Autumns Colours

by Nick Holloway

  • She felt the need to tell someone about this incident before she died. Elderly people often feel a need to tell someone about something that is not generally known before they die.

  40. If you were Zoe would you promise Rose that you would tell nobody about her secret?

  • Yes, and I wouldn’t tell anyone.

  • Yes, but then I would tell the manager or her deputy and stress that what Rose told me was in confidence.

  • The story, at face value, should be officially noted in Rose’s resident file. Though very unlikely, there may be legal problems regarding ‘next of kin’ when Rose dies. Best to make a note of Rose’s story and be prepared for the unexpected.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Decoration, death and the day of the fayre

  ‘At least my home’s got some colour in it, if you know what I mean. Our bedroom’s pink and grey. Walls, curtains, bedspread, all coordinated like. All matching, if you know what I mean. Then in the kitchen we’ve got green and yellow, cheerful colours. Well, we spend so much time in the kitchen because we have our main meals in there.’

  Wendy was sitting with Steve and Dot in the staff room, their morning break nearing its end.

  ‘The latest is that my youngest says he wants his bedroom done in Manchester United’ she continued, ‘Walls, lampshade, curtains, duvet, you name it.’

  Wendy had one son left at home. The others had moved out and the second eldest was still in prison. Mark, the Manchester United fan, seemed to be given everything he wanted. His mother had once boasted that she had spent over £400 on him one Christmas.

  ‘The duvet set is twenty-five quid for a start. The curtains is another eighteen. That’s in the Argos catalogue and that’s as cheap as anywhere.’

  What had triggered off this conversation was the fact that each bedroom was usually redecorated between one resident leaving it and another moving in. Room 10 had been empty for a few weeks, and this morning was evidently the morning Trevor was going to paint it. From the staff room window he could be seen unloading his decorating tools and tins of paint from the boot of his car.

  Some would say that the term ‘redecorate’ was a misleading one when applied to Trevor’s appointed task. Room 10 wouldn’t look much different when he had done the job from the way it looked now. It might look a bit cleaner, but there would be no change of colour. There would be no colour. There was a distinct lack of colour throughout the Pastel Rainbow Care Home. There was no Daffodil Yellow, Candy Pink, Warm Apricot or Eggshell Blue. Only Monotonous Magnolia. That one colour was dominant throughout the entire home. Lounges, dining rooms, corridors, office, toilets and all forty bedrooms were almost entirely magnolia.

  On the brighter side, there were paintings and photos hung on most of the walls. Outside the office hung an impressive view of the care home as seen from the air, a photo taken from a passing satellite.

  The reason given for this insipid colour scheme was the projected cost of constantly having to redecorate the home in a dozen different colours. Trade quantities of magnolia could be purchased at a fraction of the cost of smaller quantities of other colours. Steve politely listened with half an ear to Wendy’s monologue. He found the Hindmarsh’s attitude to redecorating the home unconvincing. Any saving on paint was such a small sum seen in the context of the home’s overall running costs. A vivid colour here and there would make such a positive contribution to the residents’ environment. As Wendy pointed out, a home has colour in it.

  Wendy was a good talker when she got going. Not having a husband at home for much of the time, she missed adult conversation, and made up for this by taking every opportunity to talk at work. Steve listened, trying to show some genuine interest in the various avenues of Wendy’s life. He had worked at other care homes where the same approach regarding decoration had prevailed. There was Ivy Lodge, a home not far away built on three floors consisting of fifty bedrooms, three lounges and various utility rooms. And almost entirely magnolia throughout.

  * * * * * *

  Steve took his breaks later in the morning because of the ten o’clock drug round, which he endeavoured to start at nine and have completed by eleven. It was the biggest of the 24 hours and could be finished by eleven if there were not too many interruptions. But there were relatives with questions both sensible and stupid, doctors, dentists and chiropodists calling, social workers phoning, sales reps appearing from nowhere to extol the virtues of some wonderfully-engineered appliance or newly-developed substance, delivery men wanting to know where they could put whatever it was, telephone engineers to sort out why the payphone wasn’t working and staff saying, ‘Sorry Steve, I know you’re very busy…’

  His coffee break over, Steve went into room 3 to have another look at Eve Parkes and give her a small drink, either of water or some fruit juice the family had brought in. But one look at the body in the bed told him there was no need. At last, Eve had passed away.

  Familiar as he was with the deaths of residents, Steve still had to stop and think about what he should do first. He walked over to Eve and placed two fingers on her neck. There was no pulse. The pupils were dilated. Her chest was still. He looked at the clock. He pulled the bed sheet over Eve’s head, closed the bedroom door behind him and went to look for a carer. He found Tracey in the upper lounge, collecting cups.

  ‘Tracey!’

  He beckoned her out of the lounge. He didn’t want to broadcast the news just yet. Other residents who might be interested would be told of Eve’s death later in the day.

  ‘Eve’s passed away. Can we wash her and so forth in a minute, before we start toileting for lunch?’

  ‘Yes, if you want to.’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘No, not particularly.’

  ‘Can you get some wipes, a flannel and a towel? I’ll meet you down there.’

