Special Care

A brass rubbing done by Lady Duck
when we lived in the UK
in the 1970s

Over the last couple of months, I've stepped up to being the Adult in the Room. I've been the A/R before, when my son was growing up, but this is the next stage of life: parenting your parents. I don't think Colonel Duck would agree with my terminology, but he definitely understands now that I'm able to help in in ways that he wouldn't have accepted a few months ago. 

Together we have transitioned Lady Duck from home care to a care home. It's been emotional, but also a profound relief on my part. CDk was doing an excellent job according to his capacity, but it had narrowed LDk's life to a lot of TV-babysitting and occasional outings for Nice Meals Elsewhere. 

Lady Duck is the eldest of four sisters, so grew up with a lot of female company, and she also had strong women for a mother and grandmothers. She was shy, but also confident. She has always, albeit quietly, done things her own way. 

My parents have been together since they were teenagers, and have not spent much time apart, but nearly everywhere we were posted, she refused to be a professional Army Wife. She loved hanging out with the Army Wives for dinner parties and regular bouts of Watching Our Men Play Sport but during the week, she always found herself a job, usually something involving a bit of science: a lab technician or a medical receptionist, that kind of thing. She always had a bunch of non-army women friends to have coffee with, usually workmates. 

I sometimes got cranky about this, because it usually meant that we were latch-key kids. Mum would make our lunches at the start of the week and freeze them, saying that if we put our frozen sandwiches in our bags at brekkie time, they'd be thawed by lunchtime. Yes, they were, but they were also horribly soggy. I don't know what my brother did about that, but I would chuck the soggy mess and either scab some food from others or I would swipe whatever loose change was lying around the house and buy something from the tuckshop. Can you blame me for choosing boarding school when the subject came up? OMG, three meals a day, (mostly) fresh. Bliss. 

But. She was also my best friend for years after I reached my late teens – we would perm our hair together, pull off each other's leg wax, gossip about all sorts of things. She was a fabulous grandmother when my son was born, and my rock when he was seriously ill in his early years. When she showed signs of early-onset dementia, her world shrank a lot, as CDk moved into 'managerial' mode. 

But I digress. The point is, Lady Duck is a good woman friend. As soon as LDk moved into the care home, she made women friends. They don't know her name and she doesn't know their names, but they buddy up and roam the corridors with their wheelies and find warm nooks in which to sit together companionably. Colonel Duck comes to visit and takes her off to spend quality time with her, but when I visit, I hang with her and her gang. I even know their names (which is unusual for me, I rarely remember even the names of people I've known for years). And they recognise me as an ally. 

When he and I first committed to the change (after I pushed for a few months), Col Duck and I had a tour of the facilities. During that, we were told that there was a bed free, and we could have it if we agreed to move her in at the end of two weeks. I answered for us: yes, we'll take it. I think at that point, Colonel Duck went into a sort of inner fugue state. Then, after a week of weird nothingness, we had a gentle argument. I said we had to get prepared, and he asked, Why? we have time. No, I said firmly. We have committed to the start of the financial year, and that is in exactly a week. A lightbulb seemed to switch on in his head, and at that moment, the phone rang. It was the care home, checking if we were on track, and saying that we could go in any time we like and prepare her room. 

I think that's the moment I had the baton handed to me. I'd sort of witnessed that with my maternal grandparents, who had loved CDk as a son but found him a little overbearing, until they got to a certain point and accepted his authority in terms of organisational capacity. So, I went out and bought her some new clothes and fresh lipstick. I went through at least 15 photo albums and scanned some of the older images (reprinting them on my inkjet printer), plundering the more recent photos (there were often multiples) and printing all the most recent ones that had never had a life outside of my iphone. I pulled them all together into a small soft photo album that was easy to hold and carry. I gathered things to make her room friendly: a colourful crocheted blanket, a vase made by her father, photo frames for the wall filled with iconic images: Colonel Duck in his uniform, smiling out at her, my brother and I as children, her sisters and parents in their usual disordered clusters. 

When she moved in, it was surprisingly easy: she sat in her big easy-chair for a while, and commented on the photos and other objects (never with any absolute recognition, just the sense that she knew them). Col Duck was astonished at how homey the room was, not having seen any of my prep until then. We had lunch together with her, finally settling her in for a nap, and left, feeling akin to the day you leave your child at the first day of school or daycare. 

Since then, I visit her nearly every day. Some days I find her sitting with her friends, other days her walker is abandoned somewhere and I have to go searching, sometimes finding her in one of the many lounge spaces, looking confused. Often I can tell if she's not had a nap, because she walks like a zombie. One morning, during a visit from CDk, they couldn't find her, and eventually she was spotted sleeping on someone else's bed while the owner of the bed sat serenely in the chair next to her... 

Every day, at 4pm, they have 'Happy Hour', in one of the lounges, and there is either music on the big TV screen to sing along to, or a movie, or even a visitor. They are given cheese & bikkies and a glass of 'wine', which is actually a mix of apple juice and lemonade in a wine glass. They love Paul Anka videos. I often join her in time for this, enjoying everyone's enjoyment. 

Today, to my delight, I walked out of the lift into the sunny enclosed garden and Lady Duck rushed out of the nearest building, delighted to see me and knowing that I was HERS. She wasn't using her walker, nor her stick. She was bright-eyed and chatty, albeit having no idea where she was, but obviously having a Good Day. We sat out in the sun and chatted a while, and then went into the Happy Hour lounge, where she flirted outrageously with a nice ex-military-looking elderly man (so I sat between them) and then greeted Colonel Duck enthusiastically when he arrived for a brief check-in. He left quickly when the entertainment began -- they have a lovely schoolgirl who is volunteering as a Duke of Edinburgh challenge, and for the hour she plays music on her viola and the piano, which everyone loves (but CDk can only sit through such things if he's related to the player). Lady Duck and I participated enthusiastically, holding hands and tapping along, clapping at the close of each piece, and enjoying that the two captive birds in nearby cages were happily chirping along, a change from their usual sullen existence. 

A few days after her move, Colonel Duck took me out for lunch, and during it thanked me profusely for my role in the transition. He told me he was grateful and impressed. I rang my son afterwards and said 'I'm not sure if that really happened or not' and he said that he'd been talking to his grandfather and had been told the same thing. So the border has been crossed. I have moved up a notch, and my efforts are appreciated, not resisted. There's not a huge gap between my parents and I because they had me quite young, so I'd better enjoy it while I can, before my son has to step up for me. I have all faith in him.