Care Homes: Post Two - Doug and Irene

This is the second 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.

Doug was a charming, dapper man in his mid-70s. He wore tailored trousers and a neatly pressed check shirt, and had a hearing aid in each ear.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said, and shook my hand, his grasp dry and firm. He ushered me into a pleasant living room, perfectly tidy apart from an ironing board, a basket of crumpled clothes and two newly-ironed shirts on hangers hanging from a drying rack. ‘I find activity helps at the moment,’ he told me. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, and then would you mind if I carry on with my ironing while we talk?’

‘Not at all,’ I said.

He went off to make the tea, I sat down on the sofa, fired up my laptop and looked around the room. A row of sympathy cards stood on the windowsill. The day’s newspaper was folded on the arm of one armchair, underneath the TV remote. A wooden bowl, holding assorted nuts in their shells and a nutcracker, stood in the centre of the coffee table.

Doug came back with two mugs in one hand and put them on the table. ‘At one time, Irene would have done all this.’ His gesture encompassed the tea and the ironing. I’ve missed her so much, since she moved out. I got used to it, kind of. But it’s worse now.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

He picked a shirt out of the basket and began to iron the collar. 'It was her choice to go into the home, you know.'

'Really?' I began to tap on my keyboard.

'Yes. I wanted to look after her here to begin with, and she wanted that too. Well, to be honest, she didn't want to be looked after at all, and that was the problem. She had terrible arthritis, and her medication made her woozy and gave her digestive problems too. That was really difficult at times. I'm sure I don't need to draw you a picture.'

'No. I can imagine.'

'Poor you.' He grinned, his teeth white and even. 'And she was stubborn, my goodness, she was the most obstinate woman alive. For a long time she carried on doing things that were at the absolute limit of her abilities, if not beyond. One time she went out into the garden when it started raining, to get the washing in off the line. You haven't seen out the back but it's on quite a slope, and as the grass got wet it got slippery, and she fell. She couldn't get herself up when she fell, so she called to me but of course I couldn't hear her.' He touched one of his hearing aids. 'Luckily our next-door neighbour was out in his garden doing the same thing, and he came round and we got her up and back in the house. But Irene wouldn't ask me to get the washing in, you see, because it was her job.'

'Even when it was really difficult for her.'

'Yes.' He hung the ironed shirt carefully on a hanger and picked another one from the basket. 'Nights were tricky, too. We've always slept in separate rooms because I snore. Irene began to need help at night, to get to the bathroom, but I couldn't hear her calling me. The occupational therapist rigged up this buzzer thing, it went under my pillow and when Irene pressed a button in her room it would start to vibrate. That worked fine except for one night when she decided not to use it, or forgot, or something. She fell in the bedroom, couldn't reach the button, and couldn't get herself up again either.'

'So what happened?'

'She lay there until I found her in the morning, freezing cold and wet through. I gave her a shower and a clean nightie, put her back in bed and made her a hot drink, but it took her ages to get warm again.' Doug was ironing more slowly now, as if the memory made the iron heavier.

'That must have been a horrible experience for both of you,' I said.

He looked thoughtful. 'Funnily enough, I don't think it had much of an impact on Irene. Either that, or she was too stubborn to let on. But it worried me no end. I never slept properly after that, I'd wake up four or five times in the night and I'd have to get up and check she was safe in bed before I could go back to sleep.'

'I bet that didn't do you much good.'

'It didn't. And it got harder and harder for Irene to get around the house. They put the stairlift in, and that helped a bit, but she really needed a wheelchair in the house and there just isn't room here. They suggested we moved to a bungalow, you can get them now where you can use a wheelchair indoors, but we've lived here for nearly 40 years and neither of us wanted to move.'

'So what happened?'

He hung up the last shirt and began to iron a pillowcase. 'I got run down with all the worry. Irene could see that. And I just wasn't sleeping. In the end the doctor persuaded her to go into a home for a fortnight, to give me a break. She wasn't too keen but she wanted to help me. And she'd always been the one for going on holidays. I did go with her, but I wasn't bothered about it. She used to go with her friends as often as with me. So she said she was going for a holiday, and put a brave face on it. But then, when she got there, she loved it.'

'That seems unusual. What did she like about it?'

'They gave her an electric wheelchair, and the home was built for people to use them indoors, there were wide doorways and passages and lots of space to get around inbetween tables and chairs in the living and dining rooms. She loved being able to whizz around under her own steam. And she had a button with her everywhere she went, if she pressed it someone would come to see what she needed. She did fall in her room a couple of times at first, but when she pressed the button they came and picked her up so quickly, it made her feel very safe.'

'That sounds good.'

'And the food was excellent, especially compared to my cooking.' He gave me a wry smile. 'They put her in the shower every day, like I did at home, but once or twice a week she could have a bath. She always loved having a bath, and she hasn't been able to get in and out of ours for years. The occupational therapist offered to get a bath chair put in, but Irene said no, it wouldn't be the same. But in the home they had a hoist so they could get her in the bath, and it had some kind of jacuzzi thing so she could lie there in all the bubbles. She said it felt wonderful.'

'It sounds like a four-star hotel.'

Doug beamed with delight. 'That's exactly what Irene said. She was quite depressed after she came home. I was very glad to have her back, I felt much better for the rest and I'd missed her company. But all she could talk about was the home and how wonderful it was there. She wanted to move in for good. I didn't want to lose her. But she pointed out that I would be better off too. And to be honest, after a couple of weeks back on the sleepless nights, I had to agree.'

'So that's what happened?'

'Yes.' He folded a pillowcase and laid it on top of its fellow. 'It didn't take long, either. I did miss her, in the evenings especially, but I visited every day and the staff were very kind to me. I got to know them all, in time. I'd like you to thank them, Zinnia, will you?'

'Of course. Will some of them be at the funeral?'

'Yes. They can't all come but I know several of them will be there.'

'What would you like me to say?'

He stopped ironing for a moment, a towel half done. The ceiling seemed to provide some inspiration. 'Can you thank them for looking after Irene for me? And say I don't think anyone could have done a better job?'