Siblings

I am an only child. At times of great happiness or distress I wonder how it would feel to share that experience with a sibling. Once when sitting alone in an Emergency Ward, doctors asked me do I want my mother resuscitated should the condition for which she had just been admitted deteriorate I keenly wished I had a sibling with whom to discuss the issue. But I don't have a sibling and never will so it is idle thought.

I have always assumed that if there had been a sibling that we would remain on good terms for life. I don't know why I am so certain about this given the example of my mother who became estranged from her only sibling for the last twenty or so years of her life.

I know three sisters with whom I have been close friends for over forty years. We have socialised together, travelled together, cried together and laughed together. Following the deaths of their parents they started to see me as a brother, the older brother they never had. Sadly after decades of close association two of the three sisters (middle and youngest) have fallen out with each other rather badly. Group socialising involving these two has become impossible. I continue to be on good terms with all three sisters but middle and youngest sister remain resolutely estranged.

Today at her invitation I met middle sister for lunch to see photos of her recent overseas trip. I mentioned my forthcoming overseas trip and she asked with whom I would be travelling. This I knew would be sensitive. Truthfully I told middle sister my travelling companion will be her estranged youngest sibling. Clearly neither oldest nor youngest sister had told middle sister of the travel plans.

Middle sister went very quiet, then whispered. 'I wish you hadn't told me this.' 'I'm having difficulty with this.' 'I wanted to do that trip.' And then she left. No further conversation, no lunch. Is our friendship over? I hope not.

I rang youngest sister and left a message informing her of what had happened.

I was left with a sick feeling in my stomach; quite upset. Is this the reality of what it is to have a sibling?

Postscript: within an hour of this exchange there has been a serious development possibly of a mental health nature which I won't go into at this time.

Growing up gay

WARNING: If you prefer not to read about illegal activities, please skip this post

Last night the ABC screened 'Our Gay Wedding: The Musical'. Two gay men planned and carried out their wedding as a musical. The wedding occurred on the first day that same sex couples could legally marry in Britain. Pretty well everyone involved in the wedding from the Registrar and the grooms, through to the relatives and friends attending participated musically in the ceremony (and some did so less musically). Parts of the ceremony were cheesy but there were plenty of moving, wonderful moments such as when both grooms' mothers sang a duet expressing honestly their feelings about discovering and coming to terms with their son's sexuality.

I was taken with information displayed on a big screen during the ceremony which informed both the progress made in removing discrimination against homosexuals but also the many areas where discrimination, indeed persecution, against homosexuals still prevails. It brought back memories of my own passage through a gay adolescence to adulthood.

My experience would be familiar to many gay Australians now aged in their sixties and older.

It is as recently as 1984 that homosexuality was decriminalised in my state of New South Wales. I was thirty-five years of age at the time. Prior to then it was illegal for me to engage my sexuality. Considering that I began sexual activity at the early age of twelve that constitutes twenty-three years of illegal activity simply responding to the sex drive that nature gave me.

At any stage in those twenty-three years I could have been arrested, prosecuted and gaoled. Indeed I was arrested once. I say arrested but I'm not sure of the technical status. Perhaps detained by police for questioning might be the correct legal status but either way to me it seemed like an arrest.

I was only twelve when I was arrested. I hadn't engaged in sex, nor touched, nor even spoken to the other person when I was detained. The other person was a plainclothes policeman. It was an act of entrapment. After lingering at a public urinal he gestured for me to follow him outside where we were approached by another man who also was a plainclothes policeman. They identified themselves as police and ordered me into their car. They drove me to a police station for questioning.

No adult relative relative, indeed no independent adult at all, was present during the questioning. They instructed me to complete a statement 'helpfully' suggesting forms of words at points when I felt incapable of expressing myself. The completed statement was a factually correct account but using language that was not my habit to employ and that my parents had never heard me express before nor indeed afterwards.

