Mum sent me a text yesterday to say that Grandad is moving into a residential home in a neighbouring village for eleven days of respite. I was unsure whether this was a good thing but he apparently requested it himself, explaining that if he couldn’t go, he would kill himself. Mum called the doctor who prescribed some antidepressants and arrangements were made to find a new home for Grandad. My uncle and aunt managed to find him a temporary room in a sheltered housing complex which they were both very impressed with: it doesn’t smell funny, it’s spotlessly clean and Grandad’s bedroom is as big as his lounge at home, as well as a very sizeable bathroom. My aunt even said she would happily move in there herself and she is as fastidious as they come; she’s the kind of person to spend an entire holiday taking photos of cracks in the walls to complain about to the travel agent after the trip, so it must be nice.
My uncle is now on the case of tacking down some a more permanent residence as Grandad has stated that he does not want to return to the family home. This surprised me at first but mum explained that he is so fed up of being alone all day and often makes her feel guilty for leaving him in the morning when she has to go to work. She also said that she thought he might also be fearing passing away whilst he was on his own and about the very likely fact that mum would almost certainly be the one to discover him. What strange things one has to consider once one reaches their nineties.
I really hope this respite proves to be the tonic the old boy needs and that he sees his final days out in a warm and friendly environment. It’s weird to even write these words when he is still very much with us but we all need to be prepared for the inevitable, I guess. I’m just pleased that he at least has enough marbles left to make this decision himself and that we know it’s the best thing for him in that case.
Anyway, apologies for the morbid post but when I started this blog, I wanted it to be a diary and this is what’s happening at the moment so there it is – the shit bits of life along with the meals out, gigs and holidays.
On a lighter note, we fly to Newquay in about half an hour. My friend, Mrs M, has already been in touch to tell me about a communal beach barbecue that’s taking place tomorrow evening and I’m dying to have a night out with her in Newquay itself (we’re staying just outside in the town my brother-in-law lives in). We had a girly holiday down there when we about sixteen and when we were IDed trying to enter a Walkabout, we slipped back to the hostel (which was truly awful but only a tenner a night), swapped clothes and tried again only to be allowed admittance this time. I seem to recall that I was wearing a headscarf but, hey, it worked. No danger of that kid of thing happening now we’re both in our thirties, of course.
My diary’s coming with me but my laptop isn’t so there’ll be a few post-dated blog posts up on my return home.
Ta-ta for now.