Finding a purpose

This week was sliced through with public holidays, and the enticement of an extra-long-weekend, so my Wednesday or Thursday visit to Barry, became a Friday visit. I know it off by rote: leave the house at 6:30am for the 267 bus that departs the Castlecrag shops at 6:51am, arriving at Chatswood railway station at 7:07am. After a 6 minute wait I catch a train via Macquarie University to Hornsby to connect with the 7:56 to Gosford. This misses the 38 bus to Wyoming forcing me into a taxi where I use my 50% disabled voucher and pay $7 out to the Henry Kendall Aged-care facility, arrived a minute or so before 9am. Thhis gives me well-nigh 3 hours with Barry before I walk down to the Maiden's Brush Road shops and catch the 12:36 number 38 bus back to Gosford Station where I unwind the entire journey.

Yesterday was an excellent example of a visit to someone in aged-care. We spent until 10am chatting, weeding, and digging in his 'garden'. He needs to be prompted with everything, and is not able to have a self-propelling thought. There is a lot of cut-through required to get him to do things without being disrespectful and condescending. As we walked through his four-[erson room, it was obvious that two room-mates had departed since Thursday of last week. As the morning progressed, another man was being bedded down into the vacancy. I expect another passing in the next couple of weeks. He was most adamant he did NOT want his hair trimmed, so we took my trolley and toddled off to the activities room.

I had prepared a canvas with a stylised wing of a butterfly for him to pain in bright, clear colours. They have canvases like this all along the corridors, and I feel certain Barry's brain and eye responds well to them. He can 'see' them. If this simple wing works and he manages to complete the task over 3 weeks, I will prepare more for him. The activity ladies helped us set up a table with newspaper, and water for our brushes. He worked, engrossed, for about 30 minutes. Next week, we have been offered the pots of paint from Hospital Art, which I appreciate. At Barry's behest, we sat down and talked through today's copy of the Daily Telegraph. The only word that I found that he could read was 'and'. So we read the pictures instead. They were about ANZAC Day and the death of Jon Mannam and whether peptides were involved. Then Barry showed me how he does his exercises, and down one end of the room, we lunged and stretched together. After a leisurely meander down the 'east wing' we returned to the activity room where a game of Bingo had been set up for 7 women, Robbie and Baz, if we could cajole him into it.

Cathy did well to get him involved, as he was mightily hesitant, not wanting to interrupt the 'chat' of the female participants, not that they chat much, it was just his rationalisation to stay on the side-lines. However, Cathy gave him 10 cards, at least one from each suit, and a swag of milk-bottle caps. Then came the hard yards. He had to 'read' the numbers AND the suits, both of which proved elusive when there were 10 cards still in play. He could manage the reading when he was down to only 5 cards. But, with massive dollops of encouragement, he stayed the course. For the last 15 minutes we wandered the courtyards literally 'smelling the roses'. We chatted about how everything we did during the morning would go towards helping his brain to remain active. He wants the blood clot to 'dissolve'. I am more realistic than that than that. But I want him to know there are things that he can wander down and 'do'.

Deja vu ...

These images were taken over my last three visits, but that is not where the deja vu comes in. Rather that comes due to the similarities developing between Barry's aged-care life, and the aged-care life of our father. Dad went into care in November 2007 at the age of 86; whereas Barry went into care in December 2011, at the age of 67. But, I guess, dementia is dementia. At one stage I had hopes of getting more information about the exact nature of Barry's medical condition. This proved to be illusory. After he jumped the shark the last time, he was sectioned into the Mater in Newcastle, and was short-listed for a psycho-geriatric assessment by their roving team. I eventually read he report, which was based upon an interview conducted in the courtyard at Catalina. I could have written the report myself: sit on the fence, don't say anything that can be disputed; don't say anything definite. A bit like the school reports children seem to receive nowadays! They did not see him psychotic, therefore it was not mentioned in the assessment. And I thought it might include objective medical imaging like an MRI of his brain, but no such luck. So there will be no information forthcoming about the mix of dementia, psychotrophic drugs, and stroke that go to make up his 'condition'. However, his is on a daily dose of Risperdol to reduce the likelihood of more 'sharks' upon the horizon.

