Care Homes: Post One - Sarah and Dolly

This is the first in a series of four posts based on my experience of planning people's funerals. These posts were inspired by an interesting debate on Jane's blog. I wanted to share some of the stories on the subject that I've heard from families over the years.

When I visited Sarah to plan the funeral of her husband John, I found her being kept company by Dolly, her best friend and next-door neighbour. I was put in a comfortable armchair and given tea and biscuits – 'bit early for gin,' Sarah said, smiling a twinkly smile, and as it was ten o'clock in the morning I could only agree.

They were happy for me to lead the meeting, so I took them through the peripheral decisions about music, readings, poetry and announcements before focusing on the celebration of John's life. Sarah wanted me to give a tribute to him, so I asked her to tell me about his life. She spoke about his childhood as the studious one of six children, his academic successes, his work as a civil servant, his love of ideas, his dismay when faced with practical tasks, the birth of their children and grandchildren, John's endless patience with them and skill in inventing games, his schoolboy sense of humour, family holidays in France and Spain, the first decade of retirement when he and Sarah travelled more widely.

'Wasn't it when you were in Trinidad that you first noticed something amiss?' Dolly asked.

'Yes,' Sarah said. 'He couldn't remember the way back to our hotel. We'd just eaten at a place we'd already been to a couple of times, and it was only a few hundred yards from the hotel.'

'He joked about it to begin with, didn't he,' Dolly said.

'Like he did with everything. We always made a joke of things. Said it was senility creeping in.'

'Not much of a joke, seeing as he was right.'

'No. But we laughed anyway.'

Dolly turned to me. 'I have to tell you, Zinnia, because Sarah won't. She was amazing. She looked after John so well.'

'I wanted to keep him at home,' Sarah said.

'And you did.' Dolly's tone was reassuring.

'Not entirely.'

'Near enough.' She looked at me again. 'You see, Zinnia, he wasn't so bad at first, but after a while he needed constant care because he was so forgetful. He would put the plug in the sink, start the tap running and then wander off and flood the place.'

'The doctor wanted me to put him in a home,' Sarah said.

'Because you were getting so run down with looking after him,' Dolly said firmly. 'He wasn't a difficult man, he wasn't aggressive or unhappy like some people get.'

'No, he always stayed happy. And although he seemed to forget how to speak over time, so in the last few years he hasn't said much at all, he still enjoyed the same things.'

'Port and stilton.'

'And watching the news at ten.'

'But you had to have a break now and again, Sarah.' Dolly turned to me again. 'She was very well organised, she got a rota sorted out for friends and neighbours to come and sit with John so that she could get out to the hairdresser and the library and the shops. But that was only a couple of hours twice a week or so. It wasn't enough.'

'So what did you do?' I asked.

'He went to a care home for two weeks' respite,' Sarah said. 'I was very reluctant to let him go. I thought he would hate it and I didn't trust them to look after him properly. But they were great.'

'Tell Zinnia about the first time,' Dolly said.

'I found it so hard to leave him there. I visited every morning, afternoon and evening for the first couple of days. The staff were great, really welcoming. I'd have visited at night, too, if I could have done. The nights were really hard without John in the house, we'd never been apart at night except when I had the children. But he was perfectly happy in the care home, he didn't seem bothered at all.'

'And then the matron called you in for a chat, didn't she?'

'Yes. She gently pointed out that I wasn't going to get much of a break if I was spending all my time at the home. She asked me if there was anything I was worried about. I told her everything, and she was so understanding. We worked out a system where they would send me a text message morning and evening to say how John was. She made it clear that I could still visit any time I wanted, or phone, even if it was in the middle of the night. Which I did a couple of times, and they were always lovely, they would go and check on John and come back and tell me that he was sleeping.'

So what happened after that?' I asked.

'He went for a fortnight every three months,' Sarah said. 'He was always happy to go and happy to come back. And they did look after him very well. Better than I did, probably. But I always hated it.' Her chin wobbled.

'You couldn't have managed without it.' Dolly was using her reassuring voice again.

'No. And I nearly couldn't manage with it. You see, Zinnia,' she looked at me through brimming eyes, 'the doctor had persuaded me that John should go in full-time. I've got health problems too, now, and I've really been struggling. I'd agreed to it. He was going to move next week. And I can't help thinking that maybe, somehow, he knew.' Her tears overflowed and ran down the channels in her cheeks. 'As if it was my decision that killed him.'

Dolly moved along the sofa and put her arm around her friend's shaking shoulders. 'You silly girl,' she said, and patted her arm. 'He was 79 years old and died of perfectly natural causes. It was nothing to do with your decision.'

Sarah pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her face. 'I suppose I am a daft old thing. And, you know, they were really good at the home. To both of us. They've been in touch every day since John died, they sent those lovely flowers,' she pointed to a bouquet of carnations and freesias on the mantelpiece, 'and some of them will be coming to the funeral. But I just didn't want him to go there. It was a lot of years ago, but when I said 'till death us do part' I really meant it.'

'And that's what happened, isn't it?' Dolly said.

'I suppose it is.' Sarah blew her nose. 'I just wish – I still wish I'd been able to do it all myself. Properly.'

'Oh, for goodness' sake. You do my head in, you do.' Dolly turned to me and jabbed a thumb towards Sarah. 'She's always like this. Such a perfectionist. She was a wonderful wife to John. Nobody could have been more caring.' She pointed to my laptop. 'You write that down and put it in your service.'

'It's supposed to be about John – '

Dolly interrupted Sarah's protest. 'Quiet now. That is about John, that he had a devoted wife who cared for him to the end of her own strength. He'd want it saying.'

Sarah turned to me. 'Well, then, you can thank Dolly for her support, Zinnia, when you do the announcements at the end.'

'Don't start.'

The two old women were facing each other now, one at each end of the sofa, elbows akimbo like combatants on the ropes of a ring.

'You know I couldn't have done it without you.'

'Nonsense. I only sat with John every now and then.'

'You can't have forgotten all those evenings. Zinnia, write this down. I told Dolly, once, how the evenings dragged. After that, every single week she would come round with a bottle of wine and spend an evening with me.'

'And how is that about John, exactly?' Dolly demanded.

'It all helped me to care for him. Nobody else did that for me, not regular like you did. It gave me something to look forward to.'

Dolly broke eye contact, defeated. 'Daft old trout,' she muttered.

Sarah folded her arms and sat up straight in triumph.