Missing

I have blogged previously about my Uncle Norman and his long descent into dementia. He's been in a residential care home in Blackpool ever since 2015, missing in action to all intents and purposes for the last decade, as the cruellest of diseases stealthily took its toll. He turned 95 on Thursday of last week and he died peacefully the following morning, a merciful release That his passing coincided with this week's theme is one of life's strange synchronicities.

Actually, within days of being relocated from leafy Leamington to a care home in Blackpool where I could keep a watchful eye, he formed a one-man escape committee. He didn't really know where he was and could barely grasp who I was anymore, but he remembered holidays in Blackpool as a child and could see the tower from the garden of the care home. 

His repeated attempts to go a-wandering through the front entrance were foiled by the keypad and its secret code, but he would spend many hours roaming the large walled back garden, dead-heading flowers and scrumping apples. Members of staff would sometimes briefly leave the premises by a gate at the bottom of the garden for a crafty smoke, and although Norman had little remaining in the way of short-term memory, he did observe where they hid the key behind a loose brick in the wall and one day he made his great getaway,

As I said, he didn't really know where he was, who he was or where he was going. He had been a teacher of French and he loved France (witness the photograph below), so as he headed in the direction of the tower, maybe he thought he was walking the streets of Paris again. I've no idea. Anyway, Norman was missing. 

Fortunately he wasn't at large for very long. He was apprehended by a kind person who took him to Victoria Hospital and a couple of phone calls to care homes in the immediate vicinity soon identified where my uncle had absconded from. He was returned unharmed and the key was never left behind a brick in the wall again.

Norman and friend in Nice, 1954

Shortly after Norman was first diagnosed with dementia, I went on a familiarisation training course  about the disease and one of the things I learned was that the average life expectancy for someone after diagnosis is about ten years. So it proved. Ten essentially missing years, during which the poor man's only real pleasure was his love of eating. By the way, his comment written on the back of that photograph simply stated "yum yum". 

Having arranged end-of-life palliative care for my uncle a few weeks ago, I sat down and wrote this little poem as I waited for the inevitable end.

Dying Days

Though you've been missing for years,

still you've travelled on mindlessly

like one of those deserted caravels -

who knows what became of the crew -

found drifting on open sea at the whim 

of winds and tides, until such time

as your rotting sails shred, barnacled

hull springs a fatal leak, or perhaps

if you're lucky, you nose into some

sheltered sunset bay to beach gracefully

one final time, a home for mermen.

I collected Norman's effects earlier this week, including the birthday card from me which read "95 today! Who would have believed that? Not you, for sure. Happy birthday dear uncle and may love and peace go with you." It had been opened, but I'm not sure it would have made any impression on him as he slipped from this life. 

As a bonus - to end on a more cheery note -  here's a 'found' poem. It's based on an invitation written on the back of a picture postcard from a little seaside town in the west country. I came across it today when I was sorting through the letters, cards and photographs I'd brought back from the care home. 

From the Beach:

Walk up the ramp 

by the iron railing 

(see over) and

cross the narrow road.

Pop into the pink house

at the top of the hill

for a cuppa chez moi

and a slice of what you like. 

Thanks for reading, S ;-)