Lizzy Shannon's Blog

At least my heart was! Just returned from a wonderful vacation, which included a visit to Cartegena in Colombia. I'll share the stories properly in my next entry, but I couldn't resist showing my favourite picture with this adorable police officer who allowed me to have my photo taken with him.

Just wish I'd remembered to get my heart back from him!

Along the theme of true crime again … I recently remembered something that happened a few years ago. At the time I didn’t realize how dangerous this was, but we live and learn!

I’d never seen a blood moon lunar eclipse before, and one was supposed to be clearly visible on the night in question. As usual in Oregon, any time there’s an astronomical event, the sky is cloudy.  Annoyed, I went to bed, vowing that the next blood moon, I’d make darn sure to go somewhere in the world where the skies would be clear.

I woke up somewhere around 2:00AM, and looking out the window, the clouds had evaporated. Unfortunately, my house is surrounded by tall trees (well, not unfortunately in general, but unfortunate if you want to see anything in the sky!) Determined to see this special moon for myself, I put on a pair of slides and a coat over my nightdress, grabbed a pair of binoculars, and drove my car just outside the city limits to a hill where the moon was clearly visible. I parked and walked several yards to the edge of a field to marvel at what looked like a Christmas ornament suspended in the sky above. It truly was amazing, particularly as I was seeing it for the first time.

I was probably only there for about five minutes when I heard a car coming up the hill. I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t see inside the car, but whoever drove it passed me, then braked and began to reverse so their car would be directly in front of mine.

My first assumption was that some kind person saw me out at 2:30AM and was stopping to see if I needed any help. But instinct took over. I found myself dashing to my car. I didn’t hesitate. I yanked open my car door, got in, started the engine and backed away from the interloper. I did a U-turn and took off down the hill like the proverbial bat out of hell.

I felt so guilty at running away from this kind, concerned person, but I was alone in the middle of the night, no one knew where I was, and something had ignited my fight or flight instinct.

Recently, listening to true crime podcasts, I’m now certain that rather than a good Samaritan, this person (or persons) had evil intentions. It was obvious I was gazing through binoculars at the larger-than-life red moon, so there was no reason for anyone to suspect my car had broken down.

I dread to think what might have happened if I’d adhered to my Northern Irish politeness and had hung around to talk to whoever the driver was. Their rear bumper was almost touching my bonnet/hood when I hauled my door open. I didn’t even put my seatbelt on!

And that, most certainly, was the last time I ventured out in the dead of night, half-clothed, and without informing anyone where I’d gone.

So, the moral of the story is: if that fight or flight instinct kicks in … LISTEN TO IT! It could be the difference between life or death.

I’ve been listening to a lot of true crime podcasts when driving, and one of them prompted this memory.

Just after I moved to Oregon, my parents visited from Northern Ireland. We had such a great time – I took them for a week to Lincoln City at the coast, we visited all the local beautiful places: Columbia River Gorge, Mount Hood, and Mount St. Helen’s, just as the grass and shrubs were beginning to poke their heads up through the ash.

The Phantom of the Opera was playing in Vancouver, Canada, so we drove up there and stayed for a few nights, our last night being the musical. The small hotel we stayed in was within walking distance from the Queen Elizabeth Theatre, so after the (wonderful!) show, we strolled back in the warm August night.

We passed a closed antiques store, and my parents stopped to look in the window. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and looked up to see two men on the corner just about to cross the road. In the momentary glance I gave them, I saw them spot us, and halt. I looked at my parents, blissfully unaware of any danger, and realized belatedly that we were probably walking through a not-so-safe part of town.

I couldn’t imagine how awful it would be for Mum and Dad to be mugged on their summer vacation. Before I knew what I was doing, I turned to face the men head on, my body tense and ready, and I felt sort of puffed up like a cat’s tail when it’s scared or angry.

The two men had taken a couple of steps our way, but as soon as they saw me facing them down, they hesitated, and simply turned back around and left us alone. I must have looked crazy! I told my parents to hurry up and tried to usher them as quickly as I could from the area. They remained totally ignorant of the close call, thankfully. They probably just thought I was rude and impatient!

Today, I laugh at myself – young, stupid, hothead. What did I think I was going to do – give these guys a Vulcan nerve pinch? I’m so glad it turned out well and my parents had a vacation of a lifetime.

