A&E: Alzheimer's and an emergency trip to Cambridge

Another disconcerting visit to Addenbrooke's Hospital in Cambridge earlier on this freezing winter night. Mother-in-law, the subject of many previous posts, was admitted to the huge complex yesterday as the decline in her health begins to accelerate. Alzheimer's is most certainly taking a firm grip.

TESTING TIMES: Addenbrooke's Hospital, Cambridge      Photo: BBC

She now lives in a care home in the village of Little Downham, little more than a short hop and jump from the cathedral "city" of Ely where she receives round-the-clock-care from dedicated, amiable, hard-working staff. Despite their efforts, accidents are bound to happen and sure enough, last week, on Christmas Eve, mum-in-law had a fall. It was not serious in itself and a thorough check by the GP revealed no breaks or even bruising, although he did suspect she was suffering from a UTI. No need for the hospital, he said. That would only add to her obvious confusion. A course of strong antibiotics should do the trick.

But her behaviour has altered significantly of late; her speech is becoming more slurred, the words she so desperately seeks cannot be conjured, her once-brisk walk has been reduced to a mere shuffle and everyday tasks are becoming increasingly difficult. Why fumble with a fork at the table if your fingers will suffice? Not all the time, you understand, but more and more often, and the frustration simmers.

The tipping point occurred when she deliberately took to the floor of her room after refusing food and drink. She then flatly refused assistance and began to threaten the staff who were patiently trying to cajole and coax her to her feet. No point. She was not going to cooperate. After a call to ours, it was decided that the paramedics should intervene. A trip to Addenbrooke's A&E followed and she was then formally admitted on to a ward for the elderly where innumerable tests and scans have been carried out in an attempt to discover if there is an underlying disease in addition to the dreaded Alzheimer's which is largely responsible for her decline. The brilliant NHS staff suspect not, but they need to be certain.

The good news is that mum-in-law shares a bay on the ward with a chirpy lady from Witchford who is compos mentis. No long silences there. Furthermore, m-i-l actually recognised her daughter tonight and remembered her name. We shall see what tomorrow brings.

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Bewitched by Fenland on the eve of Halloween

FIELD OF VISION: Why walking the dogs on an Autumn evening in the Cambridgeshire Fens is such an enjoyable experience. Click on the picture and see for yourself. A setting sun, stunning sky, distant silhouettes, and, of course, a hint of mist and mystery. Bring on Halloween.

Meet the Fenland Photobomber ...Our Reg was here

FOCUSED: Reg's inquisitive nature seems to be helping him
develop a talent for unwittingly appearing in photos

MEET the Fenland photobomber, alias our Reg, the pygmy goat. After I sidled up to the paddock fence to get a quick snap of our sheepish newcomers, Dolly and Summer, this inquisitive face suddenly appeared. Reg doesn't exactly have Hollywood A-lister looks, but his mummy still loves him. The cheeky chappy was therefore in sharp focus while the intended subjects became blurred objects when I took the picture. Reg here reminds me of the cartoon character my dad used to draw when I was a kid. He was called Kilroy (the character, not my dad) and his nose was poking over a wall (the character, not ...).

WIKIPEDIA
Photobombing is the act of accidentally or purposely putting oneself into the view of a photograph, often in order to play a practical joke on the photographer or the subjects.^[1] Photobombing has received significant coverage since 2009.^[2] In discussing a "stingray photobomb" picture that went viral, Andrea DenHoed suggests that the photobomb label "implies a narrative of surreptitious sabotage,"^[2] although in the sense of unintended and/or initially unnoticed people in the background of spoiled photographs, photobombs have existed for much of the history of photography.

He nose, you know: Cartoon courtesy of WIKIPEDIA

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Roast dinners? Ewe must be joking

QUALITY CONTROL: The sheep check out their new grass
just minutes after arriving in a kind neighbour's horsebox

JUST a quickie. Here are our latest additions. Sheep. Let's hear it for Dolly (mum) and Summer, all the way from a picturesque and historic village near the lovely town of Olney in Buckinghamshire. They are Babydoll Miniature Southdowns with an impeccable pedigree and are definitely not on any future menu. Great wool, though. More to follow in a few days but, in the meantime, a couple of pictures to show how quickly they have settled in to their new surroundings. Please excuse the haphazard layout of photos. Out of my hands, I'm afraid.

