I’ve been trying all week to get my mother to the doctor’s to have her dressing changed. The hospital where she fell, and where they temporarily dressed the wound, insisted she should go soon. But I have not been able to get to her at any time when the surgery might be open and she can’t get there on her own. Every time I see her, the arm looks worse. The plaster is stuck tight with old blood congealed around it. “Did I bump into something?” she asks when I look at it.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/jun/09/familyandrelationships.family3

My mother gets endless summons from NHS outposts. There’s the diabetic clinic, the audiology clinic, the podiatric clinic. We dutifully take her but often they don’t know who she is or why she’s there. By comparison, trips to the psychogeriatric unit, the supposed controlling intelligence of her care, are pretty good. The consultant, who is Iraqi and looks like a short Peter Sellers, once visited her flat. Now she calls him “my friend Al Jazeera”.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/may/26/familyandrelationships.family5

My mother has been away staying with my sister. For the first few days I feel disoriented, as if there’s something I should be remembering but can’t. Gradually, the feeling fades. I am letting go of all that extra memory capacity I need to compensate for what she’s lost. More immediately, I can abandon the search for what she calls her “zapper” – the TV remote control.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/may/12/familyandrelationships.family10

My mother’s teeth are still missing and so, now, is the television remote control. These are both pretty crucial parts of her life these days – the teeth for fairly obvious reasons, the remote because the TV is vital for companionship and, without it, she can’t change channels. We are feeling pessimistic about ever finding these items as they have been gone much longer than usual and everything is pointing to them having been thrown out in a heap of papers.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/apr/28/familyandrelationships.family3

The working day has run on longer than planned and I find myself still at work at 8pm. I’d been meaning to visit my mother all day, either popping out at lunchtime or on the way home. Now it’s so late I’m in two minds. Perhaps she will have gone to bed already. I’d better ring her first.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/apr/14/familyandrelationships.family8

A few weeks back the phone rang as I was settling down to work. It was the manager of my mother’s estate office. The unwelcome news was that my mother’s neighbour was complaining again about noise from her radio in the middle of the night. The neighbour had now involved the council.

Full article: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/mar/31/familyandrelationships.family5

This week my brother rang to say he had last-minute tickets to Madame Butterfly at the Royal Albert Hall. Could I bring Mum or would I prefer to bring my partner? I struggled with my conscience, but only briefly. “It’s difficult bringing Mum out at night. I’ll have to take the car instead of public transport.” What I really meant was I fancied an unencumbered night out. I knew how much she’d love Madame Butterfly, so because I felt guilty I decided to call in on her on my way to work.

When I arrive, Mum is up and dressed. She looks different in a way I can’t quite pin down until she says, “We’re looking for my teeth.” Her carer is there. She comes every morning to remind Mum to take her medicine and help tidy up. Mum seems to draw out the best in her carers, and her current one is no exception. She’s Ghanaian, sweet-natured and very conscientious. She’s also inventive and is currently using a ladle to empty my mother’s dishwasher, clogged up – again – with vast amounts of fat. I hold a bucket beside her and we discuss Mum’s increasingly alarming habit of leaving fat heating up on the stove.

I resume the hunt for the missing teeth

Read more:

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/mar/17/familyandrelationships.family2

On Saturday, my mother arrives at my front door. She’s made her way over by bus because I’ve told her that we had a break-in the previous afternoon. This is one of her endearing characteristics: she is always on-side in a crisis. She never did symbolic occasions much, such as birthdays or Mother’s Day. But if any of us were having any difficulties she would always pitch up. It wasn’t to do anything in particular, just be there.

This instinct is still intact, driving her to undertake a journey she hasn’t managed on her own for a long time. Except by the time she arrives, she can’t remember why she has come. She remembers when she sees the front door. It looks as if a psycho with a battering ram has been at it and that it has taken many hours to board it up. Which is precisely the situation. “Oh no,” she says, “How dreadful”.

I tell her in some detail what has happened, the force used and how long it took to secure the door. She steps over the splintered wood and the shards of glass heading for the kitchen. “How did they get in?” she asks.

Read more

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/mar/03/familyandrelationships.family10

We were getting ready for the cinema when the phone rang. It was my mother’s neighbours. Someone in the block had called the council to investigate loud knocking noises coming from her flat. Eventually she’d answered the door, and after they had all gathered in her kitchen listening to the pipes, concluded something was seriously wrong with the central heating.

It would be a lie to say I rushed to the rescue. I felt exasperated. I’d had a difficult day and was looking forward to some relaxation. It was also the day the snow came down heavily in London. I sent the neighbour to and fro, eliminating possibilities, hoping to fix it remotely. She was greeted every time by my astonished mother who in minutes had forgotten her last visit. But I knew this was unfair on the neighbour. I would have to call British Gas.

Ringing a call centre for an emergency visit on your own behalf is tiresome enough. Calling them for someone else – with the same name – trips the fuses. But “Andy” eventually allowed me to make my case.

Read More: http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/feb/17/familyandrelationships.family2

Filling in a form at the doctor’s recently, I found myself answering “Yes” to the question: “Is anyone dependent on you for their care?” It was a sobering moment, a confirmation that somehow I have acquired a new role in life – principal carer for my mother, who has been diagnosed as being in the early stages of dementia.

Read more:

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2007/jan/20/familyandrelationships.family2