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CHAPTER ONE

‘You’ve been wonderful to your father!’ That short little sentence now haunted me as over the last three years it had been used constantly as had my reply, ‘He has been more than wonderful to us!’

My husband, John, and myself had nursed my beloved father, Len, to the point of sheer exhaustion. I loved this man with an overwhelming respect and the trust between us was totally mutual. What I was now being asked to do was something I didn’t think I could begin to live with, yet there was absolutely no alternative. Believe me, we had explored every single avenue over and over.

My little family had discussed this endlessly with us —thought of every angle, including taking rota type turns to care for this revered gentleman who just nibbled at our heart strings as love exuded from his every pore.

The hospital and welfare were deeply involved and told me straight that John and I were no longer able to care for my Dad. We must find a suitable nursing home for him and tragically he was far too sick to even be consulted about any future plans.

A sick knot replaced my already uneasy stomach. I just didn’t know how I was going to part with him, yet knew John’s ailing health could take no more.

To my added horror I was told that Dad was in the early stages of dementia and I must admit that the signs were beginning to show. He would now need constant twenty four hour care and realistically everything I was being told did seem to be obvious.

At times it felt as though I was being involved in long discussions about some poor person and my heart went out to whoever that was. And then with crystal clear clarity, I would realise we were talking about the distinguished gentleman that was none other than my Dad.

The dreaded day was hovering ever closer. Our precious son, Steve and his wife Karen, accompanied us to find a nice home, although none of us knew then what truly constituted a so called ‘nice home’.

The managers all appeared nice enough and each one readily assured us that we could place Dad’s personal effects around the room and make him feel at home. Deep down, I just couldn’t envisage him settling to this way of life.

I told myself over and over that many others had trodden this dreadful path and seemed happy. All of our questions were answered with an almost too ready ease, I should be jolly grateful to think someone wanted him and could give him everything I was now incapable of doing.

Why, oh, why did I feel like a first class traitor? I was someone who was prepared to sign a form and put the very person who had been responsible for my life and remove him from mine with a mere flick of a pen. I shuddered uncontrollably as we wandered with heavy hearts from one place to another.

Finally we chose a home quite close to John and I. We would visit Dad daily and try to take him for little outings. Our dear daughters, Debbie and Mandy would also visit regularly as they adored their Gramps. Steve would visit every other week as he lived near to Dover and had already trekked up each weekend whilst Dad was in hospital. The forms now danced menacingly before my tear filled eyes. Steve could see my chronic dilemma and said soothingly, ‘Mum, you must sign. You know full well that you and Dad can’t cope any longer, no matter how much help we all give you. Gramps would advise this if he was able to fully understand!’

‘I just can’t tell him, Steve. You know his home means the world to him. I am betraying his absolute trust and just can’t do this!’

Fighting with my emotions, I allowed my eyes to wander over to where Dad sat uncomfortably slumped in a chair by his bed and I knew that everyone was right. He was desperately unhappy and had begged daily to come home. Just as frequently I would return home and sob with sheer helplessness and complete desolation.


Briefly my mind wandered back to my early childhood. At the time Dad was a sergeant in the police force and stationed in a beautiful country village in the north of England. Mum and Dad were both born in the south and Dad was in the Metropolitan Police Force when he met and married Mum. A vacancy had come along for a first class P.T. Instructor and Dad already held a black belt in Judo. It seemed he was well qualified and this took him north to join the Lancashire Constabulary.

I was born in Morecambe just a few months later on the 11th November. Mum would frequently joke, ‘We had two minutes silence the day you were born arid that was our lot!’ Very soon after that, Dad was promoted to sergeant and transferred to the training school in Hoghton and this was called ‘The Grange’. The Grange was a huge building with an army type drill square and first class gymnasium, almost a rookie style training centre and Dad was in his absolute element. Mum must have been very much in two minds with the constant shift work. I was a real Daddy’s girl and from Mum’s fond recollections, I learned that I wouldn’t go to bed until Daddy carried me and sung, ‘Here we go gathering nuts in May,’ and slowly after the words until they incorporated, ‘Wendy going to bed!’ He would carry me on his strong shoulders and I can still remember with vividness, the safety I felt when he was around. It must have driven poor old Mum frantic at times, yet she never exposed her exasperation.

Dad would frequently drill the young lads and the military music would fill the air as his voice would boom, ‘Left, about turn,’ or some other form of instruction. Almost everyone was literally tapping their feet, fingers, or even marching. Needless to say, Glen Miller was a huge favourite in our home.

I could almost see Dad now, walking, well almost marching home from the Grange. I would wait by a little style with eagerness for him to appear. The sun would catch his sergeants’ stripes and make them gleam like silver as he approached me. His beaming smile would indicate his absolute pleasure as he called out, ‘Hello, Wen,’ which was very much his pet name for me and short for Wendy.

When Dad was off duty, he and Mum would take me for long rambles along the beautiful country lanes. Everyone knew everyone else, typical of happy village life and Mum and Dad both settled well and threw their hearts into helping when and where was necessary. Infect so many people respected my parents and I loved them dearly.