Here are Mum and Dad during their visit in 1991

I shared this story with a couple of friends last weekend. They were in stitches over it, so I thought perhaps you’d enjoy reading it too.

A long, long time ago … last century in fact, I went to visit my brother Steve in Scotland for Hogmanay. He had old college friends living on one of the northern islands of Scotland, so we hired a car and took a day to drive up there, and took an extremely choppy ferry across to the island with just two other cars.

Steve’s friends lived in a gorgeous, rambling old farmhouse by the sea. On a December afternoon the sky was iron-grey and blustery, and it was very cold.

I’d heard that Scottish islanders drank quite a bit, but I wasn’t prepared for the reality! We had cocktails before dinner. We had wine with dinner. We had even more cocktails after dinner and into the evening with much merriment. I wasn’t used to it at all, and most of the evening remains a blur.

Much later, off went Steve’s friends to bed, and I was to sleep in the downstairs guest bedroom while Steve had to make do with the sofa in the living room. I discovered a water bed in the guest room, and in my current inebriated state, there’s no way I could stomach the gentle lapping of the water! Steve was fine with it, so he took the guest room, and I headed for the sofa in the living room.

There was a glorious open fire burning, but the sofa was way back against a wall where the heat from the fire didn’t reach as well. I spotted three very large oval-shaped cushions on the floor, so I grabbed the pillow and blankets from the sofa and happily dragged the cushions to make a bed out of them in front of the fireplace. I snuggled down under the thick blankets and promptly fell asleep.

Early the next morning, I woke to find a Great Dane curled around my head, another stretched out beside me on the cushions, and a third curled around my feet. Apparently I’d taken those poor dogs’ beds!

And how generous they were to share them with me.

(Not one of the actual dogs, but very similar!)

I wrote the following on a writing retreat at the coast in 2021, not long after I'd returned from Northern Ireland. It's so painful and personal I never thought I'd share it, but I felt so much better after yesterdays' blog that I thought, why not? I feel that until I get this off my chest, my writing will never start up again. So, I'm pouring out my heart to you, in the hopes that it'll help vanquish some of those ghosts of regret. I apologize in advance for how long it is!

-- Prior to 2017 I’d visited Dad in Northern Ireland regularly, sometimes for months at a time, taking over housekeeping for him to give him a break. Obviously, I loved my Dad, had hero-worshipped him as a child. But every human alive is flawed. I know I am. And Dad’s major flaw was his intolerance for anything that wasn’t done his way, his behavior ... (yes, American spelling; I’m touchy about it since some person in England gave A Celtic Yearbook a bad review for ‘poor’ spelling, i.e. American) ... made him pretty high on the narcissistic personality disorder spectrum. I think I probably was too in my early years, just because Dad was my dominant parental influence until I left home to go to college.

Irritating as Dad’s attitude was throughout the ensuing years, I forgave him his self-centeredness, and enjoyed blogging about his eccentricities, which could be endearing. At heart he was a decent, honest, intelligent man, with a wry and clever sense of humor.

When it became obvious in 2017 that Dad was going to need some assistance, I sought out a local Oregon therapist who dealt exclusively with people who had narcissists in their lives, and learned how to create boundaries and keep sane around said narcissist. Armed with these tools, I made sure to rent an apartment about ten minutes away from Dad’s, and not move in with him. That way I could walk away when he became unreasonable. And it worked. If he started up anything, I’d just say, “Okay, well, I should get going.” I’d kiss him on the cheek, adding, “Hope tomorrow is a better day,” or something along those lines.

I tried to write in the early mornings, and then head over to Dad’s around 11AM to join him on a walk with his dog, Cooper. Then I’d make lunch, and usually stay to do household chores in the afternoon. I’d often accompany him on a second evening walk, and then prepare dinner for us both. I’d watch a bit of television with him after I’d cleaned up the kitchen, and then head back to my flat. I’d adopted two cats … for two reasons. I was lonely, and because Cooper tried to kill any cat he saw, it meant I’d never be tempted to move into Dad’s house in the future. The first thing Cooper did when Dad brought him back from the dog pound, was kill an innocent kitten that had wandered into Dad’s back garden. I’m so glad I was in America at the time. Even so, it took me a very long time to warm up to Cooper.

