shelves of books, CDs, vinyl records, china and glass ornaments and general bric-a-brac. Melody was delighted and Paula helped her to take the items she was interested in from the shelves for a closer look while I browsed. I bought a pair of new oven gloves and a tea towel – it was for a good cause – and half an hour later we emerged from the shop with Melody having spent all her pocket money on her mother and carefully holding a carrier bag containing the tissue-wrapped ornaments. I hoped Amanda would appreciate how much care and love had gone into choosing those gifts, but I doubted it. Much of the joy of giving for a child is to see their parent’s face light up as they present them with the gift, but Amanda’s face was largely expressionless now. I feared she might not even understand the gifts were from her daughter.
Again and again my thoughts kept returning to Amanda even as we shopped, for it occurred to me that here was another experience she’d probably never have again, unless a care assistant took her to the shops. But would there be any point? How much would any experience mean to her now? It was impossible to know. Then I started to wonder if my own parents would ever need to go into a care home. I’d assumed that eventually, if they couldn’t look after themselves, they’d live with me or my brother. But that was in relation to them growing old and needing extra help, not dementia. If one or both of them suffered from dementia, would I still be able to have them live with me? It’s a dilemma faced by many families. Seeing Amanda at Oak Lane House had forced me to confront difficult issues that previously I hadn’t given much thought to.
On a positive note, Paula found some shoes she liked and I bought Melody some more casual clothes. I also bought some photograph frames and an album to mount photographs of Melody in for her mother. Having pictures of her daughter should help keep her memory alive. Melody had plenty of photographs of herself in her Life Story Book, which I’d begun when she arrived. I’d have copies made for Amanda and take them with us on our next visit. Before we left the town I stocked up on groceries from the supermarket, and that evening we had a Chinese takeaway.
‘Do you think Mummy has Chinese food?’ Melody asked as we ate, which was a coincidence, for I’d been thinking something similar.
‘I expect the cook at the care home makes a variety of food,’ I replied.
‘I used to have takeaways with Mum – Indian and Chinese,’ Melody said.
I nodded, although I was surprised they could afford takeaways given how poor they’d been.
‘The man who lived in the house next door had lots of takeaways,’ Melody continued. ‘Mum said he got them on the way home from work because he couldn’t be bothered to cook. He could never eat them all, so we used to have them.’
‘He shared them with you?’ I asked.
‘No. Mum and me used to sneak round when he’d finished after he’d put them out.’
‘Put them out where?’ I asked, pausing from eating.
‘In the dustbin,’ Melody replied.
‘Oh no! Gross!’ Lucy exclaimed. While Adrian and Paula stared at Melody, horrified.
‘The food was still in the boxes, and he put the lids back on,’ Melody said, as if that made it OK.
‘You won’t have to do that again,’ I said, ‘and neither will your mother.’
‘Good. It was always cold,’ she said. ‘I don’t like cold food.’
‘How do you know he hadn’t spat in the food?’ Lucy asked, grimacing.
Melody looked very worried.
‘I’m sure he hadn’t,’ I said, and moved on to another topic.
I’d fostered children before who’d had to scavenge for food or ask neighbours to feed them. If the parent(s) had an expensive drug habit then that always had first claim on any money, with food, clothes, rent and so on coming a poor second. But despite this revelation, we all enjoyed the takeaway and I told Melody we’d do it again another time.
On Sunday morning after breakfast we all went swimming at the local leisure centre. Adrian, Lucy and Paula were growing up quickly and increasingly wanted to do their own thing, so the number of times we went out together as a family was sadly decreasing, but swimming was an activity that appealed to everyone. Melody was still quite timid in the water despite wearing armbands, and I stayed with her in the learners’ pool while the rest of my family swam in the main pool. There weren’t many there, which helped, as Melody didn’t like to be splashed. Now I was taking her swimming regularly, and with the lessons at school, hopefully her confidence in the water would grow. After we’d dried off and got dressed, we had a hot drink and a snack in the café and then had to make a dash for the car, as it was pouring with rain. We all got soaked – ‘A car load of drips,’ as Adrian put it.