You can imagine the shock my parents felt when I was brought home unannounced by two policeman who handed them a copy of 'my' statement, alien language and all, to read. I presume the matter was referred to a Magistrate or some such legal arbitrator. As I hadn't actually been observed by the policemen to engage in sexual activity I assume my offence was soliciting or perhaps it was loitering with intent. I was required to attend a Psychiatric assessment to determine the level of my mental health.

I concede that I was in the habit of engaging in what then was illegal sexual activity. However consider the actions of the police that day. Entrapment, detaining and interviewing a minor without any independent adult and/or legal representative present, and 'assistance' given in completing 'my' statement. I think the last used to be referred to as 'verballing'.

Six years later when I applied for my first full time job, with a Government authority no less, I was in fear that the obligatory police checks would reveal that I had a criminal record. To my relief that was not the case.

There are homosexuals around the world nowadays facing far worse treatment than I experienced. It was good to be reminded of that fact whilst rejoicing for the newly married couple in their more enlightened time and place.

In Australia, we have progressed but marriage equality is still not on the agenda.

It's what parents do....

....sooner or later your parents will embarrass you.

At various stages in my life I felt embarrassed by something my parents said or did. But that was a long time ago. As I grew older and more understanding  - and most importantly, less concerned about what I imagined others think - I lost that youthful sensitivity to parental behaviour.

But a few memories came rushing back following an exchange on Andrew's blog. Somehow my comment on that blog caused Andrew to think about sex. Not just sex but 'hot sex', if you please. I wasn't thinking of sex at all when I wrote my comment. I've carefully re-read my words and don't see any trigger for sex in them. That my comment caused Andrew to turn to thoughts of sex, as the saying goes, says more about him than it does about me.

Anyway, having suggested thoughts of parental sex, 'icky' or otherwise, Andrew has stirred memories in me.

I recall, as a pre-teenager, that first thing each Sunday morning about twenty minutes was set aside for some personal activity behind almost closed bedroom doors. I was too young and naive to understand the nature of that activity although in later years I recognised that my parents were engaging in...ahem...some horizontal folk dancing.

Vertical folk dancing

Many years later when my parents were probably not much older than I am now I recall the three of us were on a long car drive. Father behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat and mother on the backseat. My mother leant forward, tapped me on the shoulder and with an odd look of dreamy smugness on her face, informed me that she and my father had 'made love' that morning.

Like Andrew's comment I have no idea what caused my mother to disclose this personal information. I suspect that by that time their participation in folk dancing had entered a long hiatus and so this return to the dance floor, so to speak, was worthy of announcement.

My father clearly was uneasy with my mother's disclosure. Later on I thought he might have puffed his chest at this confirmation of senior virility. I had no idea what to say in response, so I said nothing. I don't know why the thought of one's parents having sex should cause embarrassment. Most of us wouldn't exist without that act of sex. Anyway, it was probably the last time my parents caused me to feel embarrassed.

I've experienced better weeks

It has been an unhappy week.

The untimely death, days before his 26th birthday, of cricketer Phillip Hughes following an awful injury whilst playing cricket has shocked and gripped many Australians in a way rarely seen. It might be difficult for overseas readers who have heard this news and who are not in cricket playing countries to understand the extent of the general distress being expressed but Hughes somehow embodied so much of how Australians see themselves and see their heroes. The news of his passing upset me as it did so many others.

Phillip Hughes

The outpouring of grief around the world has been astonishing. This claim is not just hyperbole. On radio just minutes ago I heard that there have been 98,000,000 'views' around the world of photos on Instagram of cricket bats being displayed to mark Hughes passing. That's NINETY-EIGHT MILLION clicks on the internet in ONE day. Amazing.

Perhaps my emotion is amplified by another awful loss virtually simultaneous with that of Hughes. My volunteer co-worker of eight years at the Nursing Home, Da, passed away this morning little more than 12 hours later than Hughes after suffering a massive stroke on Wednesday morning also only a little more than 12 hours following Hughes' injury.

