Posted in Poem of the Day, Seniors

You Don’t Need Toilet Paper (a poem)

Listen up... you don't need Toilet Paper in your life!
Please take it from me, and Betty, my wife
This Corona-virus they say, it's creeping up quickly
"Buy toilet rolls NOW, for when you get sickly!"

The squabbling in shops; aren't people just AWFUL?
Well, we got through The War, it made us resourceful
So here's a few tips, you might put into practice
For bathroom ablutions, while the Kleenex is cactus.

The go-to solution?  Simply shred up The Times!
Too bad that it's raspy (and it might leave print lines)
But it's worth it for smugness, when wiping the face
Of a fool politician, with dumb policies in place.

Another good ploy, for loo-roll relief
Is to extract from your fig tree, a large singular leaf
Totally natural, so there's no need to be frowny
Just make sure it's utilised, bristle-side downy.

An old shirt can be handy, as you perch there alone
When you find yourself paperless, sat on the throne
Or a dried-up old corn-cob, on the end of a twig
You can double it up, for the jobs that are BIG.

But a slice of Bet's fruit loaf, is solid and thick
And for ultimate absorption, it does do the trick
Chock full of nuts, it's the thickest of ply
Hey, you wouldn't want THAT, caught in your eye.

Oh, our lives are a shambles, there's an odd-smelling stench
We'd rather hold off; we're starting to CLENCH
Like the loss of a pet, we mourn beloved bathroom tissue
Come back soon, Toilet Paper... DEAR GOD, HOW WE MISS YOU!

-by Barry P. Knightly, age 94yrs

ALL IS FORGIVEN!!!

HAPPY CARING!

Cheers,
Dollie
Posted in Grandparents, Poem of the Day

My Grandson, Sam (a poem)

I made my grandson hot cocoa
To warm him from top to toes.
He took a sip
And burnt his lip,
The froth came out his nose!

My grandson loves climbing the plum tree
I call him Super Sam.
We eat all the plums
‘Til we get sore tums
And start pooping out purple plum jam!

Some days we play at the seaside
Sammy off chasing a bird.
Too late to go…
“LOOK OUT BELOW!”
My ice-cream covered in turd!

I love my grandson, Sammy
So sweetly he squeals with glee.
We stole Grandma’s hat
To put on the cat
She sent us to bed without tea!

by Jimbo Loveworthy (‘Grandpa Bo’), age 89

Just begging for trouble!

HAPPY CARING!

Cheers,
Dollie

Posted in Driving, Elderly, Poem of the Day

My Little Yellow Sports Car (a poem)

Because you can take on the world in a good suit!
My little yellow sports car,
I puff my chest with pride
When zipping along the freeway,
or tootling through countryside.

My little yellow sports car,
oh, I feel just like James Bond
All that’s missing beside me,
is a long-legged, busty blonde.

My little yellow sports car,
the envy of all my friends
A cut ‘n’ polish each Sunday,
the joy it is immense.

My little yellow sports car,
my daughter calls me absurd
“You’re too old to be driving so fast!”
"That’s shaken’ dear, not stirred".

My little yellow sports car,
now locked up in the shed
I’m not allowed to drive her,
I may as well be dead.

My little yellow sports car,
bye-bye from this ‘Double-oh-Seven’
'Cos when I go I’m taking her with me,
So I can race her to Hell in Heaven.

- by Ted J. Tailpipe, age 88 
....BEEP, BEEP!
Live & Let Die…. sadly, abandoned in the shed

HAPPY CARING!

Cheers,
Dollie

Posted in Poem of the Day

I Had a Fall Upon the Stair (a poem)

Silly me, upon the stair,
On the rug I tripped, I fell down there.
Me hip busted, in traction today,
I wish, I wish I could get outta me own way…

The doc he said “You’ve bones broken three”
Me son, well, he sat sneerin’ at me
“Like Humpty Dumpty, Dad, you’ve had a great fall…”
Geez, I wished I wasn’t there at all!
To go home, go home… I ain’t comin’ back here no more!
Sweet home, sweet home, with me dog a-scratchin’ at the door …

Strange looks, and whisperin’… Life, she’s unfair,
“Sorry, Dad, but you’re not going back there”
Too old for surgery, the doc makes it plain,
Couldn’t put Humpty together again…

by Hugh Treadlightly, age 94

(and his little dog , Shorty!)

Woofity, WOOF!

HAPPY CARING!

Cheers,
Dollie

Posted in Alzheimer's Disease, Dementia, Working with Elderly

An Alzheimer’s Poem

Leaving our Loved Ones “Sad and Sick…and Lost”

Every time I visit 82-year old Ruth Cuddlepot I read this poem. 

She has it up on a wall in her kitchen near the toaster, just above the bench.  I know it by heart now because it’s so hard to miss and I stand there every Wednesday reading it (at least three times over) – while I’m waiting for her crumpets to pop!  

It’s a short, but popular verse and most experienced carers have encountered it on their travels in and around the Aged-Care industry. To be honest, I always end up feel annoyed after I’ve read it because as far as describing the hopelessness and grim reality of Alzheimer’s disease – it’s pretty spot on.

It is also completely SAD.

We all know this one, right? 

