Right, Last night in words: Terminal, finite time, two wills written, funeral arrangements, palliative care, hospice, welfare, adaptations, life line, Macmillan nurses, benefits, insurance, walking, Sainsbury's, coffee, KFC, Cider.
Both Mum and Dad were incredibly grateful that I sat and sorted all this out. For me? I was able to feel useful. I have the ability to step back and process things. I am very good at doing the shut down thing and sorting 'stuff out'. I can look at things in a logical manner. I can see what needs to be done.
However this does come at a cost. Which is this. Whilst Mum breaks down and lets all this sh*t out in little snippets through-out the week. I appear to bottle this, these feelings. And then when I am alone, and it all becomes to much, it explodes out of me, almost dragging me weak knee'd to the floor. I curl into a ball on the sofa, or try and fold myself up into my own pocket. Or sometimes, again, with the wishing to tear myself violently out of this reality.
It really is quiet flooring in its intensity. And interesting at the same time. How we each deal with this in very differing manners.
I digress. Last night was about writing wills. Both my Mum and my Dad's. And we were laughing and joking about what Dad was going to leave my Mum. Dad started saying, and to my Wife I leave a single nostril hair. I suggested pubic hair. To which he retorted, 'Yeah in a locket!' And we then got caught up for a good 5 mins discussing if we could fossilise the pubic hair, in Amber, and then have it rounded nicely into a pendant for her. Mum, meanwhile was doing the ironing, and making disgusted noises at the pair of us.
At one point we were howling with laughter.
I also managed to call Poole Borough Council and spoke to the wonderful Ester, and we chatted about the council's cost cutting and budget restraints. (I work for Swindon Borough Council at the moment). She gave me the number for Life line, and also booked Dad in for a care assessment in the home for grab rails and such like.
I then spoke to Jonathan at life line, who is sending out a package for me to read and then get sorted for Dad. The MacMillan referral has gone through and a nurse has been assigned. Dad has decided at the end he wants’ to go into Hospice, or the MacMillan ward at hospital. We then talked about Palliative care. We also discussed the insurance payout if they do it, and what Mum is going to do when Dad goes. And we also discussed the music Dad would like at the funeral, the clothing and the type of burial/cremation. I also managed to find a solicitor in both Scotland and England to help sort out my divorce!!!!!! Nay bad for on evening's work. We then went and did something very Mundane and went to Sainsbury's for Coffee (mum only had decaf and that's a NO for me in the morning.) and then grabbed a KFC. And i had a bloody well deserved Cider!!!!
All in all, they were amazed at the ease in which all of this was achieved. SO i think i have found my place in all 'this'. I'm the do'er. The sorter. The information gatherer. The one that Mum uses to figure things out. I will say, that after doing all that i HAD to go for a walk to decompress my brain. It had reached the point of 'no more poking please'. I spoke to my GF, who, (Also being an aspie 'Aspergers') was able to listen to my ramblings, and the pressure was released from my head.
Dad really is starting to sound like a pair of rusty bagpipes. But the steroids are helping ease the swelling on the brain. I have to watch him though, as he is a crafty bastard and is often found doing things he shouldn't. (That wiley Cat) He has been on form the last 24 hours. Which is lovely to see. Ribbing me about my Girlfriend, and winding Mum up. (he also is looking forward to seeing her next weekend, a thought that still fills me with fear! )
It’s a different story for my Mum. She is at the Coal Face 24 hours a Day, 7 Days a week. And you can see this in her face. She looks tired, worn down and trodden on. When Dad was going through Chemo he was an absolute arrogant arsehole to her. And he knew his behaviour was bad, but couldn’t seem to stop it. He kept apologising. It’s like if you look closely, you can see the impact marks on Mum. She constantly sounds flat. And ‘sighey’ is the only way I can describe it. And I am at a loss as to how to shore her up. I try. I try and make her smile. Make her laugh. I give her as much strength as I can. But I know it’s hard.
The next thing is to decide as to whether Dad has Radiotherapy. He has the consultant on Thursday. And we will know A.) Whether he can take it. And B) Whether it is worth it. I have a feeling they may say it’s a No. And leave him be. Who knows. Who Knows.
C’est La vie...... C’est La vie......
