Progress??!!

Just a quicky...I can't resist sharing every last painful detail of this saga...it's better than counselling. I am currently trying to download a very nasty virus onto Hincksy's computer to ensure that he never gets access to the internet again, and hence can't read the inciminating evidence.

Dad has had a personal visit and grovelling apology from the Catering Manager at the hospital...and doesn't he think he's important now (like he didn't before!)? Tonight, he and his buddies were treated to Liver & Onions - bloody lovely - so lovely, that looked practically home cooked...well, she's probably so terrified of his waving of complaints forms that she spent the afternoon slaving over a hot stove. Hincksy has high hopes that this is the start of things to come, and is rewriting his menu card with dishes that you'd expect Gordon Ramsey to bellow 'fk o' at.

The process of rehabilitation (and I use the term loosely, as some people just can't be truly 'normal'), is steaming along at a frighteningly fast rate. Last week I met up with the physio and occupational therapist, who both had a suitable bemused and fearful look upon their faces. They explained that since the last meeting, Dad had improved more than they imagined, and perhaps the home visit could be brought forward. I think they've met the Catering Manager, weilding a sharp object down a dark corridor, for such a hasty change of opinion.

With a look of an abused animal in her eyes, the O.T. said that she would arrange to bring Hincksy for a home visit next week. She may be feeling a certain sense of terror now, but by the time she has gone through King's Mills with Dad navigating, dictating, critising, snarling and grabbing the steering wheel; She'll either pass into the twilight zone, grieviously abuse him and never work again, or need sedation and counselling...for a long long time. Did I ever say that it was Mum who taught Kate and I to drive, that's how we survived!

Back on the ward, Hincksy was interogating the physio as to whether they had a ladder for him to try and climb. A stepladder?...no, one fixed up against the wall. What?!!!! 'Well,' he states, 'I used to be able to climb a ladder one-handed and I think I could manage it now.' Who is he kidding, he's still got us putting cream on his arse, but thinks he can climb a ladder....either we're mugs or he's delusional. Oh Shit, I'm a mug! Turns out, he has decided he definately is not going to miss the sea-fishing this summer, and needs to know if he can get on Alan's boat in Porthmadog. 'Think outside the box Dad...meet the boat in Pwllheli, and you can walk onto the bloody thing!'

With all the bravado from Dad, the physios are looking for any opportunity to welcome him to reality. This morning they threw his socks at him and told him to get ready. Obviously, his team of dressers usually deal with these more mundane tasks..so he was a bit stumped. After 10 minutes of grappling & cursing and one sock on, he threw the other one back at the physio and charmingly requested, with a smile, if he'd help him get it on...he can be humble when he chooses - who am I kidding, he's just manipulative.

I had to bring Mum back to reality today as well. The first home visit is next week, and if things go really badly (for the OT), she may leave him there, and best case scenario, he'll be home in a few weeks. 'Nooooooo', she wailed 'I'm sure it'll be weeks yet'. I told her gentle to get rid of the landscape gardeners, the builders, the chippie, the plumbers, the wine & chick flicks and general sense of freedom ... He's on his way!!! A long time ago we were debating whether we needed to turn the garage into a room for Dad, I suggested that this should have been done at the time, without a door through to the house! My only advice to her.........don't ever, ever, ever..give him a bell to ring if he needs something!

On a final note, when he does get home, normal service will be resumed. Hincksy has already sorted a welding mask that fits over his head, as then one he has would need holding in his bad hand!!

Cheers, Vick X

Well the Hospital, and Dad's daily routine of eating, sleeping, farting and moaning, has become so mundane that I have not felt the need to bore anybody else with the trivialities. But I can't hold my fingers back any longer, and feel the need to share the burden of misery with the rest of you (particularly those in Aussie Land - hope you're having a great time).

