Daddy, dementia and me: His rebellious tendencies meant he was assigned a carer

I find it hard to believe that it is six Christmases since Daddy ended up in St James’s Hospital, Dublin, with heart failure. Little did he know as he sat up in his bed like a big bold Buddha giving out guff to all and sundry that he would never live independently again.

That was essentially because of his dementia and not his dodgy ticker. The dramatic deterioration of his short-term memory during the previous year or so had caused one crisis after another.

For those of us who have survived George’s unbridled spirit, it won’t come as a surprise that the poor overstretched and under-resourced nurses and doctors rostered to work for the festive period of 2014 weren’t exactly being infused with feelings of zen by this particular octogenarian.

As well as repeating the same questions about “why exactly he was incarcerated in this particular institution against his will”, he categorically reminded them that since we lived in a republic “they should surely know rights of citizens were sacrosanct”.

Why do we still find it so hard to talk about periods?

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Death’s door

Frankly, I had him at death’s door, if not quite waked and buried, as I landed in an almost empty Heuston Station on that Christmas Eve as darkness shrouded the Liffey and the city beyond ground to a halt.

The previous day I had taken to the high seas to spend the holiday on Clare Island with my three pirate princesses and islander ex-husband, an annual ritual involving many novenas to the weather gods during the preceding weeks.

On this festive occasion, however, that dramatic phone call meant I was on the first ferry back out of the island the following morning. All my gifts were abandoned under the tree and would be opened in my absence. The bottles of port and whiskey, cinnamon sticks and cloves, smoked cheese and crackers that I had lugged across the waves from the mainland still sat in their boxes.

By the time I arrived in St James’s, boy was I wishing I had the foresight to stow away one of those bottles of hooch for the occasional swig.

Despite the fact that Daddy was seriously ill he went into full throttle as I sat down at his bedside.

“Since it is my heart, Áine, surely I should know that it is perfectly fine.”

“But it is Christmas Eve Daddy and you cannot be discharged until the consultant sees you,” I said, hedging my bets.

“I don’t give a f**k that it is Christmas Eve. Do I not have a right to be in my own home?”

This exchange was occurring while he attempted but failed to exit his bed due to severe breathlessness and weakness.

However, because of his memory loss he continued to make this escapology attempt regularly over the coming days with similar results but extra expletives.

Fortunately the presentation of a box of chocolates to indulge his rather helpless sweet tooth and the irresistible challenge of The Irish Times Crossword proved to be reliable, if not short-term, distractions.

Ultimately, though, George’s rebellious tendencies meant he was assigned a one-to-one carer, whenever this facility was feasible.

In Daddy’s case, they were affable young guys who clearly had the patience of the entire litany of saints from Barnabas to Benedict, Mary Magdalene to Sylvester.

Disappearing jaunts

When on duty they managed to deter him from sneaking off. You see he was mobile again before the new year and had taken to going walkabout: sneaking past the nurses’ station; down the lift from Private Three; across the vast concourse which was busier than an airport; and out and about in the grounds to have a fag with his new recovering heroin addict friend who I happened to meet on one of his disappearing jaunts.

Six years later I can still recall how fast my own heart would beat after arriving in to visit him and the bed was empty. In the beginning, I would imagine him lost down an alleyway somewhere on the South Circular Road wandering along in his dressing gown and slippers, all his feistiness having melted into fragile vulnerability.

Of course, instead I’d find him with the bold boys smoking under the eaves of the outpatient department.

There is a pathos for me that this Christmas I know exactly where he will be for his post-prandial smoke. And while he no longer attempts escapes from the nursing home where he has resided for 4½ years, there is a certain poetic justice in the fact that he can still ensure the staff are put on their toes with one roar as he shuffles up the corridor.

“Where am I meant to find a light in this f**king establishment?”