I just found this gorgeous photo of my mum, taken a few years ago in Spain.
I love this photo as it captures her classic smile and her beauty.
It’s so hard to think of how much she’s changed since this photo was taken.
I miss her so much.
I am off sick today, suffering from painful sinuses and a viscious cold. I look hideous; the skin being rubbed raw around my nose from perpetual blowing and my eyes are all watery and bleary. I usually go to work when I am feeling unwell, relying on max strength cold and flu relief tablets to get me through the day, but in light of all the stress of late I decided not to wear myself into the ground, but to instead be kind to myself and give myself the rest I deserve. When I could sleep last night I had feverish dreams about calculating the mean and standard deviation from a set of data and running round in circles. Now I can’t sleep cause I am too blocked up and have been drinking too many cups of tea.
The latest on my mum is not great. On Sunday she was moved into a room by herself where she can no longer upset other patients by her agitated behaviour. My step-father got a call from the hospital the same day asking him to return to help look after her because the ward staff could not cope. Her “Continuing Care Assessment” was examined on Monday but, alas, bureaucracy is getting in the way.
You see, a whole series of forms have been completed regarding her continuing care over the last 6 weeks. Slowly we were getting a little closer to the possibility of finding a place in a nursing home for her. Now it would appear that the assessment procedure has changed, and they are now using new forms. The old forms are invalid now, apparently, so the process must start from scratch again. I am maddened that a small change in administration is taking precedence over the requirements of a patient who is so drastically in need of 24-hour specialist nursing care. If only one of these faceless beaurocrats could spend an hour with my mum to see the reality and consequences of their actions. This is not only inconvenient to us and to mum, but also to the doctors and nurses who are caring for her and have no training in dealing with the demands of advanced Alzheimer’s in young patients.
I must write to my MP about this…
I just found out that my ex-colleague, John Schofield, passed away on Friday. Amid all the sadness I am feeling right now, this news has come as a shock, although he had been suffering with cancer since earlier this year. The unfairness of life never ceases to amaze me, but life is really neither fair nor unfair. It just is what it is.
I had a bad day yesterday. I fell apart. The memory of seeing mum on Saturday just played over again and again in my head like a repeating video clip. We went out to dinner with friends, and I had to leave early as I felt sick. I got home and curled up on the bed and realised this sick feeling was simply how my grief is manifesting itself. And I let it all out. Gastropunk was amazingly supportive as ever and I feel safe knowing I have so many people looking out for me.
I booked an appointment with a counsellor today to help me get through this difficult emotional journey. No doubt I am guilt-ridden and tormenting myself about many things that I have no control over, but it will be good to see someone to get this all out and start understanding myself a little better.
I am waiting for something nice to happen. I got home to find out bathroom ceiling had water coming through it from a leaky tap in the flat above, and then found out the news about John on Facebook. What I need is a nice relaxing break somewhere luxurious and with good food. I will have to settle with going to Moro on Saturday night, and finding escapism in novels over half term. A trip to New York beckons in December which I am so excited about. Hopefully I can focus on these things to keep me going…
I haven’t been able to write for the past two weeks. I now realise I have been in a state of denial and have been shutting out all my emotions. This was brought to my attention on Friday evening at the pub, when one of my new colleagues commended me on how well I was coping with everything: my new job and dealing with visiting my mum every weekend in hospital some 110 miles from where I live. I told him that I do break down from time to time but can usually compartmentalise my emotions in my personal life from my work life. Having been through a similar ordeal with his own mother, he understands what a difficult time it is for me, probably more so than I do myself, I now realise.
Last Saturday and the one before, my mum recognised me and was able to communicate with me in a limited way, but enough for me to know that she enjoyed the freshly squeezed juice and having her hair brushed. The past few visits were better than the ones before and we have been managing just fine lately. Which is why I was not prepared for yesterday’s visit.
On arrival at the hospital I knew something was not quite right by the way the staff looked at me when I said I was there to visit my mum. When I entered her ward, the sight that greeted me was shocking. My mum’s bed had been risen high off the floor and was angled backwards. The sides of her bed had been pushed up and had padded covers attached. My mum was on all fours, trying to get out of the bed, and a nurse was fighting to keep my mum from hurting herself. She looked like a trapped animal, and had no sense of her surroundings. For an hour I tried everything I could think of to try and distract my mum but all she would do was continually try to get out of the bed - often head first. A couple of days previously she had been wandering round the wards causing a disturbance to other patients, and losing her balance, and thus presented a danger not only to herself but also to others. Which is why she had to be contained in this way.
