Tag: Children

When young meet old – our trip to a care home post COVID outbreak

Calamitousmummy

Growing old may not always be fun, but you stay the same person and that’s what counts. Children, especially, get it.

I’ve always been very fond of my half-sister. So, when I heard she had been transferred to a care home my instinct was to go and visit her. I gave her a call and she told me she’d had no visitors yet. This was because of a 14-day quarantine period imposed owing to COVID restrictions. I told the girls about her and they wanted to go and see her too. They remembered her fondly from the last time they saw her at Christmas.

It was never going to be an easy trip with the girls in tow, given the strict regulations in place owing to COVID. The care home was a good 75-minute motorway drive from where we lived. None of us would be allowed to use the ‘facilities’ or enter inside the building. We would have our temperatures taken upon arrival, we’d have to wear masks and strict social distancing would be in place. We were also in the midst of a heatwave.

But I was determined to see her. DH would be working and the girls were excited to see her again. They had begun drawing pictures of rainbows, flowers and butterflies to go on her wall at the care home.

When I told my half-nephew I was planning to visit his mother, he questioned if it was wise to bring the girls with me, suggesting that I check with the care home.  This comment puzzled me, but I didn’t like to press him. Was he worried they’d not respect the social distancing rules? Or that they’d be bored? Or that it would be complicated for me?  I told him I thought his mum may enjoy seeing them, but I’d see what the care home said.

I contacted the care home to book the visit and they agreed it would be OK to bring my 5-year-old and 4-year-old along with me. I had to fill in three separate forms, one for each of us, to testify our health, and I got MiniM#1 to ‘sign’ her form and Mini#2 to ‘sign’ hers before scanning them back to the care home.

A couple of days before our visit I received a call from my half-sister, who expressed concern about the girls coming as she was worried it could distress them. Again, I was puzzled. She said that she didn’t want to girls to be upset by seeing very elderly people and was I sure I wanted to bring them.

I replied that from our point of view, the girls were really keen to see her and that I believed it to be important for children to meet people from all walks of life, and not to shield them from the elderly, because we all become old eventually. After all, she’s a person, not an age. She replied that she had changed, and may not be looking very glamorous and I ventured that if she felt at all uncomfortable from her own perspective about the girls seeing her, then she must say so, and I was absolutely OK not to bring them. She replied that she was fine for them to see her, and that I’m their mother so it was up to me, but her sons had expressed concerns that it could be distressing for them to see elderly people.

I hung up, dithering what to do. Was I putting my children in an awkward position? Was it her talking or her sons? Getting older is part of life and people are still the same people whatever their age.  I feel particularly strongly about this point, as my beloved late father was a lot older than most fathers. He was 70 years old when I was born, hence my half-sister turning 85 next month.

I vividly remember, aged 14, being told by my mother that I didn’t need to continue to visit my father in the hospice if I didn’t want to. He was dying of cancer. Her suggestion felt like a bullet through the heart and I remember staring at her in complete and utter disbelief, my head unsuccessfully trying to make sense of the words I was hearing. Why on earth would I not want to carry on visiting my father, one of two people I loved more than anyone else on the entire planet, at a time when he needed us the most? My heart still squeezes when I recall this moment (of course never with any resentment towards my dear mother, she was only trying to protect me). Needless to say, I continued to visit him.

And today I paid his daughter a visit, with my two daughters, on the hottest day of the year. The journey to see her went fairly smoothly. The temperature gauge in the car nudged 36 degrees as I sped along the M25. The aircon was on full pelt, but it still felt hot and clammy in the car. Upon arrival MiniM#2 was a bit groggy after falling asleep in the car and was grumpy about having her mask put on.

We stood outside the main doors and the receptionist came out to take our temperatures. Mine was 39.5 degrees (!) I looked at her, horrified that our trip may have been in vain, and amazed it was such a high reading when I felt fine. She took it a couple of times more and it still read the same. We agreed it must be the heatwave. I asked her to take the girls’ temperature and they were both 36.7 degrees.

When mine had eventually edged down to 37.8 degrees she agreed my half-sister could come outside. She had gone up to her room to apply her lipstick. I thought she looked as lovely and as elegant as ever. The time flew by. We were only allowed 30 minutes, but the receptionist turned a blind eye to us staying almost 50 minutes. The girls were as good as gold (apart from MiniM#2 moaning that she wanted a biscuit for the last 10 minutes – I kept telling her she could have one in the car!).

I felt sad that my half-sister obviously wanted to hug us and invite us in and show us her room, but was not allowed because of the COVID restrictions. And she suggested letting the children play around with her frame but we had to tell her it wasn’t allowed either. She could at least look at the flowers we brought and the girls’ pictures, but she wasn’t allowed to touch them. The receptionist took them at the end of the visit and said they would be ‘sprayed down’. I hoped the colours wouldn’t run, and the flowers wouldn’t wilt.

I felt sad too when we had to go. The girls showed her how to give virtual hugs and said goodbye to her. She was sorry DH hadn’t come too, and asked to say ‘goodbye’ to him too. This sounded awfully poignant and I made up my mind to come back and see her again soon, hopefully with DH. My heart felt a bit squeezed as I waved goodbye to her. ‘Ahh it’s hard growing old,’ I said to the girls in the car. MiniM#1 looked at me, nonplussed. “Why?” she asked, puzzled.

And the fact she asked me that question made me extremely glad I had brought her along. And fully convinced it was completely the right thing to do. “Oh, I didn’t mean being old,” I corrected myself, “I meant having to deal with all the COVID restrictions.” She immediately looked less puzzled and nodded in agreement.

