It's been a while since I posted here, sorry 'bout that.
I now have joint power of attorney (or Lasting Powers of Attorney to give it it's proper title), with my sister, over my mum's finances. It's a strange feeling.
Mum has always been worried about what we're doing (seeing solicitors and soforth), and has voiced her concerns to me on a number of occasions. In questioning our motives, it makes me question my own.
Now, having absolute control over her money, I'm having to make decisions I never wanted: how would you feel if you had to work out how much money to allocate to your mum's bank card every day? If you had to pay her council tax, check up on pension payments, watch her shares and ISAs?
I can barely look after myself, and now I'm responsible for a 63 year old woman.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Getting Better
Wow.
Aricept is a miracle godsend: Mum has got infinitely better. Her memory is improving, her demeanour is better, and she's even started feeding herself without problem. Her personal hygiene has vastly improved, an to cap it all off, she's had a driving assessment, passed it, and will probably get her driving licence back!
I can't believe it.
On the flip-side, we've been giving her encouragement and praise; telling her she's getting better. She's a lady who thrives on confidence, and to hear this has also helped leaps and bounds... It's also made her think she's OK to take her own tablets. She's not.
The other day, I went round to make dinner and give her her tablets. I saw her briefly, told her I was nipping out on my bike, and came back two hours later.
She'd not only taken her tablets herself, but taken the next day's too. A double dose of three sets of drugs in one day. Nightmare. The argument we had over whether or not she'd taken them, was capable of doing, and if I was patronising her, was legendary. I cried, she cried, I screamed, she screamed. We made up.
God, it's so hard.
We've had to change the hiding place for her tablets - no biggie - but she cannot take them herself. Be warned.
Monday, 18 August 2008
Family Friends
So, after three months of having the diagnosis, we are on the way to establishing power of attorney.
This is something that's really important to do while your loved one is still partially capable - when they aren't, court cases abound for trying to get control of their assets.
It's not about greed, theft or avarice, it's about looking after their best interests. Making sure their money is safe; that no one can rob them with magic beans. It's also about making life easier in the long run: try to imagine how difficult it'll be when your loved one needs to go into a home. These cost money. Their assets will pay for this, but imagine the difficulties when you need to access this money for them.
So the document is signed. Me and my sister* are the attorneys.
So why the blog?
Well, we originally asked an old family friend for advice - he was my parents' solicitor for years. All up until they got divorced. He, unbeknowst to us, had retired years ago (we foolishly took Mum's advice for who to use...), and gave us some incorrect information that it was too late for us to establish something like this, as mum was already incapable.
We went to another solicitor, someone who specialises in these cases, who told us that was bollocks, and we needed to get on with doing it right away, which we did.
My sister opened a letter relating to it at my mum's house. I was addressed to me, but I gave her permission.
The "friends" arrived.
They openly and patronisingly berated my sister to her face, questioned her [our] motives, and promised they would fight the document in court! They accused the solicitor of not following procedure, and assuring us they would not allow it to happen.
What the fuck!
How dare they question our integrity. How dare they add to our problems. How dare they fucking well interfere.
*Yes, I know it's "My sister and I". I wrote it anyway.
This is something that's really important to do while your loved one is still partially capable - when they aren't, court cases abound for trying to get control of their assets.
It's not about greed, theft or avarice, it's about looking after their best interests. Making sure their money is safe; that no one can rob them with magic beans. It's also about making life easier in the long run: try to imagine how difficult it'll be when your loved one needs to go into a home. These cost money. Their assets will pay for this, but imagine the difficulties when you need to access this money for them.
So the document is signed. Me and my sister* are the attorneys.
So why the blog?
Well, we originally asked an old family friend for advice - he was my parents' solicitor for years. All up until they got divorced. He, unbeknowst to us, had retired years ago (we foolishly took Mum's advice for who to use...), and gave us some incorrect information that it was too late for us to establish something like this, as mum was already incapable.
We went to another solicitor, someone who specialises in these cases, who told us that was bollocks, and we needed to get on with doing it right away, which we did.
My sister opened a letter relating to it at my mum's house. I was addressed to me, but I gave her permission.
The "friends" arrived.
They openly and patronisingly berated my sister to her face, questioned her [our] motives, and promised they would fight the document in court! They accused the solicitor of not following procedure, and assuring us they would not allow it to happen.
What the fuck!
How dare they question our integrity. How dare they add to our problems. How dare they fucking well interfere.
*Yes, I know it's "My sister and I". I wrote it anyway.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Self Medication
All I want to do is get drunk.
I'm not talking a few drinks down the pub, I'm talking mind-numbingly, liver-damagingly fucked.
I want to take drugs I haven't taken in years: I wanna get E'd up and feel happy again.
Living on my own has made me realise how little I dealt with the split from my girlfriend. God I miss her. I was listening to a Neil Young song (depressingly and self-indulgently) "Oh Lonesome Me" last night, and there was a lyric that made me cry. Something about an ex going out, having fun and charming people. I know she's not doing that though; she's as miserable as I am, and that makes it worse.
Regarding Alzheimer's: I have a terrible memory. I have a significant family history, on both sides, of dementia. I am so worried about living to fulfil this prophecy this that I just don't care about my own health anymore. I'm smoking more cigarettes than I ever have, and drinking to make myself ill.
My Grandad smoked 20 a day for about 60 years. He died of stomach cancer, directly related to smoking. The onset was quick, and although he was in pain through his final months, he died with dignity. My Grandma quit when her husband died, and we watched as she degenerated, much like my mum is doing now, into a mental wreck who had to be cared for in a home. ("Home" is kind of a euphemism though - it was more like a waiting room for the crazy train to deathsville. Like the ward in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".) She took years to die, years that caused my family pain as this woman who looked like Grandma battled with a world that had long since stopped making any sense to her.
