Tag Archives: terminal illness

herself

Brought to you from the different world of a year ago; my Mothers’ Day post.

My mum is a star. Vibrant and sassy, full of style and charm. A veteran of many a golf club and gin joint. An adventurer, only a little constrained by her time and place. Why would she buy boring black when bright pink is available? Informal, but with an eye for the proprieties- wine from a tumbler is fine at the kitchen table, as long as you don’t forget the good china for a formal event. Constantly striving to love, learn and laugh. Strong, passionate and funny. She’s warm, generous and sociable.

My mum has always been the youngest mum within my groups of friends. She was the right age to enjoy the sixties, she was in her early forties when I graduated and was ready to reap the benefits of  a long retirement. After being widowed at 50, she moved to live in Spain. By 60 she was happily remarried, had grandchildren to dote over, and an active social life, in Ireland once more. When I moved house, she arrived with cleaning products and wine- Spurs Fan arrived home to find the house well warmed, but no cleaner than when he’d left.

Now, my mum is dying. Very, very slowly. We may not be able to share another Mothers’ Day. Her brain is getting all tangled (the science bit)  and doesn’t send the right messages to her body, so it’s shutting down. She’s unable to eat, can hardly speak, she has long lost her balance and is losing any ability to move. Her vision is severely limited. She needs full time nursing care. There is no treatment for her condition. She is 68.

We are defeated by this. Her husband, children and grandchildren, her siblings and wider family, her good friends- we are all helpless. We are heartbroken. We can only watch, hold her hand, and absorb each blow, each little loss, and know that the big loss comes ever closer.

And so it did.

If you have one about you, hug a mum today. She’ll need it.

the important stuff

I haven’t treated you to a re-post before. There’s not too much here worth saying twice- but this one is. A wee reminder that in amongst the wrapping and the glitter, the toys and the bling, the universe rolls on. Across the world, and in our circles of family, friends and acquaintances, someone is not feeling joyful. Someone is facing a personal catastrophe. Someone’s world is shifting beyond recognition. Let’s remember to walk with that person, to be there alongside them, to carry tissues. If you are that someone, look round you, know we are there. You are not alone in this.

I’ve built walls,

A fortress deep and mighty

That none may penetrate.

I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain

It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.

I am a rock.

I am an island.

Pretty good lyrics there, Mr Simon, but no way to live a life. I love to singalong to this, bellowing out my independence. A teacher once told me that the lines ‘I have my books and my poetry to protect me’ made her think of me, so I must have been a rather odd 11 year old. (Enough of the ‘no surprise there’ comments…)

No matter how loud, bolshy, reserved and independent we may be, we all need help. We muddle our way through life, dealing with what it throws at us, grappling with the distance between our plans and the reality. We muddle better with other people. They listen, share experience, hold hands, point us in a better direction, help lift some of the load. That’s particularly important when there’s illness in the family. One of the things I’ve found hardest about Herself’s deteriorating health is that it’s the first challenge in life that my mother hasn’t been able to be there for me. She can’t help me cope with the loss of her. We hug and hold hands. I can’t climb on to the bed beside her anymore. I’m in bits and she can’t even tell me to go and wash my hair and I’ll feel better. She can’t tell me anything. I have to figure it out for myself. I don’t want to be a grown up anymore.

But it is what it is, and I need to gather support around me. So do you, whatever is going on in your life. We all need our families and friends. We may have bloggy buddies, colleagues, the local football team, mates from the pub, or the Genteel Ladies’ Afternoon Sewing Club- whatever the networks are, we need to use them.

This week I was at a PSP support group meeting. A group of us struggling to deal with the loss of a loved one, either because of bereavement or because the loved one is still affected by PSP. Former carers, long term carers, the newly diagnosed, all muddling through, all reaching out and supporting each other. A specialist nurse was there along with the local worker, talking research and medication, and providing much needed reassurance. These meetings are about sharing information, tips and hugs. Reducing isolation, talking about dark days, laughing. Dealing with the challenge that the anticipated  future is not what we would have hoped- either in length or in quality. Giving people a chance to tell their stories. Preparing us all for the time when there’s nothing left to do. Giving us the strength to be able to sit there, empty handed, when we’d rather run away with our fingers in our ears yelling ‘lalalalalala’ and not deal with what’s happening.

Whatever is going on for you and yours- you are not alone in this.

only a few tears

I have no idea how long it took, and I wasn’t filmed, but I gave the talk. I held on to the podium for dear life, I tried to look at the audience, and my voice cracked, but I gave the talk. Forty people can be astonishingly silent. I was delaying their lunch, but the tummies didn’t even rumble.

After all the build up, I know you don’t want to miss out on the main event…

This is long, so feel free to ignore it and get on with your life. Alternatively, get a cup of coffee and make yourself comfortable.

Then we’ll begin.

This is a story of my mum, Ann, and our PSP experience. While this is an individual story,
you’ll find traces of many of the points raised today; delayed diagnosis, lack of local specialist support, rare disease not rare care needs, systemic problems and the ongoing education of health professionals by families.