STABLEMATES: Dolly and Summer in purpose-built home

Brazil World Cup 2014: Why Rio's right to kick off about England hate mob

ENGLAND PASSION: The talented Rio Ferdinand   Wikipedia

ENGLAND FALL GUY: Manager Roy Hodgson       Wikipedia

ENGLAND are out of the Brazil World Cup 2014. Surprised? Well, no, of course not.
There are some great jokes flying around but the nation still finds it hard to hide the disappointment. Eliminated at the group stage for the first time since 1958.
But anyone who follows football realised Roy Hodgson had a good young, inexperienced squad with defensive frailties. And in view of this significant fact, it was obvious England were never going to be world-beaters no matter how much, how often or how hard we dreamed those sweet dreams of triumph. Roy's boys just weren't up to it and therefore did not earn the right to progress despite two tight games.
Even the drunken morons raucously belting out ancient football chants during my tedious train journey home from London last night, just a few hours after that Luis Suarez-inspired defeat which condemned England, would have known this.
So why the usual, sad, sometimes distasteful clamour for change, sackings, etc., and the hate mob's desperate need to blame in certain newspapers, on the web, TV and in social media?
I'll tell you why. Despite all the bilge about low expectations before a ball was even kicked in anger, some people just can't help themselves when it comes to any easy target, a rehashed story and screaming headline proclaiming the same nonsense that was regurgitated after previous World Cup exploits. Formatted rubbish. Shocking headlines are designed to grab attention. Read me, this is interesting, it's news, it's informative, it might even be amusing. But many headlines can turn out to be ill-conceived rubbish aimed at the lowest common denominator.
Some sections of the media treat the national sport with intelligence and adopt a different attitude - I include tabloids in this - by dissecting, thoughtfully analysing, coming up with constructive proposals and encouraging sensible discussions that may establish platforms on which to develop a stronger, successful national setup. But other sections - you know who you are - couldn't give a damn and revert to type. Same old, same old. Easy pickings.
The manager is building a new team, with a different approach and has probably made some mistakes. Not taking at least one very experienced defender, for a start. But give him time. And don't say the squad are a bunch of overpaid oiks who show no passion. Can't beat a good cliche, eh? See what the wealthy, but talented former England defender, Rio Ferdinand, has to say on that controversial subject.

Rio Ferdinand on Twitter: Loads saying no pride no passion....the boys didn't try, r u saying? Rubbish. We just wasn't up to it. Nothing to do with pride & passion.

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PS: R.I.P. Stephen Sutton. A genuine inspiration to people of all ages.

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Giving an owl centre the bird

COULDN'T GIVE TWO HOOTS: By George,
it's George the Indian Eagle Owl

I'M going to ruffle a few feathers. I feel very uncomfortable about wild birds in cages. It seems so cruel.
Visited the Baytree Owl and Wildlife Centre at Weston near Spalding in Lincolnshire a few days ago and really felt as though the £3 I paid to get in would have been better spent elsewhere.
Yes, I was able to see some beautiful owls and birds of prey close up, but was it worth it? I don't think so. Apart from an impressive Secretary Bird which strode purposefully up and down an enclosure, the other birds were kept in cages too small for them to do what is natural to them and fly a reasonable distance.
The 'cells' definitely could not be described as aviaries, which by definition are large enclosures. And all the birds looked so miserable. It was a feeling that certainly rubbed off ... although I didn't fly into a rage!

George, the Indian Eagle Owl - a native of India, Pakistan, Nepal and Burma - according to the spiel on  his cage, was a case in point. His natural habitat is wooded hillsides, areas of bushy scrub and semi desert (or dessert as suggested by the notice on his cage). I suspect our sad-looking George would struggle to find any of the above in the sprawling expanse of the Lincolnshire Fens ... if he is lucky enough to venture out of his cage, of course.

And a young Common Kestrel seemed desperate to take flight. He didn't appear to have a name but for the purposes of this post we'll call him Kes. That classic didn't have a happy ending either. 

Poor Kes just clung to the top of his enclosure peering into the distance.

OK, there are some lucky birds which do get to do what they are meant to do during flying demonstrations, but I suspect they are in a minority here.
And while they appear well cared for in terms of food and shelter, I can't help get the feeling that most of these birds are there simply for profit rather than preservation.
Bird conservation is hugely important and I am sure that Baytree's own breeding programme will ensure that some species will not die out. But when a project is limited to the confines of a large popular garden centre then the doubts creep in.

PS: Mother-in-law seemed in fine spirits today but sadly, her powers of speech are fast dwindling. She didn't know who I was and confused my wife with her sister. Alzheimer's is a horrible disease.

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PREY, WHAT IS THIS? It's Kes the Kestrel 

NO COMPANY FOR SECRETARY: This bird
struts its stuff in a larger enclosure

Farmers, firearms, dead Dachshunds and armed police - just another day in The Fens

Farmer threatened my dogs with a shotgun then left my Dachshund dead under wheels of his van: Financier claims his puppies were attacked in a row over trespassing.