For an hour I coped with this, tears slowly running down my face yet completely unaware of my own feelings. The visitors at the next bed could not keep from looking, and I felt so bad for my mum, knowing how horrified she would be if she knew she was like this. I tried calming her down by stroking her forehead and talking gently but nothing worked. All I could think of was how she resembled a frightened animal and the only way I could help her was by ending it all for her and easing her suffering, yet I could not.
After an hour I had to call for assistance and my mum needed attending to by the care assistants. I waited outside while they tidied her up, and stood by the nurses desk in a complete state. I was suddenly aware how upset I was, and a nurse came along and took me into a quiet room where I broke down. The tears would not stop and all I needed was a hug and someone to listen. The nurse listened, but to be honest she was no help at all. None of her words were in any way comforting. How could they be? All I wanted was for someone to do the kindest thing and put her out of this suffering. How long and uncomfortable her days must be.
After I had managed somehow to pull myself together, I returned to my mum and started the whole process all over again. I left the hospital feeling emotionally drained and empty. Mum didn’t even know I had been there trying to help her.
The only thing we can do is to wait for the meeting with the Multi-Disciplinary Team on Monday to find out what is happening with the place in the nursing home we are desperately hoping for. While we wait, I desperately hope that this disease will run its course as quickly as possible to end all of our suffering. I don’t feel guilty for wanting that anymore. If I could end it myself I would. And I don’t feel guilty about that either.
You name any form of transport that I have been on today, and I have fallen asleep on it. I have spent some 6 hours traveling today. That’s right. 6 hours. On a normal day, I would be traveling for about 2 hours, but today my school was kind enough to give me the afternoon off to visit my mum in Grantham hospital. So I went there and back in the time it usually takes me to teach a few lessons, plan the following day’s lessons, mark a pile of books and generally potter about on the interweb finding sources of inspiration to help with my teaching (or rather procrastinate on Facebook for a while).
My step-father has gone to Spain for a week to take care of the house in the Costa Blanca and I simply couldn’t live with the thought of my mum having to go until Saturday without any visitors. I took her a fresh orange, mango and apricot smoothie which she really enjoyed. The nurse asked me to feed her a vile pot of yoghurt that was apparently packed with “goodness”. Labelled “fruits of the forest”, that yoghurt had never been near a forest in its life. Bright purple it was, and lacked an ingredients list on the side. It smelt artificial and disgusting. Mum was not particularly keen on it but she did eat it. I mentioned to the nurse that the smoothie was also packed with goodness (consisting only of fresh fruit and no artificial colourings or flavourings) and she registered that yes, it possibly was. Possibly?! I am sick and tired of seeing processed food everywhere. From the queues of trollies and baskets in M&S to the bedside tables of the NHS. And to think I missed “cuisse de canard” for lunch at school today. Sigh.
Only two more weeks of school to go until half term. This is the time of year when teachers start to count down the remaining days. It’s difficult getting back into the swing of things after the long summer holiday, and the first month of teaching and marking leaves you feeling run down and ready for a break. Most teachers I know are now in the process of getting ill or are fighting off colds. My exhaustion was manifested by falling asleep on trains today. I made myself walk from the tube all the way to school this morning just so that I could wake up properly. I think I managed to make some sense when I was teaching today, although my A level group continue to look perpetually confused by my lessons on surds and indices (who wouldn’t?).
Talking of teenagers, they do get a bad press. Too often we read about unruly teenagers, or have to walk past groups of them hurling abuse at random passers-by. People are very quick to moan about them not having manners, or lacking respect when talking to adults (this is usually on a Friday night down the pub after having disappointing lessons). You don’t hear many people say nice things about them. In my experience I have met some of the most amazing teenagers over the past 5 years or so.
For example, at lunchtime today I was walking out of school to go and visit my mum. I was stopped twice by different 14 year old pupils who wished me luck visiting her and that they hoped she was ok. These are the kind of teenagers who also exist in our society yet don’t get talked about. They should rise up and make a stand against those that give them all a bad name. Hell, we were all teenagers once.
I first want to say a big thank you to all those people who have left me comments, wondering where I have been and how things are in my life. You are all very kind to worry about me. It has been a weird week and a bit. After hearing the news about John, I have been thinking a lot about life and how it is so important to get the most out of it while you can. Consequently I have been worrying less about work, and have been instead concentrating on those around me that I care about; meeting up with friends, spending quality time with my partner and distracting myself from thinking too much by keeping busy busy busy. Also it somehow felt right to leave the blog about John as the first thing people would see when they visited my site. It feels right to move on now.
