Mr S hits out with his walking stick.

Arthur has been moved to a nursing home for respite. It is in Semaphore which is by the beach. I looked at another one first but there he would have been in a room of five beds and I knew he wouldn't have liked that. The hospital said he was medically fit to discharge with 8 days of antibiotics to go, and that could be monitored by a General Practitioner. The hospital and nursing home organised the move by ambulance and I went down after my interview about the CDC package.
Of course all Arthur wants to do is come home, but I need to get some help in changing the house around, and I am hoping the physiotherapists there will manage to get him on his feet again.

He is in a share room with one other person, but unfortunately didn't get the window bed.

I stayed for quite along time that first day, which turned out to be a fortunate decision. When the new admission to the other bed, Mr S, arrived, there was an incident. When the care workers tried to help Mr S get into bed, he threw a punch to the jaw of a female care worker. On seeing this, I went to get the nurse, and made it clear to him that Arthur could not stay in the same room as a violent person. More workers came into the room and Mr S was moved to another area. The head nurse called the manager, and put me on the phone to her. She explained they had no other beds available and that if Arthur didn't provoke Mr S, Arthur should be alright.  I was horrified by that suggestion and flatly discounted it. I told the woman that she had a victim of a home invasion (in 1998) with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in with a violent person who was unsuitable for this type of accommodation.  Mr S needed to be in a secure unit. As I could hear a commotion further up the corridor, I told her Mr S was still being disruptive. The manager said that the Department of Health and Ageing had not told her that Mr S had these problems. She said she also did not know Arthur had PTSD. I said I assumed it was in his transfer notes from the hospital.


I said I understood it was not the home's fault Mr S was there, but that it was unacceptable for him to be in with Arthur. She asked to speak to the head nurse and I went and got him. I went back to Arthur and told him I would stay alll night with him if necessary, but that I could hear the phone call and Mr S was being sent to hospital to be assessed and that he would be unlikely to return. I heard Mr S' wife mentioned and felt sorry for her. I wonder if she suffers from his violence at home. Maybe not, maybe Mr S just does not like facilities and nurses telling him what to do.


I wandered up the corridor to find out what was happening and the head nurse told me Mr S was to be taken for assessment at the hospital and that the police had been called to supervise the transfer. The nurse was very annoyed because Mr S had hit him across the neck with his walking stick and left a red mark. The nurse was quite a solid man, overweight with thick neck. I had visions of that walking stick crashing onto Arthur's thin frame and weak bones. The nurse was outraged, and said that he would not have any of his staff at risk. I politely agreed with him but I am not sure he picked up my point when I said that if Mr S had hit Arthur with the walking stick, Arthur would have been killed.

I stayed for a long time, and settled Arthur down. I asked that the locum doctor be called to give him a sedative if he needed it and that he be checked on quite frequently. As it turned out, I received a call to say Arthur was alright, but they couldn't call the doctor because they did not have his medicare card. I told hm the number should be in Arthur's notes, however I would bring his card in the next day. (They did find his medicare number in his notes the next day.) The home was very good at keeping me informed and responded quite correctly to Mr S when the manager understood the seriousness of the situation.

Arthur was upset by all this and it was not a good start to his stay.  I came in the next day with Jason to see how he was doing, and to check up on how he was being treated. Arthur was tired, but he was being cared for quite well and we hoped he could be moved to the window bed.  Unfortunately that bed was allocated to a man who was coming to live there permanently. He turned out to be quiet and friendly.

I stayed overnight at my friend Jill's place. We have been friends for nearly 30 years. Time does fly.

CDC - not yet.

My interview with the provider about CDC was informative but unproductive as the only packages available were for low care. We have been put next on the list should a high-care CDC package become available.

Consumer Directed Care

Yesterday a service provider I talked with a few weeks ago rang to tell me they had some consumer directed care packages coming from the Commonwealth Government.  The lady will get a copy of Arthur's assessment and see if this may be suitable for us. She also sad another provider had one, and she will contact them as well. I spoke to our present agency but they do not do CDC packages but they were very supportive of me finding out more about them. I am waiting for a call back.

Crunch Time

The doctor rang and told me Arthur's pneumonia is better and he will be ready for discharge soon. The problem is that Arthur is so frail he needs to go to a nursing-home, and he does not want to. Arthur told them to ring me. I said Arthur was coming home - no ifs, no buts, no nursing home.

I asked about the TCP program to get him conditioning to improve his mobility, but the doctor said the physiotherapists concluded that he is not suitable. He is not strong enough anymore and he won't benefit from it, they said.

The doctor said they could not discharge him to go home but Arthur could discharge himself, so I assume this is to do with liability issues. I am going in tomorrow morning to talk to the physiotherapist and the occupational therapist. I talked about it with Arthur and I asked him to consider where he wanted the hospital bed, as he would mostly be using that, as it was the best for me to look after him. He said he would think about it.

I was shocked because the social worker talked to me about the TCP program and I thought that Arthur would do it and get back some mobility. I have to face that fact that Arthur has gone down another level and there are not many more left to go.

I am hurting, hurting, hurting. My soul feels as if it has toothache. I am fighting to hold back grief so that I can be positive for Arthur. I have been so sluggish since he came home in November. It is as if I wished to slow time. I need to find the energy to do the things I need and want in whatever time we have left.

