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I received some bad news a few days ago. Bluntly put, my brother's cancer has returned for the third time. No more chemo or operations for him, the doctor has instead offered tablets which can only slow down the cancer's progress. He's feeling okay for now, and intends to carry on as normal for as long as he can. He seems quite resigned to the inevitable. He doesn't know how long he's got; two or three years, maybe. Everyone in the family knows about it, apart from our mother. Her dementia means she probably wouldn't understand anyway, and certainly once told she'd only forget about it again, minutes later, though her feelings of being sad (for reasons she could no longer remember) would linger, and so my brother doesn't want her to know.
So much for my intention to blog more regularly...! Well, here I am at long last.
Half way through December there was a family crisis. Mum's very elderly and has Alzheimer's disease, and after the latest narrow escape from disaster she had clearly reached the stage where she had become a danger to herself and others. So we adult siblings had to hunt for a decent care home, no mean feat despite the number of them. The place where she now lives seems okay, and she has her own room overlooking the garden. Whenever I've visited she's been clean and nicely dressed, and her room has been clean and pleasant-smelling. The meals I've seen looked okay. Mum says she doesn't want to be there but it's unavoidable now.
It's been interesting to see who in the family made polite noises but then were always too busy to help out. Am I being snarky? Unfortunately not, I'm merely observing what happened.
Worse was when family members were called upon to help with Mum's kitchen, dispose of perishables, clean the fridge and freezer, tidy the house etc. Some people took this as an invitation to rummage through Mum's clothing and personal things in her bedroom. This was the one and only time they made themselves "useful".
Half way through December there was a family crisis. Mum's very elderly and has Alzheimer's disease, and after the latest narrow escape from disaster she had clearly reached the stage where she had become a danger to herself and others. So we adult siblings had to hunt for a decent care home, no mean feat despite the number of them. The place where she now lives seems okay, and she has her own room overlooking the garden. Whenever I've visited she's been clean and nicely dressed, and her room has been clean and pleasant-smelling. The meals I've seen looked okay. Mum says she doesn't want to be there but it's unavoidable now.
It's been interesting to see who in the family made polite noises but then were always too busy to help out. Am I being snarky? Unfortunately not, I'm merely observing what happened.
Worse was when family members were called upon to help with Mum's kitchen, dispose of perishables, clean the fridge and freezer, tidy the house etc. Some people took this as an invitation to rummage through Mum's clothing and personal things in her bedroom. This was the one and only time they made themselves "useful".
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