Ann was widowed at 50, lived in Spain for a while, came back to Omagh, worked and got
remarried. By 60, she had grandchildren, a happy home life and would drive to Belfast on a whim to get her hair done, to babysit, or to bring one of her elder siblings for hospital appointments. She was very active; playing golf and indoor bowls, attending set dancing and yoga.

Ann had a few unexplained falls, resulting in black eyes, cuts and bruises. She didn’t feel
dizzy- she just fell. These falls were unpredictable and she stopped going to yoga and dancing after falling in public and becoming increasingly self conscious. She got prisms on her glasses to deal with double vision in Jan 05, and stopped driving. Ann saw her GP regularly, but talked about dry skin, or constipation, or anything at all to avoid mentioning the falling. I was talking to my mum  a couple of times a week on the phone and began to notice that her speech was a bit funny- as if she’d had too much wine with her meal, or had got new false teeth. Except she didn’t wear false teeth, and hardly ever drank wine. Eventually, I realised that she’d never told the GP about her series of falls (this, even though one fall had broken her ankle requiring surgery and 2 weeks in hospital).

I went with her to the GP in July 06, and helped her outline our concerns about the falling,
the speech and the double vision. Blood tests were carried out and a referral to the elderly care consultant was made. He ordered a CT scan, and then made referral to a neurologist. In parallel, the orthoptists were realising that the continuing deterioration of her eye movement was probably caused by something neurological, and would need to be checked out.

By the time Ann saw a neurologist in Jan 07, she was desperate for a label. Something to callwhatever was wrong with her. Once she had a label, then she’d get the medicine and all would be well. She’d not be a hypochondriac if she had a label. People would take her seriously if only there was a name for this.

She had an MRI and saw the neurologist, but still had no label. We had never considered the possibility that her condition may be difficult to diagnose. We were new to the world of neurology and had no frame of reference, no experience to build on. We fully expected a process of get diagnosis, get treatment, get better. We were baffled by the absence of an immediate diagnosis and treatment plan. Ann went to see another neurologist privately in June 07. By this stage her symptoms included unsteadiness/staggering, memory and concentration difficulties, difficulty getting up from sitting and with handwriting. We were told that she had a progressive condition (we had to check what that meant) and given the
label ‘Progressive Supranuclear Palsy’. I drove us back to my house, and put on the kettle and the computer at the same time. By the time the coffee was ready I had to lie to Ann and tell her I’d only found heavy medical jargon, and would look again later.

The GP knew no more than we did, telling us to look it up on the internet. I’d already done
that and then was in the unwelcome situation of having to give my mum some of that information- as if I knew anything!

Anything I did know I’d printed out from the PSP Association website. I copied this
information to my mum’s brothers and sisters and to her close friends. This meant that she didn’t have to keep explaining her diagnosis, and that those who care for her knew as much as we did. We joined the Association and were quickly contacted by them. The staff of PSPA have been an incredible support. They became our first port of call for
queries and concerns; the availability of support at the end of a phone has been invaluable.

Ann was referred to social services, and in order to provide the best care, so was her husband, Liam, by now diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. The social worker organised
meals on wheels and carers were provided to help Ann get up and washed and to get to bed. After some months, this was increased to 5 visits per day. The support was needed and very welcome, but still didn’t meet all the needs.

Neither Ann nor Liam was fully able to recognise all the challenges facing them, and it felt
like the home situation was very precariously balanced. We were just waiting on a crisis. There was an eldercare neck alarm, adapted bathroom, wheelchair, grips and other OT aids, riser chair, door buzzer- the full works. All of these things are great, but nowhere near enough on their own. When Ann took a notion to wander down to the bathroom herself, then she’d just go. Reckless behaviour, simply not recognising the reality of the situation or seeing the potential for danger, is part and parcel of PSP. We had multiple hospital visits for head wounds, stitches and x-rays. We ended up teasing Ann about having a rubber head that just bounced, and avoided serious injury.

Liam was involved in an accident and was in hospital for some weeks. I moved in until respite care was sorted, and I was exhausted! Despite the array of carers, Liam was
still doing an amazing amount for Ann, and he’s an elderly man with significant health issues. I’m over 30 years younger and I was struggling after only a few days.

Ann went into a nursing home in her local area. We realised very quickly that the quality of
care there was significantly better than anything we could organise for the home environment. Ann visibly relaxed, so we recognised just how really tense and anxious she had been. However, once Liam was fit to go home again, Annwanted home too. We had a really difficult period where basically I became the villain of the piece, insisting that she stay in nursing care. Of course, she could have moved out if she’d been convinced, I couldn’t keep her there! Ann was always content with the care and with the nursing home, but she didn’t like the idea of being in a nursing home at 66.  Soon, Ann was unable to
do anything for herself. She needed help eating, moving, personal care. She couldn’t use a phone or a remote control, and couldn’t lift anything from a surface without knocking over everything else. One of the many useful things we discovered was that the PSPA at that stage were able to deliver a training session to staff in the nursing home. I’d hope that resources will become available to let that sort of support be reinstated.