There were the inevitable drawbacks and one was living about a mile from the nearest bus stop or shop. Any kid that was willing or indeed, otherwise, was sent on various errands. I remember the pretty winding lanes with beautiful green fields on both sides and the occasional house, bungalow or farmhouse. I played happily with the other children and life was rich and full.

Even then though, Dad was very strict. If he said a certain time, he meant it and the other kids seemed to find themselves following my lead. I rapidly learned that it didn’t pay to disobey, I was seldom slapped, but once a punishment was issued, it stood as firm as a rock. Both Mum and Dad were of the opinion that one didn’t go back on a promise or indeed, a punishment.

Mum was a brilliant cook and frequently worked at the Grange. She and Dad would sometimes walked home together and even as a child I knew they were deeply in love. Money was tight, but they were never too busy to play with me, or perhaps once a month we would have a special outing to the pictures.

The bus would rumble into Preston and later on I was to have to make that journey to high school, but by then I would at least be eleven. I did and still do love the north, in fact we were all exceedingly happy.

I had even played on the little farm and helped to feed the animals. Just being the daughter of Len and Ivy seemed to unlock many doors. Yes, they had given me so much love and security as I grew up loving the country way of life. The little reverie ended as swiftly as it had arrived and a shudder ran the length of my spine as I realised where I was and what I was doing.


Fighting to control the choking gulps that seemed to threaten so frequently these days, I walked over to my beloved father. His tired old eyes lifted with hope and yes, that dreaded trust. I kissed his forehead as he asked, ‘Can I come home today, Wen? I feel much better and I know we can cope together. I will try hard to do as I’m told, just tell them!’

I knew he meant the doctors and staff. His voice was now what can only be described as pale blue, not the delicious, confident boom I had grown up with. His words twisted painfully inside of me and almost broke my heart. Forcing myself not to walk away and allow someone else to do the dirty deed, inspiration seemed to hit me like a streak of lightening, shocking me into embroidering the truth. Even to me, my voice sounded unsteady as I looked into those sad, ever hopeful eyes and said, ‘There is good news, Dad. You are to convalesce for a few weeks and we have found you a nice nursing home ‘till you get completely well and then we will worry about things from there!’

The sheer joy on his haggard face seemed to acknowledge the white lie. No, it was a thumping big black lie, yet deep down I wasn’t ready to fully believe he would never come home. He may well get strong again and we could bring him back. At least we had six weeks before a final assessment was to take place and I would fight with him to get him strong.

For about the nine hundred and ninety ninth time my stupid legs had turned to jelly, but I felt great consolation in the fact that Dad was at last happy, even for a short while. He then asked, ‘When am I going, Wen? Where is this place?

Will you have to travel far to visit me?’

The questions poured from him as for the first time in weeks he was truly interested in the future. Barely able to stop from breaking down, I held his hand and painted a superb picture of the home.

I had to admit that it was a nice place as I continued to tell him that he would have his own en suite bathroom, nice and private, knowing just the sort of little touches that would make him feel inordinately special.

Several expressions crossed his face and I realised I was giving him hope and still clung to the fact that this would be the boost to finally bring him home. I couldn’t admit to anyone that I didn’t want to part with my Dad.

This poor, pathetic heap of bones, the man I had turned to for succour, advice, knowledge, love and comfort was now totally dependent upon me and my family and I couldn’t seem to accept this wretched role reversal.

Suddenly Dad began to try and shift his position slightly and I helped him to sit straight. That saucy little gleam was back in his eyes and yes, after weeks of wanting to die, he was interested in living. His enthusiasm grew more by the minute and once again he assured me when he could go. ‘Tomorrow, Treasure,’ I assured him and left with an almost unprecedented yet much needed haste. Steve and John both assured me that I was doing the right thing, but was I? Had I dug a hole too deep for myself to climb out of? I decided that come what may, I would fight until my father was fit enough to come home.

Nobody else could see what I had seen. The return of hope, the new will to live and even if I couldn’t ultimately bring him home, he was going to be so happy with all my mental plans for outings. Of course, I had done quite a bit of embroidering, but that dear man now had an air of peace about him.

Even though I felt relatively pleased with what I had done, there wasn’t an ounce of peace in my mind. I still felt like the ultimate traitor, betrayer of faith and love. Now we had to go to Dad’s flat and finish packing the rest of his belongings.

Every item of clothing had to be tagged with his name as we sorted through his personal drawers and tried to envisage what his immediate needs would be. That very act was soul destroying. He kept each item so beautifully hung or folded and we were sorting through almost willy nilly. Somehow we managed to finish the arduous task and then had to decide which were his favourite pictures and ornaments. Each one held some special significance for him and I racked my brains to think of each one.

We spent the rest of that day and late into the evening sorting out Dad’s new room and for added luxury, took his portable television along with us.

