With a heavy heart and empty fridge, a few days back I was relieved of my dog sitting duties when Coco returned to her Lancastrian homeland. The giddy lab/retriever venturing over the Pennine Hills with her mum Samantha, where I’m told Cokes’s has re-embraced her penchant for strutting around the parish Manc walk style like a shorter, furrier, Liam Gallagher.
Since the departure of my little canine buddy I’ve been re-decorating my mother’s dining room, which we’re turning into a bedroom in preparation for her return from hospital next week. Her discharge following six weeks treatment aimed at countering disabilities suffered during a stroke at the beginning of February.
These efforts of refreshing the paintwork depriving me of free time to undertake the habitually creative projects which ordinarily afford respite from angst, nausea and trench foot.
Consequently, I’ve not penned a daily blog since Monday; my observations since then remaining clandestine, the application of emulsion and gloss holding higher priority than literary output in the grand scheme of la vie de GJ Strachan, even seeking efficacy for the trench foot.
If truth be told, being bereft of time for writing has messed with my mental state. Creating written words and sketched caricatures, providing me with great catharsis; something unsurprisingly not bequeathed during labour with paint brush and roller.
Tomorrow, my mum’s bed will be built, we (my siblings and me) have procured a new television for her revamped bedroom, along with updated access to satellite channels, affording her access to live sports action, in addition to her beloved soap operas on terrestrial TV.
Her mobility and cognitive wherewithal have been impaired by the stroke. Hopefully, though, Maggie’s return home will counter the way six weeks inside a West Yorkshire medical establishment has seemed to institutionalise our broods matriarch. Unwittingly augmenting her confusion, messing with this brave lady’s mental wherewithal, along with depriving her of an update on her eldest child’s foot rot.
On my mother’s return back to this abode, care workers will provide mater’s personal needs, such as discussing the b*ll*cks imparted by her ‘go to’ newspaper, the Daily Express.
With my siblings living a fair distance from her Wakefield home, as I live in this manor, yours truly will become primary carer to the old lady. A role I don’t envisage to be an easy task; however, it’s the least I can contribute to make mum’s existence as manageable as possible.
Footnote – Incidentally, via online assistance necessitated by COVID protocols and other existential challenges, my siblings will still be highly involved in supporting mum. Under no circumstances am I being left to provide maternal backing in isolation.
So, not long now and Maggie will be back home; a time which’ll hopefully see’s her progress both physically and cognitively, manifesting from being back in her familiar homestead surroundings. Our mother deserving of payback from her clan in gratitude for the unconditional love, support, laughter, nourish and nurturing she’s provided to her progeny over half a century.
It’ll be good to have the old lady home….. God bless her, it’s been a challenge that’s even tested her normally unbreakable spirit and levels of unrelenting positivity.
Below – Part of Maggie’s new bedroom decor.