Categories: uncategorized
Date: 02 November 2004 22:09:01
Funny that - I feel really robbed. I was really ready for my massage class tonight after rather a stressful few days. Part of me didn't want to be bothered going, but I pulled myself together and forced myself to de-bristle my legs, wriggle into my still-somewhat-close-fitting tunic (which makes me look like a well-padded thunderbird puppet, only in white), and race off through the darkened streets to the college. The motivator? The knowledge that if I made the effort to get there, I'd be rewarded by a lovely massage free of charge, and ooh did I need a massage. But what happens? We do our theory session, then we watch the tutor demonstrate on a volunteer - which happened to be my partner - and then it was over to us to do our first complete massage routine (legs, arms, chest and neck!). As my partner was already recumbant on the couch, it made sense for me to massage her first - and also to get the tutor to revise the routine for the arms with me as I'd missed that session. The massage went so well that my "client" was nearly asleep by the time I'd finished. Then it was my turn. I got ready, hopped on the couch and prepared to relax - only to discover that by the time my partner had finished her conversation with her friend, she really had to go because her dad would be picking her up shortly and would I mind clearing up the work area for her, goodbye. :(
Hmmmmm
Dad's feeling robbed too. Robbed of his confidence for a start. But also robbed of his pride in his lifetime's work. He and mum scrimped and saved to make sure they'd provided for their children's future. They were determined to have their own house rather than stay in rented accommodation all their lives, so when they were expecting me they bought a house and were relieved to find they didn't have to pay the first month's mortgage because had been so hard for them to scrape together the £100 deposit on the house. And now it looks like all that will disappear in paying for nursing care one way or another. The fellow came to see whether Dad was entitled to pension credit and confirmed that he wasn't - because his private pension was too good and because his war pension is taken into account! But the biggest insult is about the care. If he goes into a residential home (which is what he is beginning to feel he wants to do) then it will cost us about £400 a week. £400 a week! That's over £20,000 a year! How long will his hard earned savings last at that rate?
Anyway, I went last night to visit a possible retirement home, just on the basis of organising some respite. Dad realises that he doesn't feel safe at home alone when I am away, and that I need to be able to leave him with my mind at rest about his safety. The place is lovely, so I am planning to book up for a few separate weeks in the future, although Dad's warned me that he may not want to come home. I am unsure how I feel - a tumult of feelings, actually. Part of me desperately wants to care for him at home. I have been looking at how easy it would be to find a four bedroomed house and move us all in together. I don't want someone else caring for my Dad - I want to hold tight to every moment I can with him and I want to repay all he's done for me throughout my life. The other part of me sees a residential home as the best option for keeping me sane. Even today I had difficulty handling a conversation well - he was convinced that the parents at the local school have contrived a conspiracy to run his mobility scooter off the pavements and are ganging up to make it as difficult as possible for him. Of course, whatever the choice it will have implications for me because I gave up working full time in order to look after him and there wouldn't be the option of returning to working afternoons.
Good news - Tiddles is doing an interesting project for school. He's been given a pound and has to use his skills and talents to make that money grow. (In itself interesting - I can't imagine doing that in MY school!) He cleaned the steps to earn an extra pound, then went to the supermarket and priced all the ingredients for making cakes. Then he spent an afternoon baking. I was incredibly patient - I surprised myself, actually. I managed not to comment when he poured flour alongside the mixing bowl instead of into is, or when he cracked an egg onto the floor (No, that's a lie, I did comment really!). I patiently reiterated and reiterated the instructions when he couldn't remember that doubling two eggs meant that he was to use four, and that 100g sugar and 100g butter didn't mean any combination of the two ingredients to make 200g in total. The result? 50 beautiful ginger biscuits, 12 luscious lemon cakes, 15 spotty currant cakes, and 15 rock-hard-and-slightly-brown-round-the-edges pebbles... er, I mean fairy cakes with chocolate toppings. He made posters to advertise his goods and went to the church coffee morning to sell them, raising nearly ten pounds. He then bought some stationary off M for £2 and has used it to make some rather well presented Christmas cards which he now intends to sell at church on Sunday. My budding entrepreneur is doing rather well, and learning a lot about money in the attempt.
Another bit of good news - I now have signed copies of the Mokee Joe books (and have already half read one of them) after a visit from the author to the school. I'm not one for horror stories, or for encouraging the Smudgelets to read them, but these books are good. Now can I bear to let the boys have them?