Da had been in good health, was only 67, ate healthily, exercised daily and simply was the last person I would imagine to be near the end of her days.

Both deaths reinforce the point; make the most of every day. Don't take life for granted, don't procrastinate about following your dreams and don't put off to another day telling your loved ones how much they mean to you. You may never get that chance.

Mum

Today is the second anniversary of my mother's death

Like sands through the hour glass...

...these are the streets of my life. Not all of of them of course but these are the significant streets on which I have lived in Sydney from my birth in 1949 until the present day.

West Street, Darlinghurst

I was born at nearby Crown Street Womens Hospital, which no longer exists, and my parents were living in West Street at the time so this was my first home. However I have no memories from my days there.

National Street, Rozelle

My first ever memories date to my life here in the inner west of Sydney in a two storey semi-detached house. These were pre-school childhood days when I first started to walk. Rozelle in those days was very much working class with docklands and power houses nearby but nowadays it and adjacent Balmain are very fashionable and in parts extremely expensive.

Wylde Street, Potts Point

Back to the eastern suburbs and not far from my start at West Street. My childhood, pre-teen and primary school days were spent here with the Navy on one side (hello, Sailor!) and 1950/60s Bohemian Kings Cross on the other. Could both be factors in my losing my virginity here at...well, let's just say...a very young age?

Yarranabbe Road, Darling Point

My parents economic situation improved and so did our residential status when we moved to Darling Point, even in the 1960s, a posh place to live although we three were still in a relatively inexpensive and tiny flat with a sensational view of the harbour that meant nothing in monetary terms then but adds squillions to property values now. My teenage years, high school, university and first few years of adult, early twenties, working life were spent here, still living with my parents.

Hedges Avenue, South Strathfield

My mother's long cherished wish to live in her own standalone house was finally realised when, with my reluctant father in tow, we moved to South Strathfield in 1972. After years spent in the eastern suburbs this western suburb of Sydney seemed to me to be a long way from my friends and my lifestyle activities. My parents were to live there for twenty-four years until 1996 but I spent less than four years (1973/74 and then 1976/77) in that house, the only time in my 61 years alive that I have lived in a standalone house.

So strange was this suburban lifestyle to me that I had difficulty sleeping the first few nights we were there. I had never before heard the sounds of dogs barking at night in neighbouring backyards and was kept awake by this unfamiliar noise until I became accustomed to it.

I was posted to London in 1974/75 with my employment and then again to Hong Kong, Beijing, Suva and Canberra in turn from 1977 to 1987.

Meryla Street, Burwood

Finally back in Sydney in 1987 I lived here until 1990. Burwood was only two suburbs from my parents in South Strathfield and felt marginally more urban than my parents' suburb but at the time there didn't seem much difference.



Edgecliff Road, Edgecliff

 The lure of the eastern suburbs, the harbour and the ocean were too strong and I moved to Edgecliff in 1990 not far from my childhood homes at West Street, Wylde Street and Yarranabbe Road.

And here I remain to this day, now a retired senior citizen with memories of near and far.

A rose by any other name...

The Passport Office's strict new rules to guard against terrorists, financial swindlers and the like obtaining passports in assumed names has a new victim. Me!
At the grand age of 61, I have had to apply for a change of my family name; ironically to the only family name I have used for my entire life and the only family name I ever knew my parents to use. How has this come to pass?

I was born in Sydney in 1949. For schooling and employment purposes I provided a standard extract of birth certificate which was a simple typed certificate produced by the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages (BDM) and which contained full name, birth date and birth place. This was sufficient in those days to also allow the grant of passports including Ordinary passports for personal travel and both Official and Diplomatic passports issued to me in the days when I worked overseas for the Australian Government.

