My teeth are like razors, I have been grinding them night and day. When I emailed the financial adviser to ask her to set in train the necessary moves to access the last thirty thousand pounds available on remortgage from my mother’s house that would take us to February, after which she will have to go into a home, for which I have been preparing her for several months, I was told that the mortgage company made a mistake, only 11,000 is available and so she’ll have to go into a home for Christmas.
This is the very large international finance company, that I said I didn’t want to use. In a previous incarnation, this insurance company refused to pay out on an insurance that I had had for thirty years on my personal possessions, when my camera was stolen from my bag at my son’s graduation. I had every proof of possession, including the original box and bill, and proof that I used it for work and had pictures printed in magazines, using this camera. I only wanted £100. They argued black was white from a call centre in India for months until I gave up. This is the firm that have kept me hanging on the phone for up to an hour every month because they don’t have enough employees to answer the phone. And now they are going: oops, no sorry, you’ll have to put your mother in a home for Christmas, or go and live with her yourself.
Which of us do you think this will kill or will it just be both of us?
The financial adviser is asking what I’m going to do. As she is being paid to give advice, I hope she has some ideas.
My mother, meanwhile, is throwing her weight around again and has refused two carers. One is lovely, recently returned from maternity leave. My mother used to love her but now she won’t have her around. The second my mother threw out because she came at night instead of in the day.
So my mother might solve the problem herself if she continues in this vein, as the community mental health nurse promised next time round she’d be sectioned if she got started on throwing the carers out again.
We have been promised that we can have the baby for Christmas, now how am I going to do that with a mother in a padded cell or out on the street? Answers on a postcard please. And every time I phone my mother asks why the OT still isn’t well, I say it’s because he’s anaemic, which is what the doctor’s tests turned up but you know that ain’t so and so do I.
Retirement is the bit with the roses round the door and everyone else looking after you? Yeh, right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jane Laverick. if I have a heart attack from the stress, just tell someone why it was so, please.