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Scotland — day nine- dealing with dying
I’m not actually dying. Or only in the sense that we are all dying.
The first day I got here, to Scotland, to be with (and care for) my mother, who has memory loss and mobility issues after a lifetime of high intensity living, and who is finding her situation extremely frustrating, she fell. Luckily for me, the carer who had been looking after her was still around.
It was a tough first few days, with lots of flailing around in the dark, not knowing who to ask what. My sister, who does most of the caring, is away, and although she’s been in almost constant contact, actually knowing what one’s rights are within the health care system is surprisingly difficult. One particularly doesn’t want to annoy or irritate any of the team of health professionals in the local hospital (very, very fortunately we managed to get Mum into the local hospital, rather than the regional one which is much further away, and would have required me to be on the road for significantly more time). At the same time, obviously I want Mum to be looked after to the highest possible standard, including receiving sufficient personal care to maintain her dignity and to mitigate the many humiliations of being almost entirely dependent on others. At first, I was seriously concerned that basic things like helping her to brush her teeth were only happening because I was coming in twice a…
