We managed to sit out in the garden for half an hour today in the sunshine until the wind chased us indoors, Mum dozed and I read. Suddenly a squirrel danced along the telegraph wire thirty feet above our heads, a furry funambulist with no hesitation or fear of falling.
The diet on Sundays in the care home is an Olympic sprint all of its own. So coffee and biscuits, followed by poached salmon with veg and mash, sponge and custard. Mum loves it all. Then at three it’s downstairs for activities, which today consists of a cheese and wine party. All the residents love it, taking them back to their younger days. We don’t have the wine, but lots of brie, then tea and more biscuits. We sit in her room to recover and I cut her nails, never an easy task. She has a moment of panic when she sees a car park in the road ouside, not sure why.
The panic lasts until tea, when she has soup, sandwiches and trifle (another English abomination she would never have touched in her well days) all lapped up with enthusiasm, totalling much needed several thousand calories for the day. She lost a lot of weight when she was very ill, so needs to make it up.
The panic subsides as quickly as it arrives, I tell her I’ll be back tomorrow and she smiles in delight and gives me a big hug.
I walk the ten minutes back to the b and b emotionally shattered from the day and fall into a deep sleep for an hour or so. These days I’m doing my own high wire act, but with serious illness, one good leg, a stick and constant fear of falling. Nothing like the furry funambulist, or any other funambulist worth their dancing shoes.
Would give a lot for a smidgeon of that squirrel’s grace and energy.