  Back in the office, Steve rang Eve’s doctor. The woman he spoke to assured him that one of the doctors in the group would call over lunchtime to certify death. Then he rang Eve’s daughter, Stephanie, to inform her of the sad news and to express his sympathy. Stephanie would make arrangements with the funeral people for family and friends to see Eve for the last time and pay their respects at the Chapel of Rest, rather than at the care home.

  Steve collected a couple of plastic aprons and some latex gloves and returned to room 3. Eve’s death had been expected, thanks to the cancer in her bowel. This growth had blocked her gut some time around last Christmas and she had had to be admitted to Weymouth Hospital. An operation to remove the growth was out of the question. Eve was too old, her general health too poor and the spread of the cancer too extensive. Some sort of colostomy had been performed to bypass the obstruction and thereby relieve some of the symptoms. It was a means of buying some more time, some more life. At ninety and in her debilitated condition, she was fortunate to have survived such an ordeal.

  There had been a slow deterioration ever since. Eve had grown weaker and thinner. She sometimes appeared to have a yellow tinge to her skin, which suggested that secondary growths, metastases, were forming in her liver. Her appetite became progressively poorer and in the end it was as much as the staff could do to persuade her to drink a few sips. Those who had been nursing for some time knew that Eve’s days on Earth were drawing to a close. When room 3 became vacant she had been moved from her upstairs room to this one, because it was near to the office and allowed constant supervision of its occupant.

  Steve wrote ‘No Entry’ on a piece of paper and taped it to the door. Then he entered the room and put on an apron and gloves. He moved the bedside cabinet and pulled the bed away from the wall so that he could get around that side of the bed. Eve’s body was still warm. She had not been dead long before Steve found her.

  He had written the time on the back of his hand. It was one of the details he needed to complete the Notification of Death Form that would be sent off to the local authority. Gone were the days when ‘Last Offices’ involved packing all body orifices with cotton wo
ol to prevent body fluids escaping. Things were simpler these days. Eve Parkes would be washed all over, a fresh colostomy bag placed over her stoma in case of leakage and her dentures put into her mouth if they still fitted. A clean nightdress would be put on, her hair would be brushed and all jewellery removed with the possible exception, depending on the family, of a wedding ring. This would be taped over and the fact noted. A clean incontinence pad would be put in place and then Eve would be left alone, awaiting collection by the undertaker.

  Jewellery would be taken to the office, signed for by the two of them and then locked in the safe until collected by Stephanie. The curtains were left closed and the room tidied. The family had agreed that Eve would be buried next to her husband.

  Following the doctor’s visit, Steve would ring the undertaker and Tom Sykes would call early in the afternoon and remove the body to the Chapel of Rest. He would clearly remember burying Arthur Parkes.

  Small wafer like discs about the size of a ten pence piece were handed to Samuel and Harriet.

  ‘After supper he took the cup…’ recited the Reverend Paul Lane. Very small clear plastic cups, each holding about a teaspoon of communion wine, were then offered and taken by Samuel and Harriet.

  ‘As often as you eat this bread and drink this cup…’ the vicar continued as the wine was drunk.

  There was no praying, just the reading of a prayer or two from the Order of Service book. There were no devotional words of comfort drawn out from any Bible verses. There was no restating of fundamental Christian truths. The Reverend Paul Lane had been asked to ‘do communion’ for the residents, and this he thought he was doing. An opportunity to be of real spiritual benefit to two elderly saints of God was either being overlooked or ignored.

  Like many care homes, the Advancing Horizon Home for Aged Pilgrims had asked a local minister to call once a month to provide holy communion to those residents who wished to receive it.

  ‘Some of our residents have spiritual needs, Vicar,’ Primrose Jenkins had informed the Reverend Lane, ‘and since we are in your parish it seems in order to request that you or one of your colleagues attend to those needs.’

  The Reverend Lane had assured Mrs Jenkins that he would undertake to call each month to offer communion to her residents.

  ‘If for some reason I can’t make it, I’ll ask one of my deacons to stand in for me. I’m also the chaplain for Dorchester Prison. And of course the hospital keeps me quite busy. I’ll do my best, however.’

  Mrs Jenkins pondered how much more desperately the convicts needed the vicar’s help than did her residents. Never mind. Though not a particularly religious person herself, she was aware that some of her residents might be. And the fact that a local minister provided Holy Communion each month was something else to be included in the home’s brochure under the heading ‘Other Benefits Provided Include…’

  ‘The present generation may not be a churchgoing one, but previous generations attended church or chapel regularly’ she said.

  ‘Though I doubt very much if morals were any higher then.’

  * * * * * *

  The day of the Silver Birches Care Home annual Summer Fayre finally arrived. The prayers for good weather had been answered. The day had started off dull and cloudy, but was now bright and cheerful. Two o’clock approached and there was a healthy queue forming in the car park. The home was truly a hive of activity. Only rarely could the place be described thus.