Some time in the 1980s the Passport Office changed it's rules and insisted on full birth certificates rather than the formerly acceptable extract certificates. The full certificates contain all the details of your birth registration including parents names and their employment and marriage details amongst other information.

I obtained a full certificate for the first time in 1986 - by which time I was aged 37 - in order to renew my passport and it came in the form of a photograph of the actual handwritten registration. A lovely historical document except that I was amazed to learn for the first time that my father's family name was recorded as a double barrel name and by virtue of that my family name was also a double barrel one. Never mind that I had never known of this name, let alone used it, nor had I ever known either of my parents to use the name.

Whilst a shock, the revelation did not prove a problem at the time and the Passport Office subsequently issued further passports to me in my habitual name in 1988 and again in 1993, the last passport issued to me which expired in 2003.

Fast forward to 2010 and I have applied for a new passport in advance of my trip to Europe next May. Well things have changed a lot haven't they, especially after 11 September 2001. Now the Passport Office will only issue a passport in the name on your birth certificate, never mind that I have never used that name for any purpose whatsoever and that not one of my, at least seven, previous passports has been issued in that name.

What to do? Well either I would need to adopt my 'new' birth name for all purposes which I have no intention of doing or I have to apply to the BDM for a change of name. And so it was on Friday that I went to the BDM, applied to change my name to the only name I have ever used and applied for a birth certificate in my new (old) name. Of course, all of this is only achieved with fancy fees attached.

Can any new indignities await me?

Such are the meals of our lives...

Muzbot and Adaptive Radiation have recorded their lives in ten dishes, each assembling an impressive array of diverse dishes.

Thinking of something similar for myself I have hit several brick walls.

First, my memory is appalling nowadays and I'm finding it difficult to recall much about what we ate in my childhood but for the fact that it comprised a lot of rice and not too many vegetables. To this day I eat too much rice and insufficient vegetables for my good. I am not of Asian origin; all that rice was simply a reflection of my 'refugees from Europe', financially struggling grandparents/parents attempting to establish themselves in a new and strange country.

Both my parents worked and there was no-one to look after me at home during school holidays so I used to be put on the bus at Kings Cross every weekday of the holidays and would travel to Bondi Junction where I would spend the day with my grandmother before bussing it back home again in the evening.

Those were the days when my grandmother had an ice chest and purchased blocks of ice from the Ice Man who would drive up the suburban streets in his van several times a week. There was no such thing as frozen food then. My grandmother shopped twice every weekday - morning and afternoon - for the fresh food that she would make for that day's meals. This was my school holiday entertainment; accompanying my grandmother on her shopping trips.

Most days she served me a lunch that would horrify my doctor today. The blackest of black bread with a thick spread of chicken fat! I loved it. The chicken fat was what she scooped off from the various chicken dishes and broths she prepared for her and her husband's main evening meal. Every now and then, as a special treat, the bread was spread with jam instead of the fat.

Little did I know in those youthful days that chicken was an expensive meat so in reality her limited means were being spent on what then was luxury food.

My second hurdle, as you might guess from a childhood diet of bread and chicken fat, is that I am in no way a gastronome. I enjoy food from almost anywhere - except for some reason, Japanese seafood - but do not harbour pretentions to gastronomic snobbery.

When the Australian Government posted me to London for three years back in 1974 my parents decided we should mark the occasion by going somewhere special to dinner on the eve of my departure. In fact that was the last thing I wanted to do. I was facing the next three years without a family home cooked meal and so asked whether we could eat at home instead. It was both a loving and selfish request given that my mother, still working full time, would have to come home and prepare this celebratory feast. My mother agreed and said she would prepare whatever I wanted.

So what 'last meal' did I ask my mother to prepare? Rissoles and rice smothered in tomato sauce!

So there you have it. My life in two dishes.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Oh how that saying used to bemuse me.

You see, I'm a pretty thoughtless man. I can go hours without a thought in my head. If I had to rely on thoughts to get rich...well, I'd be a pauper.