Here I sit this evening, having a girlie night in on my own. I happened to come across Nigella on the TV earlier, who was irritatingly pretending to use London Buses whilst munching on very scrummy looking home-made (of course) noodle salad. I wonder what she would say about my breakfast habit on the London Buses. Most mornings I take my hot porridge in a plastic tub, with a good dollop of cream stirred in, and eat it on top of the W7 bus to Finsbury Park. This has met the glares and stares of other commuters, but I don’t think it’s as offensive as egg. And I always make sure I sit far away from anyone while I stuff my face. Well, if it’s good enough for Nigella to eat on the bus (yeah right) then it’s good enough for me. I have yet to spill porridge down my bright green home-made scarf. I wonder if Nigella makes her scarves…
Mum remains in hospital. She was to be moved back to the Assessment Centre for Elderly People, where she stayed for a month in July, but the consultant has decided to keep her in the ward until a place comes up at a nursing home. He made the decision based on the fact that her bed is needed and therefore the process should happen more quickly. If she were to go back to the assessment centre, she might be there for some time as less urgency would be required to move her from there. Since she is neither elderly nor in need of assessment, I think he has made the right decision. This is difficult to reconcile when I visit her and can see that her care is being somewhat compromised (hair not being washed regularly, dirty marks on her clothes etc etc). She just needs care, not continuous assessment.
Last Saturday, Gastropunk accompanied me to the hospital. Mum was barely aware of our presence and remained drowsy and unresponsive for our whole visit, apart from her natural reaction to suck from the spoon I was using to help her take liquid with. She needs a spoon because her drink has to now be mixed with this thickener that resembles wall paper paste. She can not swallow easily now and is in danger of choking on fluid which would instead go down to her lungs. I was so glad he came with me as I need the emotional support on visits such as these. I left the hospital feeling little sense of achievement and without a good moment to hold onto.
This Saturday, however, mum was awake when we arrived and managed to be engaged with us for a considerable portion of the time we were there. She likes having her hair brushed and the back of her neck stroked. I like putting hand cream on her that smells of rosemary and lemon and masks the strong smell of hospital on her. I know she would like that smell much better even though that particular sense is now barely working. We took some apple and mango juice with us which she really enjoyed and even said the word “lovely” about. When she recognised me this week, I was so happy. We had a hug and exchanged some kisses and tears rolled down my face quietly, as I reveled in this rare close moment. We then drove on to sunny Derbyshire and ended our weekend in the hills with glorious countryside around us.
This is John Schofield.
He was one of the funniest, and most passionate, teachers I have ever met. John was Head of Physics at Herschel Grammar School until last year, when another school was lucky enough to employ him as Head of Science. We all missed him terribly, and a bunch of sixth formers formed a band and wrote a song about him and performed it at the end of term. John wasn’t even there to see it as he was at the interview for his new job. What a fantastic dedication he missed. I still have a recording of it on CD somewhere…
John was known for his honesty, passion for teaching and his great sense of humour. He had a way of making even the most rowdy class of teenagers fascinated by science, and always used his set phrases and hand gestures (all relating to physics!) often which pupils and teachers alike copied. He was well loved by all his pupils at Herschel. I particularly enjoyed hearing his stories of his days teacher-training at rough schools in Basildon. As an Essex girl by birth I could relate to his experiences, having gone to a similar comprehensive myself as a pupil.
When I joined Herschel Grammar he was one of the few long-standing members of staff that would treat you as a friend straight away. He gave me advice about teaching when I was newly qualified and showed me how important it is to be passionate about your subject. He was always eccentric, which I loved. He would tell me about the numerous classes he had confused by running out of the lab in mid speech, only to run all the way through the prep rooms and enter the classroom through the door on the other side of the room, and carry on exactly where he left off. The pupils loved it, although I am not entirely sure if they ever knew how he managed to come through the other door. He was certainly a teacher to look up to for inspiration, especially if you tend towards the eccentric yourself.
Earlier this year John got married to his long-term girlfriend and their baby daughter was born 3 weeks ago. Yesterday I found out about the birth of his little girl, but that he couldn’t be there at the birth because he is now housebound with terminal cancer which has progressed rapidly through his body. He didn’t realise that a tumour had been growing in his spine, and by the time he knew something was wrong (early this summer) it was all too late. The chemotherapy and radiotherapy he underwent this summer for the bone cancer had no effect. He was given about 6 months to live.
It is all so surreal. When John left Herschel last summer, he left a gaping hole in many pupils’ lives. We all missed him in the staff room. I particularly missed the fact that sometimes he would walk into the staff room at lunchtime, grab a cup of coffee, and claim there was no one worth speaking to and make haste for the science office. He sometimes offended people by this, but I loved it. It was hilarious. You always knew where you stood with John, and he always seemed to get away with it. Many a discussion we had at lunchtime with him about atheism, rounded decimals versus fractions, and theoretical physics. When he entered a room, you always knew he was there even if you couldn’t see him. He had so much presence.
