Day 11: Changing beds

After my dad's fall the previous evening, when he'd promised not to tell my mother, of course I told her myself. In the morning, my dad called us to say that they'd changed his bed again. "OK," my mum said, "don't worry. Meimei [i.e. me] is coming."

"No, meimei doesn't want to come," said my dad.

"What do you mean meimei doesn't want to come?"

"Last night, she made me fall down." Honestly. What loyalty is there?

So anyhow, I turned up at the hospital to find that Dad had swapped beds with patient J and was on the window side with the most amazing view of London that any flat-buying yuppie would kill for. Apparently that morning was the ward round and dad showed off his walking skills to the chief consultant. After a brief discussion with the physio, it was decided he should swap beds. The nurse thinks its to give him more walking practice when he wants to go to the loo. Or maybe he would simply benefit from the sunshine and view more. Patient J doesn't say much and is a bit oblivous to it all to be frank.

At dinner time, my husband came down to visit. Having not seen my dad for over a week, he was very impressed with dad's progress. Colour in his cheeks, less wobbly on his feet, good mood... we took dad down to the canteen where he munched some of my pizza. A woman in an electric wheelchair - the ones that look a bit like comfy scooters - was seated nearby. "Go ask her how much her wheelchair costs," dad urged. I didn't dare! Dad is stuck on the idea that he'll need a new bed with special bending functions just like his hospital one; that he'll need a nice sun lounger to lie on at home in front of the telly; and that he will need a wheelchair and wants an electric one.

The reality is that the flat's way too small to accommodate such stuff unless my dad - a serial junk and toffa collector - declutters big time. As for the wheelchair, the aim will always be to avoid using one and encourage him to gain as much independence as possible...