In this respect I am not my mother's son. My mother always had thoughts...countless thoughts. She could attach a treasure chest load of thoughts to a single thought of mine. For instance, if I thought...'tomorrow I will go to the movies'...that single thought was sufficient thinking for me. No other thoughts were necessary.

Not so, my mother. To that single thought, my mother would attach other thoughts. What if it rains? snows? is cold? hot? And to each of those other thoughts my mother would attach further thoughts. Should I take food? drink? a friend? And to each of the further thoughts my mother would attach supplementary thoughts. Is my underwear clean? did I cut my toenails? should I brush my teeth, does the car have petrol?

And so on and so forth.

The casual observer would see my countenance as inscrutable, concealing all manner of deep thoughts.

My mother knew better...her son did not possess a thought in the world.

No milestone for mother

My mother, who died on 26 March, would have been eighty-five today.

It is a pity that she did not reach the milestone but in reality it would only have been a matter of pleasure for me as in her final years with dementia she no longer showed any interest or awareness of the concept of age and birthdays.

But Mum, I have been thinking of you today.

Business as usual

Normal life is resuming.

So far this week I've been to the bank to retrieve documents needed for my mother's estate, seen the accountant to finally sign off on last year's tax returns, set up an appointment with the solicitor next week for estate matters, cleared my mother's room at the nursing home, had lunch with my teacher friends (with me the sole non teacher amongst a group of eight), set up morning coffee with an old friend of my parents for this morning and last but not least arranged a relaxing, gossipy lunch today with my best, non sex buddy, gay mate who has been a terrific support over the past two weeks. That reminds me, still on the agenda, have some sex soon.

And it is back to my volunteer jobs next week when I also will have my excision stitches removed.

Get me to the church on time

I'm going to a wedding this afternoon. Not my own...the third daughter of good friends is doing the deed.

I wasn't sure how I would feel about going to the wedding following my mother's death last week and the melanoma excision this week but I believe I am dealing well with the former and my discomfort from the latter is easing if not yet past.

The wedding itself is at a church in a suburb about forty-five minutes or so drive south of where I live but I am totally unfamiliar with the area and not certain that I have the timings correct. Then there is the problem of the three hours or so break between the ceremony and the evening reception which is being held at a suburb about a further fifteen minutes away. The break is not long enough to make it worthwhile returning home so we will have to link up with other guests and find somewhere to sit, chat and presumably drink.

Friends tell me that attending the wedding will be a good distraction for me and I am sure that will prove correct but at the moment the last thing I feel like doing is getting all dressed up in suit and tie when I have been lazing about in casual wear the past three days following the doctor's instructions to take it completely easy.

On the other hand, the reception is being held at a beachside location and with today's sunny holiday weather the best tonic and distraction may well be the eye candy passing by outside.

Charity runs amok

I had lunch today at a city Italian restaurant with four longstanding friends. In years gone past we were work colleagues and also a tennis and squash playing group. The lunch had been arranged prior to my mother's unexpected death and whilst I initially changed my mind about attending following her death I changed my mind. I'm glad that I did. It is better to get on with life than withdraw from society.

All of us have now reached the Senior Citizen's card age and only one is still in fulltime employment, the other four of us having retired from fulltime work. We spent a few pleasant, chatty hours gossiping about all and sundry issues but as has now become common for our age group we had plenty of personal health related issues to compare and discuss.

We are all meeting again this Saturday at the marriage of the third and youngest daughter of the remaining worker.

My relaxed mood was rudely shattered shortly after returning home. One of a number of charities that I donate to over the phone followed up an exchange I had with them several weeks ago. Over time I have become increasingly concerned by this particular charity's aggressive and intrusive techniques. It routinely attempted to get me to increase my previous donations by threefold and more and had taken to asking intrusive questions for 'security purposes'. I was also taken aback when I wrote to them on an earlier occasion to complain about their tactics to find the charity in question operated from a high level floor in an expensive waterfront tower. I wondered what proportion of donations went to cover their rental costs.