This life was alien to me. In the States, writing was my priority, and I had the luxury of making it so. The more I helped out in Dad’s life, the more it took precedence, and my writing gradually dried up completely. Never having had children, I was unaccustomed to the daily toil of caring for someone else. Renewed respect blossomed for my mother. How did she manage to live the life of an indentured slave, and remain happy and graceful about it? And she had three children to toil for in addition. And that was before washing machines and dishwashers. I don’t know how she did it. (Oh, what a privileged life I’ve lived!)

I renewed old friendships, and my oldest childhood friend, June, welcomed me into her circle with open arms. I was content until around the summer of 2018, until I noticed that Dad was pretty much ignoring me most of the time, and finding fault in most of what I did or said. He had begun to talk to me like a serf, and both of us grew even more short-tempered. I remember wondering why I had come to help him; he didn’t appear to need or want my help. It occurred to me that a break would do me the world of good, and I scrambled through organizational hoops to get house-sitters for my cats, and who’d agree to also keep an eye on Dad. I arranged to return home to Oregon for five weeks, where I’d still order Dad’s groceries online from Tesco, coordinate his prescription refills with the Dundrum doctor and pharmacy, and order plenty of precooked meals from a local delivery service.

A week before I was to leave for my trip, Dad and I were walking with Cooper over on Murlough, a wildlife reserve by the coast, just across from where Dad lived. It was a brisk, but warm day, and I was impressed to see my 93 year-old father climb a stile without help. I felt reservations about leaving him for an extended time, and I asked him if he was going to be all right. He said, “Oh, yes, Cooper and I will muddle along together.”

It reassured me somewhat. After all, he had plenty of people going to check in with him every few days, and Ian said he’d check on him, too. When I got to Oregon, it was so good to see everyone again, and I’d timed it so I could spend Thanksgiving there. I shared with my friends how unhappy I had become with the way Dad treated me, and that I believed I’d gone too soon to look after him, that it appeared he didn’t really need the help at all, and I felt he resented me for being there.

When you’re immersed in a situation you can’t see it clearly. I didn’t see it, anyway. Dad had previously been an active internet user and we’d exchange frequent emails. But we didn’t during my visit. He’d apparently forgotten how to use it, or Skype. I wondered about it, but as I’d be back in a few weeks, I didn’t see it as a big problem. I’d installed a security camera in Dad’s hall, to monitor the front door. The added advantage was that I could check if he were all right, just by seeing the regularity of the door blind being open or shut, and the timing of interior lights going on or off. I could also hear Dad’s television, so I knew he was okay.

What I didn’t know, and of course, the sitters couldn’t know either, was that dementia had taken hold of Dad, and in the time that I left him on that sunny October day, to when I returned at the beginning of December, that the dementia seemed to take over completely. I said goodbye to a smiling father, standing on the golden leaves strewn by Autumn, and returned to a frightened, withdrawn, bedridden stranger. I will regret to my dying day that I left him. I blame myself completely. And even though it’s now 2021, and I now understand that the dementia had already begun long before I left him, as I was right in the middle of it, I just didn’t see it.

I hadn’t wanted to return to my caregiver duty. I wanted to pack the whole thing in, and just pay to have my cats sent to me via international pet courier. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and I didn’t realize it until I went on that break. I spent most of it sleeping, I think.

So, in December, after a couple of days of adjustment, I went over to Dad’s around 11AM in time to join Dad for our usual walk with Cooper. But the blinds and curtains were all drawn. Cooper met me at the back door, tail wagging. I peeked into Dad’s bedroom, and he was fast asleep. Only slightly concerned, I let him be and took Cooper over to Murlough myself. When we got back I woke Dad up. I thought he was joking when he didn’t seem to know I’d been away at all.

He deteriorated very quickly after that. I wish I’d realized about the dementia. What I thought had been resentment and the silent treatment was him withdrawing into himself. The change was gradual, and I had just adjusted until I found myself exhausted and in need of that break. Now, it became a hellish existence for both of us. He was frightened and it manifested in rage. He wanted to sleep all the time, and when he got up, he didn’t know what day or time it was. At three in the afternoon, I’d be doing some chore around the house, and he would get up and demand why I was there in the middle of the night, and to get the hell home away from him. I didn’t understand about dementia and tried to reason with him. He’d get furious; I’d get hurt and annoyed.

