Ninety-five years young

I've decided to take up my journal again. My mother is still with me and celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday this week. Along with some friends, I took her out to lunch. There is a local pub which does a very good two-course meal, including a carvery, for pensioners. She tucked in to turkey, stuffing, sausage, roast potatoes and parsnips and an assortment of other vegetables. Mum's generation are definitely not prone to being vegetarians - probably because the shortage of meat during the war makes them see it as a luxury item; not that there are too many of her generation still alive.

Before we went out, a carer came to sit with her for a couple of hours. The carer was only ten years younger than her, and thought that she was very spry for her ages. She does have extremely good mobility - no zimmer and she can get up and down stairs. The carer, who is called Sheila did manage to engage Mum in conversation; something I find very difficult to do. Mind you, Sheila is obviously a very good talker. Before she left she had learned that Mum has a son called John, she comes from Cheshire and her father was Irish. Sheila calls herself 'Irish Sheila'. She did, however, say that I deserved a medal.

Having Sheila here for a couple of hours, not only enables me to get out, it does improve the quality of Mum's life. On Wednesday, the psycho-geriatric doctor, who had asked for a brain scan to be performed on Mum, came with the result. She hasn't had a stroke so her form of dementia comes under the umbrella term of 'Altzheimers'. Having ruled out strokes, he is now able to prescribe some medication which will hopefully also improve the quality of her life. The tablet has to be taken at night. She said she'd take it this time, but wouldn't do so again when I presented her with it for the first time. I asked if she'd swallowed it, and she stuck out her tongue like a little girl. These two things do make it a little easier but I'm not getting any help with personal care, frequently become exasperated and am very tied. I discussed residential care with the doctor who said it might be best for both of us as Mum does not really distinguish me from a carer much of the time. I am ready for a break next week when I will visit my son, his wife and my grandson, Rupert, in Switzerland. Mum will go to the Care Home where they know her best.