A 'supervisor' sought to explain the previous tactics and even said that the charity had changed its approach following complaints similar to mine but I'm still peeved and told him I would not be providing a donation again.

His call was bad timing. I was left upset for the intended beneficiaries of donations who I know are deserving of assistance. Now I'm trying to calm down in preparation for tomorrow's melanoma excision.

Gratitude

Thanks for all the messages following the death of my mother.

I was quite touched also by the number of calls from friends and associates, some of whom I had lost contact with for many years.

The funeral was today and my mother is now at peace.

I'm holding up well apart from sleepless nights over the weekend since Mum's death and am looking forward to a good night's sleep tonight (fingers crossed). Next stop, the wide excision surgery on Wednesday after which I hopefully can return to happier and more mundane missives related to my life and interests.

I'm also looking forward to catching up on my blog reading.

My Mum

Yesterday at 5.40am the Nursing Home rang me to advise my mother's condition was of concern. She was struggling with her breathing and her blood pressure had fallen. When I arrived at the home shortly after I found my mother in bed, attached to an oxygen tank, apparently unconscious.

An ambulance was summoned and my mother's heart stopped on the journey to the hospital. The paramedics resuscitated her but on examination in Emergency it was clear that there was nothing that could be done beyond making her final moments comfortable.

I was by her bedside when my mother passed away at 10.55am. She was eighty-four years old.

My mother lived for me and her love for me was overwhelming. She was the best mother and my closest friend.

Fairy tales do come true...it can happen to you...

One of the advantages of my mother's dementia is that she is long passed wondering why her son (and only child) hasn't married and provided her with longed for grandchildren. When she remembers who I am, as she did when I visited her this morning, I receive a happy and non-judgemental welcome.

The same cannot be said for my rediscovered aunt who also has dementia but surprisingly good short term memory. Having rediscovered each other after decades of separation my aunt now knows and remembers my single, childless status and has started to badger me about the joys of marriage and parenthood. She doesn't appear to notice the irony of what she is saying to me given that she was thrown out of her own home by her now deceased husband and has been completely cut off by her two children and four grandchildren, apparently for years, not one of whom maintains any contact with her.

Today my aunt told me that each week now she expects that this will be the week when I inform her of my impending marriage and parenthood. When I suggested that I was not likely to be making that lifestyle change now at the age of sixty, my aunt was undeterred informing me that it is never too late.

She must be influenced by Geoffrey Edelsten and Brynne Gordon who in a piece of 'celebrity' gossip disguised as news on television last night breathlessly regaled viewers about their wedding and parenthood plans.

(Geoffrey Edelsten and Brynne Gordon)

God forbid that I should end up like these two.

My proxy grandmother

(Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple)

I am lucky that I didn't lose the first of my parents until I was fifty-four and my mother is still alive; albeit with little memory or recognition due to dementia.

On the other hand I only ever knew one of my four grandparents; my maternal grandmother being the only one still alive when I was born and she passed on when I was seventeen. So I had only limited experience of grandparent attention.

I find it a bit odd that at sixty years of age I have acquired, uninvited, a proxy grandmother in the form of one of the other hospital volunteers who has taken a shine to me and off her own bat decided to guide me.

This woman is ancient. I'm not sure what her age is but to give you some idea of what she might be just consider that she completed more than fifty years as a nurse at the hospital and now has passed twenty-five years as a volunteer! I'm sure some of this must have been concurrent otherwise she would be close to a hundred or more now.

She wears rows of badges on her volunteer's blouse to mark the many milestones she achieved in each role such that she has the appearance of a Russian General bedecked in his service medals.