Dear God, if you be, be with us.

American Vintage Cars and a Day Out.

Sunday was a glorious Summer's day, not too hot, but bright and cheerful. The American Car Clubs put on a show of their vehicles on a sporting oval and I paid my seven dollars to have a look. My son was supposed to be coming with me but he wouldn't get out of bed, more fool him.

The cars were spectacular, as only huge classic American cars can be. Everything from Model T's  and Ma &Pa Kettle's old farm truck, through Caddies and Chevrolet (including the stunning Corvette), stretch limos, pick-up trucks and more. I half expected James Dean or Marilyn Monroe to appear at any minute.

There must have been nearly 2000 of them and the gorgeous paintwork, shiny chrome, plush interiors., and space-rocket themed fins and tail-lights were incredible. If big was good, bigger was better. I am not sure how they would handle, though. I cannot see me taking a crisp corner in one of those; definitely cruising cars they are.

It was strange wandering around on my own. I enjoyed the outing but the beauty and light around me was surreal, of some other-world where I briefly wandered for a time. I felt the gossamer touch of a grey curtain of grief, which floated behind me as I walked. I also felt the non-presence of my husband and my thoughts flew to his side in his hospital bed, the days of him walking beside me to explore new things and delight in small discoveries now past.

I struck up conversations with strangers, hungry that I am for friendly light banter and human contact. It was easier than I thought, the hardest part being to judge when to cut it off and move on. Enough time to discuss a couple's vehicle and to share a story of the old one-cylinder car my mother used to drive in Blackall as a young woman, and to read the loss of interest in their eyes before I move on. I did not want to be seen as a slightly nutty and needy old woman, pestering others for human contact as a starving dog hangs around a camp hoping for a scrap of food. 

It struck me that I was practising being single. When I am widow, this will be me. Not for two hours or  day or a couple of weeks while Arthur is in hospital. It will be for the rest of my life.

Because of our difference in ages, I am used to doing things without Arthur, going it alone. For example, he never liked the cinema and mostly I liked to go without others interrupting my experience of the film with idle chatter. In contrast I loved to go with Arthur to live shows. I went to university and all its events without Arthur as that was my world, or outings with girlfriends, or alone. I can eat in a restaurant alone and feel no need of a companion. My traumatic, semi-nomadic early life probably made me some what of a loner, making me feel as though I was apart from others.

Arthur and I shared other things, intense local football (soccer) matches, dining out, taking my children to shows and on outings, staying in the caravan by the sea or going to the beach.

The loss of these shared experiences was hard. We both miss them and memories, while sweet, hurt. I walked around the cars and took pictures, but I did not tell Arthur about it, for fear of making him feel left out and incapable. That is what your life together comes down to, the things you experience, the sharing. I treasure the sharing of this end-time of his life. It is a rare privilege but one bought with emotional pain.

The Piper must be paid.

The outing to see the American cars was a good. At the end I got into my little HR V Honda, did a neat little u-turn past stunning long and wide vehicles and gave thanks that, through their interest and passion, people were adding beauty to the world, to me one of the most worthy pursuits.  

I might talk about it to Arthur after all and show him the pictures on my phone. That way we will still be sharing.

Arthur is looking better.

Arthur is sitting up and eating and drink, and watching the tapes of the football games. I notice he is not eating much, man only drinking soup and thickened milkshakes. I am worried he may have had a slight undiagnosed stroke recently.  I will talk to the doctor about it.

I think I am in some type of grief. I am in a deep gloom, I cannot get motivated to do anything and even leaving the house is difficult.  My whole world is grey. I worry that I am not happy enough to help Arthur.  Maybe I do need to follow -up the counselling sessions the Carers Association arranged for me.

So frail, so vulnerable, but I love him.

It is enough to break my heart, to see him lying in his hospital bed, so thin, so frail. Arthur is talking, he is eating vitamised foods and drinking thickened fluids, but he is so far from the strong and resolute man he was. He still has his sense of humour and quickness of mind, but he knows what he has lost. He laments never again drinking a bottle of beer, tipping his head back to enjoy a cold ale, when he sees the young men in the advertisements in the cricket telecasts on television. A small glass, tentatively sipped is not a man's way. Mind you, Arthur  was no great drinker of alcohol, and would like as not have me make an ice-shandy of beer and lemonade in a frozen glass the way I always made it, when the day was hot with the glare of an Australian Summer.  

I see bones with little muscle barely able to hold him up and hands that shake when holding a spoon. Arthur no longer reads, even though he only read one book in his whole life, a book about a soldier in World War One. I see his eyes are still the beautiful blue I love so much. I want to bring him home, to me, his dogs, his big TV with his football especially Manchester United, the three things most important to him now.

Arthur told me last week he would be leaving me soon. I said he wouldn't, the doctor had checked him over and he was still healthy.  I said to him that we must make this time be as long as possible, that we must make the best of what we had. He said, "I love you." I treasure that.

I am bit numb still. I have not been stricken with great grief; maybe because it is the background to my life, the hum just in the hearing, that fills any silent space.

Words cannot describe my love for this man or even why it exists, beyond all understanding. I will take him any way I can, frail, aged, needy, dependent. I will give him what he desires, to be at home for as long as he can, with us, his wife and his family of dogs.

This man is my husband, I am his wife. We belong together. We love each other.

I love him.