THESE are headlines from the Daily Mail's website, Mail Online, the world's biggest news website. Fenland has been thrust into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons - and all because of the actions of a man who has been terrorising villagers for decades.

The Mail are sometimes accused of getting it wrong. Not this time. They are bang on. Down the years, the farmer in question - referred to in an earlier post as Despisely - has verbally and physically threatened people; he has driven at them and some claim he has knocked them over; more menacingly, he has threatened to shoot dogs and basically tries to turn the clock back to medieval England every time he sees a dog walker on or close to one of the bridleways which crisscross his land. Land used for growing crops, not rearing livestock.

SURVIVOR: Mr Bojangles was the lucky to survive an attack 
by the farmer ... not so his sibling, Misty.  

I have no hesitation in making these statements without so much as an alleged because he has threatened me, driven at me and my wife and once even winged her with his car as he tried to run over our then Labrador puppy.

So to learn he had killed a Dachshund, not the fiercest of dogs, and injured another came as no surprise. In fact, even he is not disputing he killed the dog. OK, so people with dogs sometimes do stray into areas technically forbidden to the public in the village, but they do no damage, mean no harm and go quietly about their business. Unlike Despisely who completely loses his temper. Fortunately, this short-fused old man no longer has his deadly firearms.

I became aware of the shocking incident while walking my dogs when I came across several laminated posters. At that stage one dog had been killed and the other had disappeared in the fields, injured. It really was was a stomach-churning moment to read the harsh facts after all the run-ins I and so many other people have had with this farmer. Fortunately, the lost dog was soon found although he was slightly injured... nowhere near this spot.

Both sides of this sordid tale involving firearms, dead animals, police armed with TASER guns are told in the weblink below. Armed police arrived, an arrest was made but no charges were laid. Bearing in mind what I have already mentioned, please believe me when I say one person's story is complete tosh. Furthermore, please read the subheading about farmer's rights. Farmers are only permitted to kill dogs on their land if they have sound reasons for believing livestock would be threatened. This, by the way, is on arable land although to be fair, Despisely does have a pig-breeding unit by his house at the other side of the village.

However, I understand he has a piece of land the locals refer to as the reservoir, which he sets to one side for wildlife and birds, hence his claims that the dog walker was 'hunting for egrets'. Absolutely laughable. Presumably this well-meaning farmer, who looks like an amiable grandfather, receives a grant for this piece of land, a sort of mini reserve. No surprise there, then. So to be outraged when people walk along the reservoir with their dogs would be reasonable, you might think. But wait; the same person also allows trusties to fish there, to swim there and for relatives to party on the banks. Indeed, a jetty, a couple of canoes (and empty beer bottles) do give the game away somewhat. Wonder if he would be entitled to that grant if the authorities knew about such shenanigans?

The link is:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2609574/Miniature-dachshund-puppy-run-killed-pig-farmer-dog-walking-row.html

or simply Google pig farmer dead Dachshund etc.

The following is from a draft I began writing a year ago after several fresh run-ins with Despisely which forced me to believe his behaviour could lead to serious trouble. I haven't altered a word about this wretched man:

Final tribute to our Martha and the Vandellas

HAPPY DAYS: Martha and her backing group 

FENMAN can reveal that Martha and the Vandellas are officially no more. Ruby, the last remaining member and probably the noisest of the trio of old hens, joined that great coop in the sky very early today after a short illness.

She was suffering from sour crop, an illness quite common in poultry. She suddenly became quiet and slowly went off her food. Not a good sign in her case.

I won't go into all the details, but suffice to say my wife and I battled for more than a week to keep her alive. Tonic in water, glucose and layers mash in organic yoghurt administered with syringes, extra bedding, lots of tlc, etc. We even tried krill oil, recommended by many people, but all to no avail. She seemed to rally at the weekend when we thought her crop had finally emptied but despite an afternoon in the warm sunshine yesterday, she passed away in the night. She will be fondly remembered, especially for those summer days when she would jump up to join us as we sat on one of the garden benches.

Martha and the Vandellas have a great back catalogue of photos and we will always remember that it was Martha who helped kickstart this menagerie of ours when she walked into our kitchen. See post We'll miss Martha - and so will the Vandellas (23/03/13).

RIP Martha, Mrs Pepperpot and Ruby who are buried outside the duck compound. Dancing in the Street they are not. Perhaps Nowhere to Run is now more apt. Brilliant song, check it out on YouTube.