We arranged for Ann to use the Door2Door service to travel to the family home 4 afternoons a week, and paid for a carer to be there for 3 hours at a time. She had a few falls in the nursing home, like when she decided to get out of the wheelchair for something, so we got an alarm for the chair. At one point the nurse wheeled her round with him, as the best way to keep her supervised. Being very sociable,she enjoyed that.

Ann had a PEG tube for feeding inserted, requiring 2 nights in hospital.  We were fortunate that it was a local hospital, so she didn’t have a long way to travel, and could still have visitors, but she found being in a ward, away from carers who knew her and her
condition, to be distressing. Within a few weeks of having the PEG, Ann was
much brighter, her speech was stronger, and she could articulate more complex
sentences- when I was ending a phone call with ‘Be good’ she responded ‘I don’t
often get the opportunity to be anything other than good’, when I was expecting
a simple grunt! As her condition progressed, she lost that, but it shows how
much of herself was still there.

Due to limited eye movement, Ann’s vision became very poor, her eyes were almost closed, and she had difficulty tolerating light. 2 carers would take her for walks along the corridor, but she was in the wheelchair the rest of the time. She was unable to open her jaw, which also created challenges for her oral health. Her speech became more and more difficult to understand, but that never stopped her communicating with us. When there was something to be said, we knew about it! I still phoned several times a week, but couldn’t understand anything she said- we needed to be together for that to work- but she could understand me alright, and wanted to be kept up to date on all the news and gossip. Her processing slowed- as if she were a few sentences behind you in conversation- so we had to pause and give her time to catch up. She was always keen to know what was going on, to spend time just being with people, to enjoy time with the grandchildren, to be part of family life. From time to time her thinking was confused and she had delusions, but generally she was sharp, knew what was going on and was able to convey her feelings about it.

PSP is a very individual disease- each person experiences symptoms in a different combination or in a different order- his/her own cocktail. Symptoms progress at different
rates. The detail of an individual’s deterioration is unpredictable, and presents all sorts of challenges for care, support and management. But deteriorate they will, and they will need support.

Health professionals may never have met a person with PSP. This adds to the difficulties in getting appropriate and timely treatment. When Ann has fallen out of a ‘list’ and needed treatment, we’ve had to ask and ask for re-referral to e.g. occupational or speech therapy. Although I wasn’t a full time carer, and lived 75 miles away, Ann’s care took a remarkable amount of my time and energy. There was always something to be chased up, queries to be made, buses, carers, doctors or therapists to be phoned. Any change in arrangements required about  5 phone calls- not only to transport providers and carers, but to Liam and to his sisters, because he wouldn’t remember the call. Also, because of Ann’s inability to write, I’d had to be given Power of Attorney to deal with the finances and so paid all the
bills, dealt with pension providers, benefits, banks etc. My diary was full of peripheral tasks associated with my mother- shopping, house maintenance, form filling, or even getting new lights for the Christmas tree. I found out where to stay in Enniskillen, where to get pizza in Omagh, where the cash machines are. These tasks are not hands on personal care, but they are the boring things that need done by somebody when there’s illness in the family. Nothing about these is rare. Because Ann’s disease was rare, I had a supply of PSP information packs which I left with medical staff in wards, in waiting areas and health
centres. I left contact details for the specialist nurse and the website address. I talked about PSP to anybody who would listen.

In June 2011, Ann was still going to her own house when she was fit, but now needed two carers to be there. The OT began to have concerns about her travelling by bus or taxi in
a wheelchair. She had a few low weeks where she was in bed a lot and barely able to communicate. She had emergency hospital admissions due to chest infections and subsequent difficulty breathing. Medical staff weren’t familiar with her condition, which caused them concern. They were happy for us to be in the hospital almost full time, even when her condition was improving. Antibiotics worked for a while and Ann was in good spirits about returning to the nursing home-she was delighted to be back amongst people who knew her and cared for her, the people who had saved her life- and, of course, she was looking forward to me getting her some new clothes.

I bought the clothes, but she never saw them. Ann died in hospital in July, of pneumonia.
She was comfortable and pain free; that’s as much as we can hope for with PSP.

for National Poetry Day

To My Mother, by Mary Montague

I’ve just bought it, my own birthday present
from you; the first one, harbinger of a new
era, not good, but inevitable. The years
of the frivolous, the desperate clanging
attempts to lure me to your notions
of femininity, are over. Times,
I felt like your changeling, that you
thought me foreign as Siberia. Now
I’d take the gilt glamour, your chunky
jewellery and horrendous fashions.
Anything to show that you’d left
the gritty detritus of your bed, gone browsing
in cheap boutiques and bargain basements,
forgotten your pain for an afternoon.
So, today, with your birthday money,
I found myself at the jewellers, settling
for earrings you’d never have bought for me:
small studs with a Celtic spiral, silver
to your gold, modest to your flamboyance.
If you could’ve chosen these for me.
If you could’ve gifted our difference.