The trip back was less smooth. The heat and the journey had taken their toll on the girls. Poor MiniM#1 vomited profusely in the back of the car. Luckily, we were nearly back home and I opened all the windows. The clean-up job wasn’t pretty, but we agreed the trip was worth it. And she was fine later – gobbled up her fish fingers, peas and couscous for supper.

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The day my 3-year-old caught the Corona Virus

Calamitousmummy

sick mia 2Or at least we assume she did. We can’t be sure as the UK is not testing (except for the rich and famous of course.) And it took her to become seriously ill for me to take stock and ‘calm down’.

At the beginning of last week, when schools, pubs, playgrounds, shops and cafes were still open in the UK, I was driving myself into a panic reading all the news alerts and increasing death tolls worldwide; wondering why nothing was being done in the UK to anticipate this impending doom. Herd immunity sounded such a risky way of dealing with the situation, compared to the enforced lockdown that had been going on in Italy, France, Spain and Switzerland.

And then, last Tuesday, I got the call from preschool to tell me my 3-year-old was experiencing breathing difficulties and couldn’t stop coughing, and that I needed to collect her. I jumped straight into the car, my heart pounding. As I rang the preschool doorbell, I became convinced my worst fears were about to be realised, and I began sobbing (really unhelpful, I know, but I couldn’t stop myself).

The preschool manager and carer were so calm and caring and level-headed; luckily MiniM#2 didn’t see me crying as she was fast asleep in one of the carer’s arms. This in itself was unheard of. She stopped her afternoon naps before she turned two and is normally a tireless ball of energy. She looked so pale. With tears streaming down my face I carried her out into the carpark, cradled in my arms, with wellies, bags and coats hanging off my fingers. I stood there, feeling a bit lost, wondering how I was going to get my car keys out of my back pocket.

Back home, she awoke while still in the car. Surprised at where she was. She had a slight cough and was indeed wheezy, but didn’t seem as bad as I’d feared thank goodness. I actually felt relief that now we would legitimately have to take MiniM#1 out of school and MiniM#2 out of preschool and DH out of the office and self-isolate for 14 days. That way we would no longer be exposed to the possibility of coming into contact with the virus.

Over the next day or two MiniM#2 had a constant cough and wheeziness, but she was happy and merry, dancing and jumping and playing as usual. I began to take stock of the situation and calm down. I stopped reading or listening to the news. We would be safe and stay together in isolation.

It was Thursday night when everything changed. We were woken at 3am to the sound of rasping coughing and gasping for breath. MiniM#2 couldn’t breathe properly, nor could she even talk properly; her voice came out as a muffled squeak in between coughing. Tears were streaming down her red face and her eyes were wide and frightened. I stroked her head to try to calm her and forced myself to look calm when I was exploding with fear inside. “I want God to save me mummy,” she managed to croak.

I called 999 without hesitation and was told an ambulance was on its way. I sat in bed with MiniM#2 on my lap, keeping her in an upright position as she coughed and coughed and coughed, gasping for breath. I was shaking uncontrollably, like a leaf. “Stop rumbling, mummy!” she croaked at me.

The ambulance took me and her to East Surrey hospital where she was checked over by a doctor. I was told it was likely she had COVID-19 but they no longer tested. She was breathing better by the time she was seen and her chest and airways were deemed clear, despite all the wheezing and coughing.

DH came with MiniM#1 to pick us both up at 7am, weary and exhausted. MiniM#2 was already chirpier and excitedly told her big sister how the police had taken her to hospital (!) Back home, I managed a 2-hour nap while DH cancelled his work calls and minded the girls. MiniM#2 kept going until about 4pm when she fell into a deep sleep on the sofa. When she woke, she was burning up, still wheezy and coughing. We called 111, who called another ambulance.

The paramedics were amazing and so matter-of-fact. They said she probably did have COVID-19, but that it was just a virus and not to worry – 80% of people with the corona virus don’t need treatment. They even removed their masks; explaining that it was likely they’d catch it anyway and that masks didn’t really do much to protect.

While they were there, MiniM#2 began to rally.  Her temperature didn’t go lower than 38.3 degrees even with Calpol, but she visibly perked up and began playing with the medical kit of the paramedics (they encouraged this!) and showing them her dollies and hair accessories. They accepted our offer of tea and coffee.

Just having the paramedics sitting there, in our living room with us, watching over MiniM#2 and addressing all our concerns was unbelievably reassuring. The high temperature was her little body fighting the virus. She continued to improve over the next few days.

Who’s to know what lies ahead. Whether my own recent shortness of breath, slight cough and swollen neck glands is me fighting the virus? I’ve been prescribed an inhaler and banned by the doctor from doing any form of sport for 7 days. DH and MiniM#2 are still fine.

But mentally I feel stronger and more defiant. I needed what felt like a close brush like that to put things into perspective. There’s no point wasting energy and resources worrying about countless ‘what if’ scenarios if they are not actually happening.

It’s been 10 days since preschool called me and MiniM#2 still has a cough but seems OK now. Hopefully I’ll be fine too. That’s what everyone healthy should be focusing on. I’m happy staying at home until all this passes. I’m sorry MiniM#1 may miss the end of her first year at school which she was loving so much. I’m sad they can’t see their granny at the moment. I’m sorry MiniM#2 is missing having fun at preschool, but I’m thankful we have each other. And we can spend time together as a family, even if it is full-on and exhausting at times…

As for the news alerts, I’ve deactivated them and I’m dipping in far less frequently to the news. It’s all about living in the present. And we’ve swapped our evening dose of scandi-noirs and gritty thrillers for Miranda and Fawlty Towers box sets.

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