Once home, I cooked a roast dinner while the family amused themselves, and then we had a leisurely afternoon and evening, during which time I telephoned my parents. They spoke to everyone in turn, including Melody, and I arranged to see them the following weekend.
That night as I saw Melody into bed she asked when we’d make the cakes to take to her mother, and I said probably Thursday evening.
‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘Mummy loved the cakes.’ So I was pleased she was remembering the good parts of her visit. How long that would be possible, I didn’t know.
Chapter Sixteen
Amanda – a Mother
On Monday morning, having taken Melody to school, I returned home and telephoned Jill to update her on our visit to Oak Lane House and the weekend in general. Jill felt as I did that overall Melody’s visit had been a positive experience and, as long as it continued to be so, she should see her mother every week. She reminded me to include the visit in my log notes, which I had done. I intended to telephone Neave straight after Jill, but a friend phoned first. She and her partner were hoping to foster and she had some questions about the ‘Skills to Foster’ assessment, which was part of the application process. It was therefore around midday before I spoke to Neave and I began by updating her, much as I had done to Jill. I then asked, ‘Will Amanda live at Oak Lane House permanently or will she have to move again?’ Melody wanted to know and I was concerned that if she was moved then the next care home might be even further away.
‘As far as I know Amanda will stay there until she needs a nursing home,’ Neave said.
‘When is that likely to be?’
‘It’s impossible to predict, as it will depend on the progression of her illness, but it’s likely she’ll be there for at least a few years. When she can no longer feed herself she’ll be reassessed and then will very likely be transferred to a nursing home.’
‘I see.’ It was sad. ‘Thank you. Amanda’s room is very bare,’ I said, moving to my next question. ‘I was wondering what happened to all her belongings. Melody hasn’t had anything from home either.’
‘Everything went into a skip, so it’s gone,’ Neave said. ‘Amanda owed the landlord a lot of rent so once they’d left he changed the locks and cleared out the flat. He said there was nothing of value, and I know from when I visited there wasn’t much. But Melody should have everything she needs now she is in foster care.’
‘Yes, she has,’ I said.
‘And the care home will provide for Amanda.’
Even so, it seemed dreadful that all their possessions had been thrown away. I then asked Neave if the choice of visiting time – Friday evening or the weekend – could be left to me, as I was thinking of alternating it. She said that was fine but she then had to go, as she was due in a meeting. I’d covered what I’d needed to say.
That afternoon I sorted through the photographs I’d taken of Melody and noted which I wanted copies of, ready to have them printed when I went into the high street the following day. While it was only Monday I knew how quickly the week could disappear. I had a full day’s training on Wednesday (all foster carers in the UK have ongoing training), Thursday was set aside for the clerical work I did part-time and Thursday evening w
e would be baking cupcakes, so I needed to check we had all the ingredients, and also at some point give the house a good tidy and hoover.
That afternoon, when I collected Melody from school, Miss May – smiling as usual – came over to me. ‘Melody has done some really nice work,’ she said, as she did most days. ‘I’m very pleased with her. She has literacy and numeracy homework in her school bag. She’s been telling me about the visit to her mother. I’m so pleased it all went well. It seems she’s in the same care home my father was in.’
‘Really? Oak Lane?’
‘Yes, he was there for three years until he passed last October.’
‘Oh, I am sorry.’
‘Thank you, although to be honest it was a release in the end; he was very poorly. But it’s a lovely home and he was well looked after. A bit of a drive, though.’
‘Yes, it is.’
I was pleased that Melody had heard Miss May speak highly of the care home, and that she’d spoken positively about her visit there to Miss May, but later in the car on the way home she asked, ‘Why isn’t Miss May’s father still in Mummy’s care home? She said he passed, but what does that mean?’
There was no easy way to explain the euphemism. ‘It means he died, love.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was very ill and maybe old. Miss May said he was poorly.’
‘Is my mummy poorly?’
‘Yes, but not as poorly as Miss May’s father was.’
‘Will my mummy die there too?’
I met her gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘I don’t know, love, but it’s possible, eventually.’
‘How long before my mummy dies?’