So, the story goes that back in her day, Ruth Cuddlepot forged for herself (and prospered for many years in) an outstanding career as a Headmistress in some posh private school for boys – at the time the only woman on record to obtain such a role.  She never married, didn’t have children and had no real family to speak of.  Therefore, a very well-to-do Ruth had mountains of cash and high-performing investments squared nicely away for that one ‘rainy day’ when she just might need it. 

That drab, dreary, drizzly day came a few years back when Ruth received the official crushing diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Disease.  Being the no-nonsense insightful person that she was however, Ruth decided immediately that she would face her destiny head-on and set herself up for the inevitable; for when she could no longer work or take care of herself.

Indeed, there would be NO nursing home for Principal Ruth Cuddlepot! 

Without wallowing in self-pity and in typical Headmistress fashion, Ruth seized control to ensure her affairs were arranged down to the very teensiest detail. The health services, neurologists, an endless supply of support workers and the most fastidious fleet of solicitors were all put in place so Ruth could be completely looked after and cared for IN HER OWN HOME.

No matter what.  

She knew her condition would deteriorate; that her memory would crumble, and she would eventually “lose my marbles completely!”  Apparently, that’s how Ruth used to brazenly declare it, although I didn’t know her then and have relied on verbal reports from other carers to fill me in on all the background reading. 

Needless to say, she was one very smart woman. Although, by the time I had the pleasure of caring for the well-respected Ruth Cuddlepot, she was no longer the organised and efficient educator I had been told she once was. 

Ruth had, instead, evolved into ‘Ruthie’.  

And thanks to the personality-morphing Alzheimer’s, Ruthie had become a frail, yet openly happy and affectionate elderly woman…. WHO LOVED TO HUG! 

Even when her speech faltered, Ruthie could at least continue to communicate with a nice big welcoming embrace whenever I arrived for my shift.  I looked forward to it in fact!  

There she would be, perched in her favourite place on a big comfy chair in front of her enormous lounge room windows. The spot where she had the wonderful view of her ever-changing garden, the birds flying by to say hello… and where she could keep a watchful eye out for her next visitor whom she could throw her arms around and give a great big hearty squeeeeze to!

Really if it wasn’t so heart-breaking, it would be lovely.

Ruthie at her window...
 – waiting for the next hug-ee!

Recently though, Ruthie had started calling me Wendy.  

Which is fine by me, because you can imagine it happens a lot in this line of work (I’m also known as Debbie, Louise and Margie with some of my other cognitively-challenged clients). Let’s face it, remembering each of your carers’ name, rank and serial numbers is understandably not high on the priority list for some seniors.

Especially when they no longer know their OWN name!

I knew something had started to change in Ruthie when one day – the hugs stopped.  And another cruel stage of the Alzheimer’s curse set in… Ruthie Cuddlepot started to become aggressive.

Without much warning her moods became erratic and it eventuated that Ruthie couldn’t STAND to be touched.  Not even a handshake or a gentle pat on the shoulder.  You just wouldn’t dare in case she would flare up and start screaming and punching the air (or anything else within proximity) in what appeared to be the ultimate frustration within Ruthie’s muddled-up mind. 

This most heartless and indiscriminate Dementia had finally taken hold of her … it has been just awful to watch.

Finally, after accusations that Ruthie had started slapping and pushing her carers, we were told there was a serious incident last week where she had to be whisked away by ambulance and sedated in hospital.  

Quite honestly, it became apparent to all, that they didn’t know WHAT to do with her!

After all Ruth’s organising, having purposely prepared herself and her future to remain forever being tended to in her own home by an army of paid care-working bees and service providers, it now seemed this was no longer a viable option.  

I wonder now looking back, how Ruthie could have possibly planned for this final gloom-ridden phase of her illness?

Perhaps she’d anticipated that by this late phase: 1) she wouldn’t know where she was, and 2) she wouldn’t care? I hoped so for her sake.

The poem was right, and the best of Ruth had gone.  And sadly yes, we had failed in standing beside her.  Basically, it had become too unsafe to do so!  Poor Ruthie had become a danger not only to herself, but to everyone else as well.  And if a support worker is under any threat whilst looking after a client in in their home, then the people in charge needed to modify to an alternative arrangement.  

I was informed only today that the once proud and brilliant Ruth Cuddlepot had been relocated ‘indefinitely’ into a High Care nursing home facility.  

Just like the poem had foretold she was now sad and sick and lost.  Her beautiful forward-thinking mind now full-to-capacity on sensory-depriving medication to keep her comatose and manageable (for her own protection, we were told).

I have deliberated greatly about going to visit Ruthie but honestly, what would be the point? And as harsh and as self-serving as might sound – I don’t think I could bear it.  

The worst part is finding out she doesn’t even have a window.

HAPPY CARING!

Cheers, Dollie

Posted in Aged Care, Working with Elderly

Cranky Old Man – a poem

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . … . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .’I do wish you’d try!’

Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . … lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he’ll meet.

A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. …Babies play ’round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future … . . . . I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It’s jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. …. . ME

– Originally ‘Crabbit Old Woman’ by Phyllis McCormack (1966); adapted by Dave Griffith

Reflections…

HAPPY CARING!

Cheers,
Dollie