Chapter Sixty-Seven
‘Dylan?’ I said, as the traffic lights changed from red to green.
‘Hello, darling.’ He sounded delighted to hear from me. ‘I was just thinking about you. How did it go earlier with the children? Were they horrified that you’re going to live in sin,and then tour the country in a campervan with a strange man and two hairy dogs?’ He chuckled, no doubt delighted at painting this comical picture.
‘I did mention it,’ I nodded, as the car leapt forward. ‘Although I didn’t get as far as the bit about the campervan–’
Dylan caught my anxious tone.
‘Are all bets off?’ he said nervously. ‘Do they hate the idea? Do you want me to talk to them? I’m happy to wait and let things settle–’
‘No, no, no.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s nothing like that. They’re looking forward to meeting you and–’
‘Oh, that’s a relief.’ Dylan sighed gustily. ‘You had me worried for a moment. Meanwhile, Terry and her hubby are excited about meeting your brood. If you want to get a date in the diary, we can crack on and do that. Heavens, we don’t want our chicks stressing about their rents – I do believe that’s the term used for old fogies like us.’
He chuckled again, and I found my shoulders unkinking slightly. This man was part of life that I liked. My life. Where everything was hearts and flowers and big fat buzzy bees and flowers nodding on a warm summer breeze. Not strangers calling me up. Ambulances blue-lighting my father to a hospital. My mother beyond understanding anything.
I made myself take a calming breath.
‘Not so much of the old fogies’ reference,’ I said lightly, attempting humour. ‘I’m actually calling you about another pair of old fogies.’
‘Oh?’ said Dylan in surprise. ‘Who?’
‘My parents. Well, specifically my mother.’
‘Go on,’ said Dylan.
And with that the whole sorry story tumbled out.
‘So, let me get this straight.’ I could sense Dylan frowning. ‘Your sister has refused to help. You’ve been left to deal with your father who – as we speak – is on his way to hospital. Meanwhile you have nobody available to look after your mother tonight.’
‘Correct,’ I nodded. ‘Freya offered to ring some care homes. To see if there were any vacancies or a chance of an emergency admission.’
‘She will be unsuccessful,’ said Dylan quietly. ‘There are certain protocols that must be followed before someone can be taken in for respite care. With the best will in the world, that won’t be done on a Sunday night with a skeleton staff.’
‘I thought as much,’ I said flatly.
Despair threatened to engulf me. I’d been all revved up to ask Dylan if there was any possibility – the smallest chance – of Mum checking into Primrose House tonight. It would have helped enormously. I could then have devoted my time and energy to Dad, without being torn in two.
I’d have to ask one of the kids to help. To have their granny overnight. But as soon as the thought had registered, my mind swatted it away. They all had their own jobs to go to in the morning. It wasn’t fair to dump my mother on them.
‘I know what’ – I said, thinking aloud – ‘I’ll take Dad’s overnight bag to the hospital. Then I’ll return to my mother. Thank the neighbour for her help. Then telephone the Emergency Services. I’ll say that Mum has had a funny turn and get her ambulanced off to the hospital. She’ll likely spend all night in a corridor, but at least she’ll be on a trolley. She’ll also be safe. And then I can stay at the hospital and alternate between both parents in one location. Mum can stay in the hospital until I sort out her respite care.’
‘Maggie, I don’t think–’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I interrupted, perking up hugely.
Sorted! Why didn’t I think of that before? Okay, so I’d be calling an ambulance for someone who wasn’t ill, but what choice did I have in the matter? However, my conscience had plenty to say on the matter.
Are you sure you don’t feel a teensy bit guilty about your mother taking up a hospital bed – be it in a corridor or on a ward – just so you can juggle your own life with your parents’ needs?
Oh for…
Fuckity-fuckity-fuck. Why did the little voice always guilt trip me?
I thumped the steering wheel in exasperation. Right. Back to Freya’s suggestion. Stick Mum in a wheelchair. With a pillow. We’d both stay with Dad. And maybe, just maybe, my stubborn father would finally realise that things needed to change.
I’d be firm with Dad. Tell him enough was enough. He would have a carer. After all, no way could he look after either himself or my mother when later convalescing at home.
It was time for me to be more Freya and less Maggie. In other words, to put my foot down. Tread on a few corns and bunions. Get my life back, for heaven’s sake. Ha! If things didn’t change, then I wouldn’t be going anywhere – never mind travelling around the country in a campervan.
‘Maggie?’ Dylan interrupted my chaotic thoughts.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ I said tiredly.
‘I mentioned that care homes must follow certain protocols before taking someone in, especially with weekend skeleton staff. But that’s other care homes. I’m now talking about my care home. I can put myself on duty right now. Go over to Primrose House. Load all your mother’s needs onto the system – her medical history, GP details, medications – and then get her admitted. She will then be settled and comfortable for however long you need. A vacancy became available forty-eight hours ago. Your mum is welcome to have the room while your dad recuperates in hospital. Primrose House is only a small care home, but it’s a good one, if I do say so myself.’
‘Oh, Dylan,’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say yes,’ he said simply. ‘After all’ – his tone became playful – ‘your parents might one day be my in-laws. So, I’d better keep on the right side of them.’