Well it’s all gone bonkers and the world has gone mad.
Not so at Chicken HQ, where spirits are flowing lively, and the mood is good. Spirit of the blitz is what we say here; keep calm and carry the flip on!
It’s not long since I updated you chickies but oh my goodness – what a turn we have had in semi-predicted events from the last blog.
Long story short – my silly old EMR went and had a mini-stroke last Thursday, at his home 50-odd miles from me.
I got a call earlier that evening from the people on the other end of the line when he pulls the red cord in his flat, to say:
“Ooh hellowwww. This is Biaaaaaanca from CareLine Support good evening and how are you Mrs Cardigan”
(no punctuation: intended. Accuracy here is key.)
“Just wondering if the ambulance has turned up for your Daaaaaaad.”
Mrs ‘Cardigan’, unleashing some of the associated buttons, responds.
“Dad..ambulance…what’s happened???”
“Well I can’t really saaaaay as I only spoke to him when he pulled the caaawwwd and he couldn’t speak. “
(??)
“Has the ambulance attennnnnnded?”
“I have NFI,” (code for not a clue) “I am 50 miles away from him.”
“Ohhhhh! So you’re not with him at the mow-mennnnt. Well, good luck and speak to you sooooooooooooon. Take care!”
Almost all of the rest of the buttons ping off all by themselves and Mrs Cardigan sits, lost, with no idea how to get them back. Oh – no idea how to find out which elocution school Biaaaaaanca went to. And there’s Dad to think of, too.
A restless night, calling the hospitals in Borsetshire = no result. Where the hell is he?? What has happened?
Me and Mr Cardigan are driving along the next morning and the phone goes.
Holy Moly – it’s the Dadster!
“Oh Sophie! It’s Dad! I am in the hospital! Ha Ha Ha Ha!” (Glad he thinks it’s funny.)
“What’s happened? Are you OK??”
“Had a bit of bother, blasted mini-stroke, they have a special name for it. All fine, food is good and a jolly nice nurse looking after me.”
“I’m coming to get you Dad, bring you home, look after you.”
“Oh good! I have been here three days!”
Uh-oh.
************
Wind forwards. Got him back to the Dad Day (and residential) Care Centre, talking about COVID-19, nearly all the way home. Obviously, at nearly 91 and still (just a bloody bout) standing, he thinks it’s nothing to do with him.
Dad has bronchiectasis, atrial fibrilation, high blood pressure and is very deaf. Consequently, when he coughs you think he might have had a heart attack, and when you go to ask him if he’s ok he can’t bloody hear you anyway. Not ideal.
Very soon, it appears that hygiene in the current circumstances, is not exactly top of his list. As we were getting things together in his flat to transfer to DDCC, I noticed that it was not exactly awash with Dove, Zest or Carex. I did a super-quick clean of key facilities, without him noticing (he does do pretty well) and off we set. To the county with the highest number of confirmed cases outside London.
Once back at base, I introduce him to anti-bac handwash. “Anti-bac, Dad, Dad, anti-bac”.
“We have to make sure we’re washing our hands regularly, with this stuff or soap and water, OK?”
“What, me as well? Pah, lot of old bunkum! We didn’t do that in the RAF”
[That was in 1947, I am about to say…then think better of it.]
“Especially you Dad! You’re in a high risk category as it is, and you’ve just had a TIA too.”
“But I haven’t been near anyone with the blasted thing!”
Oh dear. I can see there is work to do.
On day two, I am reminded of something.
What is it with old people and cotton hankerchiefs?? Scrumpled up health hazards at the best of times, stuffed up ladies’ cardi sleeves in a bulbous bump (not mine thank you very much, despite my new surname!), shoved in trouser pockets and down the side of the sofa.
And all over my house now, it would seem. I found three in his bed when I made it, one behind the loo, one under the kitchen table and two in the garage. There’s always one on the kitchen table when he’s eating his meals. Naughty old stockpiler, he should be reported. I’m wondering if there was room for anything else in his suitcase. This man is a hankie addict.
I decide to make some new house rules.
“Dad, we’re going to stop using hankies and start using tissues instead. You know the saying: Catch it, kill it, bin it!”
“You want to put my hankies in the bin?”
[Breathe]
My daughter’s young man duly arrives with four boxes of tissues, to add to the four we already have. He’d been shopping and messaged to see if we needed anything as obviously, we are all categorised, in the eyes of the youth, as old people. But actually, because he’s a very kind boy.
“What are those for??” splutters the Captain.
“YOU!” we all say at once.
“You’ll be COVIDAD-90 in a minute if we don’t get this right!” say I. Luckily, he laughed quite a bit.
It’s true – we do need to make the switch. They can’t be good things to be using at the moment.
On closer inspection, in fact, they look like the original COVID-19 laboratory culture – or possibly, swabs from the most infected victim so far. Wait a minute; is that actual Louis Pasteur’s DNA I detect on one of them? The bugs have so many legs they’ve taken themselves to the (empty) local pub down the road, chortling and reproducing in splendid, yet evil mirth, relishing no queues at the bar – but slightly chipped off by the lack of humans to infect. That pint of Old Sanitiser was good though. Burp (…..and a million COVI bugs flutter up the road. To our place).
One by one, the various hankie exhibits have been removed and are currently soaking in washing powder and Milton, in a bucket outside. The tissues have been deployed so that a box awaits at every landing point that COVIDAD may settle.
Meanwhile, at the local hairdresser, where my lovely friend COVICOTTAGE-55 (or in normal times, @flowerpotcottage) works – I gingerly popped my head through the door to say hi. We can’t even elbow-bump now and this pains me when I see her because I want to squish her. Anyway, we soon got over it.
I’m asking her all sorts of questions about how long they will stay open, has business dropped off, and is that old lady slumped in the chair with her perm curlers in actually the latest UK victim.
“Doesn’t bother this lot!” she can say, because much like COVIDAD, hearing is a luxury long departed; and those overhead bell dryers can’t half cut noise pollution out for the occupant. However, looking at the old lady in question, I can’t help feeling she’s been accidentally cremated in the chair. Saves on the funeral fees, I suppose.
It’s been very interesting as the week has evolved, to see that the good old spirit of the blitz is slightly on the wane for C-Daddy. As we settle for Bozza’s daily update, he is beginning to become a little bit frightened about what this may become. He’s not given to pandemics of fear – his generation just doesn’t do that; but it is sinking in. I watch with love, and care for him more closely. These times are precious.
Gawd. I’ve just put the cat out and found another hankerchief by the back door. Ping! went the last button on my cardigan.
Take care COVICHUMS. xx
Who's going to get the chicken? 