So what are the behaviours that lead me to mutter 'deja vu ... bloody bin here before'? Yesterday, when I arrived I could not find him anywhere, until Pauline (an OT) bellowed from the activity room, 'He's taken himself back to bed, Julie'. In I barge into a darkened room at 10am where a fully clothed shape has the covers clutched around his neck. As soon as I heard his intake of air, I knew the scenario about to unfold before me. 'Oh, dear, it is so good to see you. I thought you had died and I was all by myself from here on out.' 'Well, not quite. But if there WERE to happen, then Ross would visit and tell you'. 'Ross. Ross! But he's been long gone ... '. It's hard not to smirk. Dad was the same way. He believed the voices in his head, too. Amd time seems to pass differently for them, than for me. Sometimes it must speed up, whereas other times it must just plod along at a snail's pace. But, I took him outside, and we gardened.

The other similarity with our father, is that it is becoming increasingly hard to cajole Barry into doing anything. He never suggests anything. He finds reasons why such-and-such should not happen today. Gardening should not occur as it is too hot, or there is already too much in the garden bed. Painting/drawing should not occur because his head hurts or he cannot think of anything to paint. And then he will tell me how bored he is. And that the Awaba Men's Shed has finished, which is just as well as he was the only one who ever went there. How does one explain that it has shut down over the summer break, and that he was just the only one from the aged-care home! The garden is my saviour. I understand it is there more for my sanity than for his. I suspect he does nothing in it except for Fridays. He is happy to do the simple tasks that I suggest to him. However, it is easier to get him to spray with the hose than to pick up all the debris fallen from trees, where he cannot see what I can see. But the zucchini is coming on a treat, and there are some snap peas potted ready for a trellis to climb up - that is next week's task. A note on the photographs I left the first image in colour rather than convert to B&W, so you can see how ruddy he is now appearing. I know he takes his BP medication, but it is becoming increasingly raised. I will ask next week if his medication should be upped. Margaret proposed to Baz yesterday, and he said he had to think about it. I would think that Margaret's current husband might have to think about it, too. There are times when she is very good, but yesterday she said her name was her maiden name, and that her mother was definitely still alive. But, all in all, they are lucky to have each other.

His memory is sketchy ...

Another visit up with my brother, Barry, today. He is always so pleased to see me, and has no idea that he sees me each week. To start with today, we spent an hour and a half, rearranging and hanging all the photos and art-works in his room. However, I still forgot to take a photograph to show you. I was too busy, I guess. Then we set to with his computer, which I am convinced he only uses when I am there. Once again, we did a 'paint by numbers' exercise, with a bit more of the negotiating around the program. And another hand of Solitaire, which he is being able to do more by himself now.

Then, a bit after 10 o'clock, we set out on our excursion, having declined to go on the facility-wide excursion in their bus. Barry and I armed ourselves with drawing paper, a range of HB pencils, a sharpener, and something to lean on, and headed off down to the lake. Although he said he could not remember, when we were kids, the three of us (Ross included) used to take similar equipment out into the paddock to sketch - fence posts and the like. However, today, I knew what I wanted to lock into Barry's brain; and that was the scene of the small row-boats pulled up to the edge of the lake. The sun was glorious, and we happily sprawled on the grass for just over 30 minutes, each absorbed in our own project. I will see if I can find two camping stools (with x members, and canvas sling) to make our posture a bit more comfortable. The ground is a very long way down for yours truly! Upon our return, we went to Barry's garden which is coming along a treat. He reckons he doesn't want to hog the garden incase another resident was disinclined to be involved. However, when I suggested that the succulents could perhaps survive out in the sunshine, he quickly returned them to where HE wanted them. The nurse and I had to smile. I tried to impress upon him, that now that he had sketched his row-boat, he could consider translating that into a painting. I showed him other paintings around the walls of the facility, many of which had boats as their subject. I really don't expect him to have started this until I stick my head in the door again next week.

Gene-rational change

It would not be breaking confidences to delare, in a public forum, that neither of my children has a 'green-thumb'. A plant can wither through lack of attention - things like water and air and soil - under their very nose, and they have no knowledge that the plant is carking it! I guess it can be sheeted back to the negligence of their mother: not setting a good agrarian model during their formative years. Whereas, when I was growing up, my mother had the main veggie garden, and we three children were allocated specific beds to compete against each other. Our father, wierdly, grew flowers like sweet-peas. And crops like wheat. And maize. And sorghum.

So, if the gods give me the nod, and I get to care for my grand-daughter for a day at my place during the coming year, we (she and I) will do gardening. Do you think she will like this watering can?