We collected him from Sparrows at 9.45 am for a journey to Newhaven to see the lead doctor of his mental health team. It was all a rush and we got there just in time. We waited. We finally got in the door and sat ready for the signing off session before he is formally transferred to Brighton and Hove. We recounted how friendly and smiley the care home workers are, that we were happy with their level of care, that dad was apparently well settled in the community (even though he and two others tried to break out).
The Italian doctor conducts the session via me or my sister because Dad cannot understand his accent. We all sit there translating his accented words into understandable Sussex English. We do tests, or try to, and I can't even get the words out when I am required to explain to dad that he must repeat after me "No ifs, ands, or buts"
I make two attempts to say this as we all collapse into giggles. Dad couldn't do it. Neither could he read a sentence given to him. Of course he couldn't, he had someone elses glasses on, again. He put them on, pulled them off, rubbed his eyes and refused to do it.
After repeated attempts to remember three items: an apple, a table and a penny we gave up on the tests. He was unable or wouldn't co-operate and it ended up like a scene from a farce.
The doctor started to jot down his report and wrote: Mr. E is wearing dirty underwear and his hair is rather unkempt and too long. His glasses are not his own and he appears to be wearing his slippers rather than shoes. I looked down at his feet. Slippers, why had I not noticed. Dirty vest, I hadn't even looked. Hair, God, it was long but it had been combed.
Once again I was mortified. We had just bundled him in the car and not actually looked at him.
We were given a lecture along the lines of smiles and cheerful words don't constitute good care and were we sure he was being well looked after.
We drove back to Swallows horrified. The hair has now been cut, the new glasses have been ordered and we have been cut down to size. Poor dad.