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Suffering in silence: dementia and deafness

NOW HEAR THIS: The missing components            Wikipedia

"I DON'T know what he's saying but you really shouldn't listen to him," she rasped, pointing a crooked finger at me. "He's not my husband, you know. He is NOT my husband. He isn't. He wants to put me away. That's why he brought me here. I am NOT bonkers. Look here, I know it's Sunday today (it was Wednesday) so that just proves it, doesn't it? But I'm here because he brought me ... and I don't go to church on Sundays. Hah, hah, hah!" The sentence trailed off with an uncomfortable cackle.

That's how my tired mother-in-law's audiology appointment began as we took our seats next to a startled hearing specialist at the Princess of Wales Hospital in Ely. For those not in the know, m-in-l has Alzheimer's Disease, her husband has been dead for four years and we were at the hospital for a hearing check because she had lost her hearing aid. Ordinarily, she is confused; without the ear piece, she really is a lost soul because she has no idea what is happening around her and her tinnitus is more marked.

Understandably, a great deal goes missing when people suffer from dementia. And the problem is compounded in a home where most residents are suffering from severe memory loss. So to lose/misplace/hide a pair of spectacles or a hearing aid is not unusual, although such items frequently turn up in somebody else's room, pocket or handbag. Indeed, my wife once came across the following in one of her mum's handbags when searching for a pair of missing glasses: three pairs of tights, two pairs of knickers, a toothbrush, two tubes of toothpaste, a bar of soap, a hairbrush, chopsticks and part of old school report from way back when. No specs, but yes, it was a large handbag with a nickname: the Bermuda Triangle.

The 10-minute trip to the hospital gave no indication of the outburst outlined earlier. M-in-l had appeared pleased to see me when I picked her up from the care home and she eventually remembered my name. But she seemed extremely tired, looking even older than her 85 years.

The weather was grim, again, with strong Fenland winds and persistent rain, yet inside the car and inside her own bubble, she happily chattered away. No response to my questions, of course, because she couldn't hear, so I resorted to leaning over and yelling in her right ear to make myself heard. And even then she didn't always catch what was said.

"It's Wednesday today."
"Yes dear, it is windy."
And so on ...

We eventually found a parking space close to the hospital's main reception and managed to shuffle our way through puddles, over the pedestrian crossing to the entrance doors, as she ranted and raged about the foul day. Not quite Lear  - Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! - but her mood now certainly matched the weather as her paranoia developed.

Once inside, we discovered the grille had been pulled down, no receptionist, no explanation. Very confusing and somewhat difficult to check in. Even harder to explain what was going on to an angry elderly deaf lady who has Alzheimer's.

We edged our way into a waiting area and an efficient-looking woman suddenly appeared. She had some sort of identification tag around her neck so I showed her our appointment form, enquired about audiology and she kindly pointed us in the right direction. It was a matter of eight or nine yards further on in the large waiting area, doors to rooms on all sides, with hand-written notices pinned to them. Good to see the NHS embracing modern technology. Audiology Room 101.

Fortunately, we did not have to wait. After m-in-l's initial panic, she began to realise her fears were unfounded and it was nothing more sinister than a hearing test. I was suddenly one of the good guys again and the foul day was forgotten. The test itself was by no means accurate, as the patient hearing expert was anxious to point out, and at times it descended into farce as the audiologist scribbled notes which m-in-l was unable to read, or I shouted into m-in-l's left ear in vain attempt to relay instructions.

"Just press the button when you hear any sort of noise." 
"What did you say?"
"Just press the button."
"This? Press this? Why do you want me to press this?"

The test went ahead without the use of the button. Instead, the audiologist relied on m-in-l's facial expressions or her verbal reactions when she heard a sound. Later, a putty-like substance was inserted into an ear while a mould was taken.

The good news is that a new hearing aid will be fitted next week and this time the NHS will provide us with a spare. They will also retain the mould so we do not have to go through this rigmarole again.

It was trying, tiring and confusing for m-in-law, but a necessary evil because she really does suffer without a digital hearing aid. Her jumbled, confused thoughts are surely frightening enough, but to suffer in a world of silence must be awful. Please make some sort of donation to the Alzheimer's cause.

UPDATE: The hearing aid fitting at the Prince of Wales Hospital went smoothly. No waiting, no fuss and no consternation from m-in-l. Sadly, she had a toilet accident on the way home but she was completely unaware and the brilliant staff at The Firs home swiftly sorted her out on her return. Thankfully, her hearing problems have now eased and we can converse again; sadly, the Alzheimer's continues unabated.

"Did I tell you I visited my mother last week?" she asked, referring to a women who died more than  40 years ago. "Yes, she's keeping well."

At least her mood seemed to match the weather on this pleasant, sunny, February day in the Fens.


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