Disparity in care.

I have previously written about this but it is an ongoing occurrence since I have become my father's main carer. I am thinking about the difference in the care I provide when he needs help compared to the 'care'* I received from him when I was a child. [*care in the loosest sense of the word as I will explain.]

The other night, he rang his bell at 3:40am, my husband and I both woke up but I said I would go as my husband had a busy day coming up. I went downstairs in a sleep stupor and stood in my father's doorway. He said he had a leakage from his catheter and his bed was all wet. I explained I needed the toilet myself so I would return in a few minutes. I think I also needed that time just to help myself wake up and decide what to do about the situation. I could write a book about catheter issues - something I never wished to have acquired such a vast knowledge about. It could either be mechanical or health related, that was the question.

My first thought was to check the levers on the catheter bags and to get him to stand up as gravity can be the easiest answer at times. As I was checking the levers, suddenly the leg bag started filling up. It was so sudden, I was surprised. I asked what he had done as I had noticed he was fiddling about under the covers. He said he had loosened the top leg strap on the catheter. Well, result! But we still needed to get him cleaned up and dry. If my husband is around, I always ask him to help my father stand up, especially during the night as I do not feel strong enough. So unfortunately I had to call my husband downstairs. He got my father out of bed and I waited in the passage for him to help my father change into the always helpful Tena for men pants. Once he was sorted, I came in to remove the wet bedding and sanitise the wipe-clean mattress.

We checked the catheter was draining properly and said our goodnights. My husband went straight upstairs to bed but my mind was full of chatter. I let the dogs out in the back garden, I stepped outside too to breathe in the fresh cold night air and try and spy the moon and stars through the clouds. Those night calls send my body and mind into a spin.

Firstly my body remembers all the very many scary night calls during the ten years I cared for my beloved Mum and secondly apprehension and anxiety arise within me as I am never sure what situation I will stumble upon with my father. I always know that I will feel the desperate need to get away from him and not be near him. That is ingrained in me now and I understand why. As I looked up at the night sky, it struck me how kind, caring and respectful I am towards my father in his times of need and in general. My mind switched back to how he treated me as a child when I was in need of kind, caring and respectful parenting.

I have mentioned that as a child I suffered from enuresis at night until I was eleven. My Mum was helpful and gentle dealing with the situation but heaven forbid my father was woken up as he would shout at me and shame me even more than I was already. Occasionally his frustration would turn into a beating. Just what I needed as an already stressed out, shamed and sleepy child. So I learnt at a very young age to look after myself. As soon as I was able to reach the clean linen in the linen cupboard, I would get up remove my wet pyjamas, have a quiet wash, put on clean dry pyjamas, remove the wet bedding, quietly drag it to the wash basket, open the linen cupboard, find clean bedding and make my own bed. Once I had done all that I would make sure it all looked like nothing had happened and I could then get back to bed and try and fall asleep. Obviously my Mum would realise what had happened and check that I was okay in the morning but she never said a word to my father for fear of his reaction.

A striking disparity in care. [No pun intended but apt, sadly.]