Our prime minister sits dribbling with his eyes closed at the climate summit, sitting next to one of the greatest and most inspiring men in the universe (Attenborough) and I fail to see or understand how any right minded clear thinking person, be they left of right leaning would not think the man in charge of our country has manifest himself as an utter chuckleheaded cunt. It really is beyond me, and I feel for the children, fucks sake I feel for myself and i’m not yet 50.
Back at the hospital Dad has refused medication; he wants to go home, he wants out of the hospital, he’s massively sad, and the chief nurse has called me. This is good that I seem to be the man in charge as my Mum is deafness denier and I seem to be the only sane person thinking forward in this shitshow. Nurse called me to ask me to persuade my Dad to take his medication; It’s shit in the hospital, he can’t walk, or hold a remote control, swing a cat or speak to his neighbour. No wonder he’s depressed, but i’ve asked him to take his pills because if, and its a big if, he can get better then hes in the best place to learn how to where he is.
The knot in the system is in the denial of my Mum that anything is wrong. She can see everything is wrong, everything has changed, and the last decision she had to make in the last 30 years was which hat to wear at Ascot puts it all into perspective. I know i’ve probably used that Ascot phrase but its a good one similar to “just because the best stitching you’ve seen was above your fucking appendix” so as its my Blog and my words, I can say what I want. I think we need some sort of 19th Century medicine woman or “nurse” to hold up a lantern, to look into my Mum’s painfully dry red eyes and tell her the honest truth that if Dad is going to enjoy these twilight years, then maybe the best thing to do is to actually try and think ahead. get a plan, rather than lets see what happens next week.
I’m cross, but I understand I have to be there for Mum, but when you can see a solution which is pretty good for them both, which involves compromise, of course as he can no longer live in the house, so he’ll have to live else where, which is a compromise. They could move over to us, they could see their grandchildren whom they know as much as a tenner every visit allows them to understand the intricacies of their minds, but they’ve friends in Leicester, who they see every 2 or 3 weeks, for lunch, which i’ve already sorted with my boss, he told me I can drive them over to see their friends, but my boss is incidentally a massive tool.
Sometimes I think Mum would rather him dead, than to make a massive decision on his and her behalf. I myself have thought that, in a kind of let’s take all the situations and toss them around to see what we’re left with. I don’t think theres one part of my Mum that wants my Dad dead, but it would make things a lot easier, and thats where she’s coming from, I believe. Hats and Ascot, thats the crux of it all.
If she allowed me to sort it all out, a bad situation, then I’m sure I could make a bad situation at least bearable rather than living the rest of her days in a house she will not visit the top floors again, but still bang on about how she wants me to clear out my old bedroom and fuck off.
Maybe Worcestershire isn’t such a great idea…