  The kitchen, normally a place of some orderliness was particularly fraught, because two cooks were sharing the kitchen. Michelle was there to cook lunch for the residents, while Tony concentrated on producing items for the Fayre. His skills came to the fore as he prepared imaginative creations for the cake stall. Tempting pastries filled with fresh cream and dipped in plain chocolate, fresh strawberry tarts, sponge cakes and iced fairy cakes were all neatly placed upon china plates with doilies. It was a certainty that the cake stall would be sold out well before the end of the afternoon.

  Since Tony had such skills, one would have thought he might be somewhat frustrated and not a little wasted working in a care home. Imaginative flair and creative artistry were not often called upon. But he was happy enough in his work.

  Folding tables from somewhere had been delivered on the back of a truck and placed all around the edge of the car park. On three of these tables clothing of all kinds was heaped, with Joan in charge of it and under strict orders to get rid of as much as she could. On other tables there were neat rows of books and piles of magazines, adults’ at one end and children’s at the other. Readers Digests were in a box on the ground. Other tables had all manner of china bits and pieces. The items that had looked such a jumbled mess a few weeks ago were now sorted, priced and out on view to the town’s bargain hunters.

  The tombola had been left to Adrienne, who sat behind her table with Ralph assisting her. Most of the staff were involved with the Fayre in one way or the other and some of the residents had been press• ganged into helping, too. Enough staff remained on duty to ensure that residents were not neglected in the general excitement of the afternoon and that Dave didn’t manage to escape and run off down the street again.

  Lunch had been served promptly at one and then the tables cleared and the dining room given ‘a good going over’ in preparation for the sale of refreshments. Hot and cold drinks, hot dogs with or without onion and burgers with or without relish would be available. The tables had matching paper cloths. The CD player on the windowsill which normally repeated the hits of Frank Sinatra was given the opportunity to play something more up to date. Music brought in by Lisa was described by Nancy as ‘very bright and cheerful’. ‘It’s hip hop, Nance!’

  As two o’clock came and went, the throng invaded the premises and the pushing and shoving began in earnest. Bargains were searched for and claimed. By teatime the residents fund would be another £400 to the good.

  * * * * * *

  It was one of those nights when Dave couldn’t sleep. His room was directly above the ground floor lounge and he could be heard moving about. Periodically he could be heard walking down the corridor to the toilet, and more importantly walking back again. In these restless moods he was likely to wander into someone else’s room or to try to escape again. Past experiences had taught the night staff that there was really no alternative but to bring him downstairs. So Debbie sat him facing the television with a blanket over his legs.

  ‘He seems settled enough.’

  ‘Put his feet up on a stool, Deb. And a pillow behind his head. He might drop off. You never know your luck.’

  Debbie did as Pauline suggested. Dave showed no signs of being tired, but there was always the hope that he would drift off, eventually. A mug of tea and a handful of biscuits were beside him.

  ‘Sometimes his night sedation works and sometimes it don’t.’

  ‘Perhaps he needs a stronger tablet.’

  ‘He’s already on twenty milligrams. And other meds during the day. It’s a wonder he can keep his eyes open!’

  ‘Anyway, we’ve got plenty of channels to choose from. Have a look and see what’s on the film channels. Anything exciting?’

  ‘Let’s have a look. Where’s the TV pages?’

  ‘On Old Rose’s chair, look.’

  Pauline scanned the film channels for something that fitted the mood.

  ‘What do you fancy watching, girls?’

  ‘What’s the choice? I couldn’t believe this when I came in the other night. I wonder what persuaded the Hindmarshes to get satellite TV put in for the residents.’

  ‘Put in for the night staff, you mean!’

  Quiz

  Suggested answers are in italics.

  ‘There was a distinct lack of colour throughout the Pastel Rainbow Care Home. There was no Daffodil Yellow, Candy Pink, Warm Apricot or Eggshell Blue. Only Monotonous Magnolia.’

  41. How would having tasteful and imaginative colour schemes in your care home affect the lives of both residents and sta
ff?

  • It would help the place feel like home.

  • It could help poorly sighted or confused residents know where they were in the building if the floors had different colour schemes: ‘I must be on the top floor because the carpet’s blue.’

  • The residents will feel valued if they are asked about what colours they want in their bedroom or lounge. Would I like someone to decide what my bedroom should look like? No! They might choose bright green or dark purple and I might not be too keen on either in my bedroom!

  • The dining room would look more like a restaurant.

  • Staff might feel that they were working in a home and not in an institution.

  42. What three single words might describe a care home that is

  Magnolia throughout?

  Boring, cheap, institutional, uncaring, practical, unimaginative, miserly, economic.

  ‘Eve’s passed away.’

  43. What will you do to support a resident who is dying, and the family of such a resident?

  • Continue to provide a good standard of care while he/she is alive.

  • Take care that I don’t avoid the resident or their family.

  • Remember to talk about all sorts of things. Life goes on!

  • Be prepared to talk about death with the resident if they wish me to, or -

  • Refer this matter to a more senior member of staff to deal with.

  • As always, be honest in my answers to questions. I shouldn’t lie. If I’m unable to answer a question, I should say so and then find someone who can.

  • I should be prepared to involve other people, such as a Vicar, Rabbi or Imam.

  44. Why should your residents die in your care home rather than in a local hospital?

  • They will receive a higher standard of care in my home.