Actually, within days of being relocated from leafy Leamington to a care home in Blackpool where I could keep a watchful eye, he formed a one-man escape committee. He didn't really know where he was and could barely grasp who I was anymore, but he remembered holidays in Blackpool as a child and could see the tower from the garden of the care home.
His repeated attempts to go a-wandering through the front entrance were foiled by the keypad and its secret code, but he would spend many hours roaming the large walled back garden, dead-heading flowers and scrumping apples. Members of staff would sometimes briefly leave the premises by a gate at the bottom of the garden for a crafty smoke, and although Norman had little remaining in the way of short-term memory, he did observe where they hid the key behind a loose brick in the wall and one day he made his great getaway,As I said, he didn't really know where he was, who he was or where he was going. He had been a teacher of French and he loved France (witness the photograph below), so as he headed in the direction of the tower, maybe he thought he was walking the streets of Paris again. I've no idea. Anyway, Norman was missing. Fortunately he wasn't at large for very long. He was apprehended by a kind person who took him to Victoria Hospital and a couple of phone calls to care homes in the immediate vicinity soon identified where mu uncle had absconded from. He was returned unharmed and the key was never left behind a brick in the wall again.
Norman and friend in Nice, 1954
Shortly after Norman was first diagnosed with dementia I went on a familiarisation training course about the disease and one of the things I learned was that the average life expectancy for someone after diagnosis is about ten years. So it proved. Ten essentially missing years, during which the poor man's only real pleasure was his love of eating. By the way, his comment written on the back of that photograph simply stated "yum yum". Having arranged end-of-life palliative care for my uncle a few weeks ago, I sat down and wrote this little poem as I waited for the inevitable end.Dying DaysThough you've been missing for years,still you've traveled on mindlesslylike one of those deserted caravels -who knows what became of the crew -found drifting on open sea at the whim of winds and tides, until such timeas your rotting sails shred, barnacledhull springs a fatal leak, or perhapsif you're lucky, you nose into somesheltered sunset bay to beach gracefullyone final time, a home for mermen.I collected Norman's effects earlier this week, including the birthday card from me which read "95 today! Who would have believed that? Not you, for sure. Happy birthday dear uncle and may love and peace go with you." It had been opened, but I'm not sure it would have made any impression on him as he slipped from this life. As a bonus - to end on a more cheery note - here's a 'found' poem. It's based on an invitation written on the back of a picture postcard from a little seaside town in the west country. I came across it today when I was sorting through the letters, cards and photographs I'd brought back from the care home. From the Beach:Walk up the ramp by the iron railing (see over) andcross the narrow road.Pop into the pink houseat the top of the hillfor a cuppa chez moiand a slice of what you like. Thanks for reading, S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