After my recent bout of vertigo following ear damage, proxy grandmother took to giving me advice on healthy eating. She started bringing in empty packages of food items she purchases for her own dining and runs through the cooking instructions for me (as if I am unable to read the instructions for myself) whilst patients queue up behind her waiting to receive attention from me.

Of course she is well intentioned but her total lack of awareness of the impact of these impromptu mentoring sessions is a bit embarrassing. I don't have the heart to cut her short and so bear with it until she feels she has provided me with the guidance she so clearly thinks that I need.

The bra boy

OK, I know that I am a mere male, albeit a gay one, and therefore inferior to the female of the species when it comes to shopping but how on earth do women go about purchasing brassieres?

Despite being armed with the most detailed of specifications from the manager of my mother's Nursing Home and taking along a person of female persuasion as my shopping companion and mentor, the project of purchasing new brassieres for my 84 years old mother today was an ordeal of unspeakable torture.

It appears that Department stores carry sufficient brassieres to dress every female on the planet, each brassiere being as varied as each female. But not one of these was a (specific brand name and model) size 16C (Australian measurement) with high bridge and wide band at back that I was instructed to purchase.

None of a platoon of sales assistants who attempted to assist us, in the most desultory fashion, seemed to have any idea of what we were seeking and even less of what stock they held. My specialist female mentor disappointingly appeared as confused and uncertain as the sales staff although I couldn't fault her persistence and endeavour.

I noticed that at each of the four stores we tried, the other female shoppers present also sought hopeful, almost desperate, direction from the assistants. Female shoppers seemed as tortured as I felt.

I have new admiration for those females who purchase underwear for their boyfriend/husband/son. I'm glad that, my mother aside, I am unlikely to be required to perform the reverse service for anyone in my remaining days.

Targetting brassieres and things

I've been a bit lazy with my blogging lately. It is not that I haven't been doing anything but most of what I have been doing has been routinely domestic or otherwise seemingly unworthy of a blog post.

For example yesterday I spent several hours trawling Target, K-Mart and the like looking for women's clothes. How, I hate shopping for women's clothes! I have all sorts of problems with sizes and don't start on the issue of purchasing suitable brassieres and knickers.

Now before you conclude that I am outing myself as a transvestite I should clarify that the laundry at my mother's nursing home may be super industrial but it also chews through clothing in no time at all. So I periodically have to purchase new outer and under garments for my mother to replace those 'murdered' by the laundry.

I have no female relatives other than my mother and an aunt, both of whom have dementia, and so responsibility for purchasing the new items falls to me. It seems to me that the high end Department stores do not cater for women in their eighties so I focus on the discount type outlets.

I can manage the selection of polo tops and even trousers for my mother without too much difficulty but those undergarments give me the willies...so to speak.

I am turning to a good female friend to help me out.

Reunited...almost

(Diego Rivera, 1914)

When completing the papers for my mother's admission to the nursing home four years ago I did not include details of her sister from whom she had been estranged for nearly thirty years and whose circumstances and whereabouts, along with her children, had been unknown to us all that time. It seemed that we might never hear from or see them again.

I sometimes wondered whether my Aunt might pop up in the home herself but never really expected that to actually happen. Well that is exactly what happened yesterday. I was doing my volunteering in Day Care at the home yesterday when the senior Social Worker approached me to advise that a recent admission was talking about her sister and nephew and mentioning my mother and I by name.

My Aunt is a new resident in the low care Dementia section - my mother is in the high care section - and has no-one to care for her welfare. It turns out my Aunt has also been estranged from and disowned by her own children.

It's a pretty sad situation. I'm told that my Aunt has a cocktail of conditions including delusions, bipolar disorder, paranoia and manic depression. Despite that I found her extremely lively on meeting her again and was surprised by her memory for such things as family birth dates and her mother's address from over forty years ago.

I spent an hour talking with her yesterday and look like being her only family support now. Suddenly I find myself with the care concerns for two relatives.

I felt very drained last night and it will be a while before I come to grips with this unexpected development.