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Phone a friend – or a foe?

This time the phone call came while I was doing 70mph on the M25, heading for Gatwick airport.

But over the last six years I’ve also had callsย while navigating Newcastle city centre; on top of a rain-swept fell in the Lake District; and in the middle of running a workshop for scientists in Cambridge.

Lifesaver or life changer?

Like anyone supporting a frail relative I suspect, my relationship with the phone see-sawsย between love and hate. It’s a lifesaverย – but equallyย aย lifechanger, and I’m afraid I don’t mean that in a positive sense.

From the very first occasion when mum ‘sounded funny’ on the phone, complaining bitterly that the mug of tea she was carrying had simply dropped out of her hand –ย alerting us to the fact that she’d had a stroke – I don’t think I’ve ever lost that slightly sick feelingย at any and everyย unexpected phone call. I’ve joined the ranks of midlifers for whom silence truly is golden.

Usually, the calls from the care agency, or the AgeUK alarm service, turn outย not to be worst case.ย Like the time mum pushed theย bracelet’s red button after bending toย switch off the fireย andย tumblingย onto the floor. We found her laughing at her own inability to get herself up while theย cats licked her face.ย We now make sure she only uses the central heating.

Change of direction

On myย Gatwick trip it was mumโ€™s day centre sharing their concern that when the driver turned up mum seemed confused, told them she’d never seen them before and refused to go with them.

The miles to the next junction where I could turn around seemed interminable. Miraculously, I managed to raise herย on the phone before abandoning my flight and was told she wasย fine; she’d just forgotten it was one of her day centre days.

But once they become frail it’s always there: that niggle about how far you dare go and still be able to get to them quickly enough if the call comes.

Without an extended support network to back us up my sister and I closely co-ordinate even day trips away to ensure one of us is always within reach.

When the phone doesn’t ring

The only upside of these invisible but all-too-real ties that bind is that there are times when the not-hearing is far, far worse.ย  For years my mother in law phoned every Sunday morning. Several hours of trivialย chat while we hung onto the phone with one hand and brewed coffee withย the other.ย  Until the weekย she didn’t ring. We called a second cousin who, findingย the house in darkness, called the police to break in.

My mum in law had suffered a severe stroke and been unable to move from her bed forย two days and nights. Had that happened onย a Sunday night she might have been there a week.ย  Or not.

Phone learning

It hadn’t occurred to us to organise an alarm or daily phone checks for someone who, at 94,ย seemedย so fit and self-sufficient. If I was doing it all again I’d suggestย that somewhere between us not wishing to interfere and her isolation we might makeย better arrangements for checking regularly that everything was OK. Living at a distance from elderly relatives brings challenges of its own.

It still gives me nightmares to imagine her lying onย the floor, getting colder and more scared, within sight of the phone but no more capable ofย reachingย it than of flying to the moon.

On balance, the phone is my friend. But one I never want to hear from.

 

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