A Christmas Gift

The visiting hours at the Lakes, Mum's current residence, are a good deal longer than those allowed at Tameside General. We're varying between seeing her for a couple of hours or so in the afternoon or in the evening. That means we can't travel too far but we've been able to get around a bit more than I think we expected on arrival. Conversation with Mum isn't exactly sparkling - she doesn't remember enough of what she's been doing to put together a coherent narrative and she shows little or no interest in anyone or anything beyond the bounds of her room - but on most visits she drops off to sleep after an hour or so and we just sit in companionable silence.

She complains of discomfort sometimes, and occasionally obvious pain, but by no means all the time. And sometimes she tells us how much she wishes everything was over, being so tired of it all. At the end of one visit last week you'd have thought she might not make it to Christmas. But when she's got a biscuit in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, and is sitting looking suspiciously contented, it's easy to believe she'll live to a hundred, even if she doesn't want to.

And for those who tell us the NHS is falling to pieces, I can only say the huge compassion and care of the nursing staff we've encountered emphatically gives that idea the lie. They have a display on one wall at the centre stressing the idea of giving dignity to the patients there. They succeed. That's quite some gift.