I want Grandad's death. I want it quick and easy and with all my mental faculties intact. I no longer want children. I want no one to grieve.
Life is disappointing, it's unfair and heartbreaking, and I want to die.
I'm not talking a few drinks down the pub, I'm talking mind-numbingly, liver-damagingly fucked.
I want to take drugs I haven't taken in years: I wanna get E'd up and feel happy again.
Living on my own has made me realise how little I dealt with the split from my girlfriend. God I miss her. I was listening to a Neil Young song (depressingly and self-indulgently) "Oh Lonesome Me" last night, and there was a lyric that made me cry. Something about an ex going out, having fun and charming people. I know she's not doing that though; she's as miserable as I am, and that makes it worse.
Regarding Alzheimer's: I have a terrible memory. I have a significant family history, on both sides, of dementia. I am so worried about living to fulfil this prophecy this that I just don't care about my own health anymore. I'm smoking more cigarettes than I ever have, and drinking to make myself ill.
My Grandad smoked 20 a day for about 60 years. He died of stomach cancer, directly related to smoking. The onset was quick, and although he was in pain through his final months, he died with dignity. My Grandma quit when her husband died, and we watched as she degenerated, much like my mum is doing now, into a mental wreck who had to be cared for in a home. ("Home" is kind of a euphemism though - it was more like a waiting room for the crazy train to deathsville. Like the ward in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".) She took years to die, years that caused my family pain as this woman who looked like Grandma battled with a world that had long since stopped making any sense to her.
I want Grandad's death. I want it quick and easy and with all my mental faculties intact. I no longer want children. I want no one to grieve.
Life is disappointing, it's unfair and heartbreaking, and I want to die.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Mum, I'm leaving you.
The look on my mum's face as I left her house was heartbreaking. She knew why I'd left, in her own way, and the smiles through sadness she gave me were worse than any tears.
I'd moved in with mum in January 08, and lasted just over six months.
She's been recently diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's disease, and for all my good intentions in looking after her I ended up thinking of myself.
It's a funny thing watching your parents get ill: my dad's been suffering from Parkinson's disease for a few years now (they're divorced), and everything he's ever loved in life (which is cars) is slipping away from him as his body becomes a prison for him to live in... But that's another post.
My siblings and I first noticed there was something wrong with mum last year. She's lived on her own for about 10 years on and off, but since the death of her mother it almost seems like she needed to take on her mantle; to become Grandma. She's always been skittish, but we noticed things were going wrong rather quickly. Her spelling started to fail her, her world became smaller as she forgot how to get to places, she confused her cat with one that had died years ago, she repeated herself with increasing regularity, and numerous other little things that tell you something is amiss.
So, I moved home with the intention of spending two years there. Firstly, to save up for a house, and second, to keep an eye on mum. We didn't know then that she had a medical condition.
As I spent more time with her, it became quickly apparent that things were much worse than I'd thought. Conversation quickly descended into madness as she was unable to maintain the thread, and dinner times became something I grew to dread, as they were the times I couldn't escape to do work or play Xbox. I hate myself for this. I know it's the disease, not her, but God, it still looks like mum. It sounds like her. Ask her something about our childhood and she can generally recall it in vivid detail. Ask what she just had for dinner however, and she's flummoxed.
That's it. Six months was all I could give her. Oh, we're getting social workers to check in on her in the day (the DVLA took her licence away after diagnosis), and we've organised a rota between us kids to see her every night. I could even give an excuse about breaking up with my [unsupportive] girlfriend and, as a 28 year old man, cutting loose from the apron strings. About how I need a place to keep myself sane.
But that's all they are, excuses. She cared for me for 15 years of my life, loved me for all of it, and all I could muster was six poxy months.
The worst thing? I feel relieved.
I'd moved in with mum in January 08, and lasted just over six months.
She's been recently diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's disease, and for all my good intentions in looking after her I ended up thinking of myself.
It's a funny thing watching your parents get ill: my dad's been suffering from Parkinson's disease for a few years now (they're divorced), and everything he's ever loved in life (which is cars) is slipping away from him as his body becomes a prison for him to live in... But that's another post.
My siblings and I first noticed there was something wrong with mum last year. She's lived on her own for about 10 years on and off, but since the death of her mother it almost seems like she needed to take on her mantle; to become Grandma. She's always been skittish, but we noticed things were going wrong rather quickly. Her spelling started to fail her, her world became smaller as she forgot how to get to places, she confused her cat with one that had died years ago, she repeated herself with increasing regularity, and numerous other little things that tell you something is amiss.
So, I moved home with the intention of spending two years there. Firstly, to save up for a house, and second, to keep an eye on mum. We didn't know then that she had a medical condition.
As I spent more time with her, it became quickly apparent that things were much worse than I'd thought. Conversation quickly descended into madness as she was unable to maintain the thread, and dinner times became something I grew to dread, as they were the times I couldn't escape to do work or play Xbox. I hate myself for this. I know it's the disease, not her, but God, it still looks like mum. It sounds like her. Ask her something about our childhood and she can generally recall it in vivid detail. Ask what she just had for dinner however, and she's flummoxed.
That's it. Six months was all I could give her. Oh, we're getting social workers to check in on her in the day (the DVLA took her licence away after diagnosis), and we've organised a rota between us kids to see her every night. I could even give an excuse about breaking up with my [unsupportive] girlfriend and, as a 28 year old man, cutting loose from the apron strings. About how I need a place to keep myself sane.
But that's all they are, excuses. She cared for me for 15 years of my life, loved me for all of it, and all I could muster was six poxy months.
The worst thing? I feel relieved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)