Hincksy is making progress, though it seems painfully slow for all concerned. A couple of weeks ago, the nurses arranged a review meeting - which had a sense of urgency about it. Mum had a visit from the occupational therapist, who was mainly interested in measuring the toilet - she's obviously heard him bragging (lying) about the size of it! I was a bit concerned they were going to send the old bugger home - and he'd be shocked to realise that we've all moved house. I was prepared to use every underhand tactic in the book to ensure that he wasn't discharged until he was fit to launch the boat... well, Mum has still got the workmen in to renovate the house out of the 1970's whilst the Power of Attourney is still legal. We were stunned to the core, when the 'team' decided to set a target for a few-hour home visit at Easter! For some bizaar reason, we were all strangely disappointed...it seems like an age away. All of us, that is, except Mum, who is currently negotiating having the gardens landscaped, inclusive of hot-tub.

Dad has been bullying the physios into letting him have a go on the parallel bars in the torture chamber. Last week they dumped him at the doors, and told him to get himself over to them. Once there, with a look of revenge in the eye, they told him walk around them, and not inside, and keep going...and going...and going. Some things are obviously worth waiting for! He was then presented with his very own walking stick, he'd earned his 'stripes'.....fools; just more arsenal for his battles.

Hincksy has once again regained his status as 'Queen Bea' of the Bay, obviously not feeling any more humble since his experience of being New Boy. Grinning menacingly just the other day, he told me that he's now up at the crack of dawn, to be first in the bathrooms...and I'm sure those that follow hold, the soap tightly in thier good hand! Dad, not surprisingly, has learnt to play the system. He rings the bell to summon a nurse to return him to his boudoir...and if they don't respond within the limits of his tolerance, he appears naked at the door knowing that it will put him to top of the list of priorities - the nurses positively climb over the collapsed patients to cover him up!

Dad has crowned himself 'Patient Food Activist' for the ward. He is gathering insurgents in the fight against the catering department, and developing a campaign for White Bread and Sardines. This has been developing like a rash for a few weeks. It started with toast....he wanted white, but got sent brown. So he moaned...no response. Then he ranted... and got cream coloured bread with bits in (don't they know his fetish for toothpicks?). So he aksed to see the head of catering...cream bread with bits. Close to combusting and having another Stroke, he asked politely (unusually) for an official complaint form... the nurse left scorch marks in the floor as she left and returned in admirable speed with 2 slices of white bread......'but I asked for butter, not marg'...(he really is pushing his luck0. It's all come to a head today. Hincksy doesn't tick the boxes on the menu card, he haNd writes it all so it can't be misunderstood. Today's meal should have been: 4 sardines, 2 slices of white bread and butter. What he got sent was: half a sardine and a slice of wholemeal bread - no butter. Oh shite, he now has the home address of the Chief Exective of the Hospital, and the catering manager is coming tomorrow to give her personal apologies.

I haven't helped matters. As I filled in a form for him earlier, I had to write contact details of the ward. Before I knew it, he had the nurse's station number keyed into the mobile and gleefully declared, 'if the buggers try to ignore me now, I'll phone them and ask for the complaint form!' 'As his daughter and main protangonist, 'I would like to personally apologise to all the staff working in the hospital'. Hincksy is also fighting the corner of every man in the bay, and don't tell the old bugger, but I'm proud of him. One of the guys was assessed weeks ago, and told that his swallow wasn't good enough, and he could only eat 'slop'. Needless to say, he has been pinching and eating his body's worth of cheese & onions crisps with no problem. And now the spokesman of the bay has demanding that the Consultant request a swallow review - good on him!

Obviously, as life is settling down into mundanity, the blogs will get less - but expect some juicy ones when Hincksy comes home. We don't know when that'll happen, but I do keep my mobile on as I half expect to get the call that he's been ejected from the ward, and is on his way home in a taxi. In a more loving note... I need him home in time to walk me down the aisle in 8 weeks. Emotion over...he'll only trip me up with him tripod walking stick and make a formal complaint about the food at the reception!!!!! Shit, if he brings one of those cardboard urinals with him... I'll put him in a taxi myself!

Regards, Vick X