Steve worked hard arranging the room and placing the clothing neatly into the wardrobe and drawers. I must admit that by the time we had finished, there was quite a distinct air of Dad about the room and my fervent hope was that he would see it that way.
Just to add insult to injury, John had developed acute cellulitis in his left leg and could scarcely walk. He had worked so hard to see Dad free from the hospital and after all his input, it now seemed that he was to be deprived seeing Dad’s reaction when he finally arrived into the room. Steve called our Doctor as John’s condition worsened. Antibiotics and complete rest were prescribed. By this time there wasn’t much of an alternative as John felt and was sick.

Whatever was happening to us all? One by one my support columns were collapsing around me and I didn’t know how I was going to face the next day. It would have been bad enough with John, but without him

Steve’s hair was turning prematurely grey at the sides as he now scratched the almost silver streak. His dark brown eyes burned into mine as he tried to tease, ‘I know you don’t went to take Gramps to the home, do you? You should have told me, not made Dad ill!’

'I was going to ask you anyway, Steve. I can’t face up to anything about this situation. I can’t believe what we are doing so casually! ‘

John was in bed as Steve and I discussed what lay ahead. A flash of sudden anger was in his voice as he replied, ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Mum. Nothing about your actions has been casual. Hell, look at the state of Dad and you think you can cope with them both. Now, pull yourself together! The sharp but accurate words reminded me of my father. Direct, to the point, reasoning and blast him, right. We spoke well into the night and although I believed every word Steve was saying to me, I still clung to the belief that the move for Dad was not final. After all, he had a beautiful flat and that couldn’t go until after the dreaded assessment.

John had drifted into a deep sleep and we decided to get a few hours rest. Steve forced reassurance into his voice and said, 'I will pick Gramps up and as soon as I arrive at the home I will ring you and you can set off and be his first visitor. Does that sound like a good idea?’

How right he was and I told him so. As I lay next to John, I could feel his leg burning and wept afresh. He would be lost on his own tomorrow, in spite of his considerable health problems, he had never missed a visit to Dad and had been eager to see his reaction to the home.

Life can be so unfair at times. What would I have done without my little family? Both the girls had been behind this decision, yet would any of them have felt so confident had it been their own father?

Questions tumbled about my mind like acrobats in a circus, confusing and comforting me at one and the same time. Infect, I was glad to get up for a rest. John still didn’t want to eat and we teased him that this was a first for the history books, but we were nevertheless worried.

After carefully dressing John’s leg, Steve left for the hospital — perhaps one of the dreariest places I had become so used to having to visit. We had decided against an ambulance as Dad was always happy with Steve. I was now left to await the dreaded ‘phone cell.

John tried to rally and begged me to help him dress, but after a long struggle, had to admit he just wasn’t well enough to come with me and I couldn’t tell him that I needed him more today than I had ever needed him and when the ‘phone call came, I knew I was on my own.

I had carefully propped John’s leg up and made him up a flask of coffee. I knew in my heart that nothing would make him settle, not until we returned and reported in detail the result of my visit.

We lived in a small flat at the end of a pretty little drive and for the first time I hated the place. There was never anywhere to park the car and I had trouble getting out. The day promised to be bright, yet a heavy blackness settled over me as I drove the short distance to the home.

My mind raced with worry. I thought I had experienced every emotion under the sun. Joy of a happy childhood, deep abiding love, overwhelming delight when my children were born, bitter grief when my beloved Mum had died at the ripe old age of fifty six. Worry came with life and I truly thought I had been through every single sensation imaginable.

Right now though, there was a deeply strange and unfamiliar feeling rearing its ugly head. An emotion I wasn’t aware of and certainly didn’t recognise. Was it fear? No, no, I had experienced that when Dad was so dreadfully ill.

I drove along trying desperately hard to concentrate and to avoid facing this new sensation that I was sure I wasn’t going to like. The sun shone brightly, yet I couldn’t shake this feeling from me and knew I would have to try and discuss it before it made any sense.

I turned into the little car park and looked up at the window of Dad’s room. He wasn’t there and it had been Karen’s idea to have him overlooking the car park and then he could watch for his visitors to arrive, maybe even wave them off. I had to agree with her, he did love to watch us coming and going.

Bringing the car to a halt, I began taking in deep breaths for what lay ahead. There it was again, an all engulfing sickness that was rapidly identifying itself as a suffocating form of hideous guilt. What the hell was I doing to my beloved father? Would he ever forgive me? Could I carry on and endure this dreadful new emotion that had literally galloped into my life?

For what seemed an eternity, I sat in that little car park with legs again like jelly. If I had been suddenly cursed for I knew not what, I couldn’t think of anything worse than this tragic turn of events.

My eyes filled as I allowed my mind to fly back to three short years ago. Dad had been so fit and well. He was always smart, very independent, yet one of the most dignified men I had ever known.

Yes, I was going to allow myself to wallow for a while, to remember conversations, remember the laughs — for a keen sense of humour was dominant in our daily lives., Most of all, I needed to mentally pick Dad’s brains and find out exactly what he would have realistically expected of me.

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