My Day Off

At 10 a.m. I was listening to Woman's Hour and making fish cakes, by 11 I was dealing with an hysterical daughter and sublimely cool son. Henry had discharged himself from hospital.
Henry had called as I was shaping the cakes his voice was high pitched, his words nonsensical. He wanted his bed moved and cupboards shifted. I got dressed and drove there to find his eldest daughter on the drive crying, her baby yelling, the only island of calm being Henry's son, J.

His son, J, told me that Henry had been caught smoking, had reacted violently when confronted by nurses, who had, in turn, called the security people. He later walked out after calling both his daughters very early in the morning. His son had hopped on a train from London to deal with dad.

"What can I do?" I asked
"Watch him please while we go to see his G.P."

And so they left, I meanwhile went inside and found H. in bed, purple, spitting and talking about Asian prostitutes.

I looked at him not really knowing what to do, I have to admit I was a bit worried, I wondered what I'd do if he fell out of bed or became 'difficult'. I needn't have worried though because he soon fell asleep leaving me to watch the cats and wait for his family to return.

After 30 minutes of wandering from room to room they returned, his daughter with baby in tow, began crying again, more in anger than sadness. Her dad was the kind of person, she said, who wouldn't listen to anyone, who always thinks he's right and who is a compulsive liar.
His son, still the epitome of cool, suggested that dad might need to see a psychiatric nurse. I tentatively agreed.

Henry has been all over the place these past couple of months, drinking himself into a stupor and losing days and nights like they're nothing thereby isolating himself from everyone around him.
His violent outbursts when anyone suggests he sees a doctor or speaks to a counsellor are becoming more frequent. It has got to the stage where people just stay away.

A cup of coffee was made by me as his son phoned the hospital to see if he could take dad back to resume his treatment. They said yes. Then we heard a thud, it was Henry making his way to the kitchen where he calmly told us to go because he had to grab a shower and get to work.
What followed was so painful. His daughter ran out crying, his son remained calm whilst gently urging his dad to go back to hospital. But Henry was having none of it.

I left the kitchen to sit with the girl who spoke incessantly about her father. Then the youngest girl arrived saying she was having no more to do with him. Meanwhile J. persisted in trying to get his dad to see sense. He didn't. Instead Henry went upstairs to bed.

So the four left behind swapped stories of our dealings with the NHS and difficult relations. Then the door bell rang, it was Henry's G.P. he'd come round to have a word...

After telling Henry that he might die if he didn't get treatment, Henry reluctantly agreed to go to hospital. A huge commotion then occurred as Henry came downstairs demanding clean socks, pants and his briefcase... I packed it all up, wished them well and watched out the window as Henry climbed into the daughter's car wearing only his pyjamas.

After a few minutes I too left.
It had been quite a morning and I was mentally exhausted.

I hope with all my heart that Henry behaves properly and does what he's told because if he creates trouble he'll have his choices made for him and that will be much worse than being on an oxygen machine.

Now I'll finish the fish cakes.