I left Herschel this summer but I have heard that the atmosphere there is now very strange. Pupils have formed groups on Facebook to raise money and organise events. Teachers are in shock. Everyone has come together: teachers, current pupils and ex-pupils alike, desperately wanting to show how much he meant to them. I am still trying to come to terms with the news and am hoping to wake up and find out that this has all been some kind of nightmare.
If you want to share your own story about John, please leave a comment below.
This is the book I am reading at the moment. It is by John Diamond, who wrote for The Times and was married to Nigella Lawson. He battled with throat cancer for many years and was, ironically and tragically, unable to eat the delicious food cooked by his domestic-goddess of a wife. He wrote on many subjects and this book, published after his death, comprises the first 6 chapters of a book he was writing on alternative “medicine” when he died, and a collection of columns that he wrote for various newspapers and magazines. He wrote with such clarity and authority and I urge you to read it if you have not done so already. Especially if you are paying a lot of money on alternative therapies.
I will always remember my visit to the Philippines some 11 years ago. Skinny cats and mangy dogs roamed the streets of Manila and hung out on butcher’s slabs in the markets, looking for scraps of food. I was horrified that dogs were eaten – not a myth, I discovered, when my friend bought a dog’s leg on one of the street-food stalls. Much bigger than a chicken drumstick, and apparently not as tasty. I was appalled. Nobody seemed to have cats and dogs as pets, and would treat them badly on the streets.
It couldn’t be different in the UK. We lavish such luxuries on our pets – buying them squeaky toys, comfortable squishy pillows, scratching posts and the like. When they are unwell we spend hundreds of pounds at the vets’ surgeries on worming tablets, vitamin injections and operations to repair broken limbs. They are treated like royalty in most peoples’ houses. Some people take in stray cats and open rescue centres in their back gardens, like my late dear friend Eileen who did so much for the thousands of cats that passed through her hands. When our pets get really old or begin to suffer from an uncurable disease, we do the kindest thing we can and have them “put to sleep”. It’s a difficult decision to make for so many people, and is not to be taken lightly. But we do take that decision, understanding that we are doing what is “right”.
The word “humane” (defined in the online free dictionary as “ Characterized by kindness, mercy, or compassion” and ” Marked by an emphasis on humanistic values and concerns”) is what we ascribe to decisions like that, yet why can’t we be “humane” to humans. Why is it that we can make these humane decisions for our pets, yet when someone we love so much is suffering and has no quality of life left (let alone their dignity), the “humane” approach would be regarded as “inhuman” (let alone illegal)? There are many good and valid reasons why we can’t make decisions like that for our loved ones. But my instinct, when I see my mum in so much discomfort and with no quality of life left, is to want what is “right”. It’s not “right” for her to have to live like this. When I think of how she once was I know in my heart how appalled and angry she would be if she knew she would end up in this desperate situation.
My mum was a proud, and fiercely independent, woman. She would never leave the house without her hair and make-up looking immaculate. This caused many mornings of arguments about length-of-time-spent-in-bathroom before work and school, because of course I took after her in my image-conscious teens, like mother like daughter. She loved to party, and I was often dragged along to many an evening tennis club function, where I would be given much attention by her friends, although I was much happier sitting in a corner of the bar with my maths books.
We had our own flat which she bought after her and my dad got divorced. I loved that flat and so did she. We had a garden and a cat that adopted us, and beams in the dining room. It was a nice place to be a teenager and we were more like flat mates than mother and daughter. She worked as a manager of a famous high-street fashion chain and I loved the endless discounts that she was given, my wardrobe being full of their clothes. We often raided each other’s wardrobes, although I was upset that my feet were bigger than hers.
Mum was so fashionable and young-looking that we often got mistaken for sisters (and not just by guys pulling that old chat-up line), and when she took me to Ibiza when I was 13 I was envious that all the guys fancied her and not me! She must have saved up for so long to take me on holiday – not easy as a single mother with a mortgage and two mouths to feed.
When I went to University she took a few days off work and helped me carry my bags all the way to Aberdeen using the reliable Kings Cross service (the route of the flying Scotsman, no less!). Whenever I came back home for the holidays, she would always be waiting for me at Kings Cross station. Wrapped up in her long woollen black coat, and huge beautiful scarf (why can’t I ever get a scarf to look that good on me? I tend to resemble a snowman when I try, yet effortlessly she looked like a model!) she would never be late and would always cry a little when she saw me. She was such a dedicated mother.
I got off the train at Kings Cross yesterday, coming from visiting her at Grantham hospital, and had a few tears in my eyes. I looked for the beautiful woman standing waiting for me at the barrier with the long black coat. She wasn’t there.