His GP made many house calls, at Dad’s insistence. I thought Dr. Greer was a pompous ass at the time, but in hindsight I understand that he was just doing his job, and doing it very well. To him, it was obvious what was going on, he’d seen it many times before with other patients and their families. He wanted us to put Dad in a home. I had promised Dad I would never do that, and I did everything I could to make sure he stayed safely in his own house. With Dr Greer’s cooperation, we arranged to have a caregiver come out three times a day to check on Dad. Dad fluctuated widely between ‘I’m all right, what’s this fuss about?’ and ‘I’m dying, I can’t live like this, I need to go to hospital’.

I wasn’t coping at all, and privately hired two more caregivers, one of whom stayed overnight a few times a week. It never seemed to end. My days and nights seemed to be spent just trying to get through it all. My only respite was late at night when I got back to my flat and got to cuddle with the two cats. Once I got Dad settled and in his bed, I thought he stayed there the whole night. I had moved the security camera so it aimed down the main corridor. It didn’t invade Dad’s privacy, but if he came out of his room for any reason, I’d see. I had my phone tuned into the camera, and sitting by my bed in my apartment. Not once did I see him get up, so I felt it was safe to go home, and return in the morning to get Dad up. But once the caregiver stayed over she told me Dad was very restless and was up and down all night. I guess I must have slept through it all, even though the volume was turned up on the camera and on my phone.

Fiona, my niece was studying to be a nurse, and she was wonderful, coming out to help me when she could. But even with all this help, I was not coping. I have an autoimmune disease that doesn’t do well with stress. I was becoming more frail, tense, and ill myself, but was so immersed in it all, I didn’t realize it. You just adapt and try to carry on. The district nurse called late at Dad’s one night to check on him. I was in Dad’s living room, on my laptop. An expression of kind concern crossed her face when she came into the room. I looked and saw it through her eyes. Loads of scrunched up used tissues lay about the chair I’d been sitting in, my eyes red and swollen from crying. She realized I was in no condition to continue like this.

Dad was in despair the next morning – he was in pain, he had a horrible rash over most of his body, and he demanded I call Dr. Greer, who came a couple of hours later. The district nurse joined him, and Dad agreed wholeheartedly to go to a private nursing facility for two weeks, to treat a dreadful itchy and bleeding systemic rash over his entire back, and to give me a break. The district nurse went far and above the call of duty, and stayed to make phone calls with me. Between the two of us, we found a bed in a facility about ten miles away. An ambulance would transport him, but because it was Monday, apparently none were available unless it was an emergency.

Fiona arrived, and we got Dad settled in the passenger seat of his car, she got in the back, and I began to drive us to the facility. (I’ve blanked on the name of the town.) Unfortunately, it took about half an hour to get there, and about ten minutes into the drive Dad demanded to know where we were going. He’d completely forgotten about asking for help, and agreeing to it. I tried to remind him, and he forcibly told me he didn’t agree to it and wouldn’t go. I just told him he needed it, and it was only for a fortnight.

We arrived at the home and the staff came out to help bring Dad inside. But he’d have none of it. He refused to get out of the car. I tried to remonstrate, but he was furious and almost punched me. The staff said they couldn’t force him, so I called Dr. Greer in tears for advice. He told me to call the fucking police! To force Dad into the facility! That was ridiculous and I wouldn’t do it. I returned to the car to find that Dad had lifted my set of keys from the cup holder in the car, and was in the driving seat, trying to start the car. I had the car keys with me; the keys he had were for my car and his house. I felt like the worst human being on the planet. My father thought that I was trying to toss him out and throw him into a nursing home. He was so distraught he was trying to escape. My poor niece didn’t know what to do or say. With my heart saddened beyond anything I’ve ever felt before, I assured Dad we were going home, and helped him with his walker back round to the passenger seat. We weren’t five minutes on our way before Dad had forgotten it all and announced he’d never been on that road before. Pretending nothing had happened, I agreed and said how pretty it was along the coast.

At home, Fiona and I got some food together, and we all ate in the living room with the BBC news on the television. I sat in the corner, feeling absolutely awful. I was glad Dad didn’t remember, but I did. And I felt totally wretched. If he’d only gone in for those two weeks, we all might have had a chance. But his rash continued, his pain remained, and his distress increased. I think I became numb after that. I just tried to get through each day and night.

There are so many things that remain clear and awful in my head, and no amount of time seems to make it go away. Like that evening, Dad looked at Cooper and demanded angrily of me where the other dog was. Still not understanding that it’s better to adapt to the person with dementia’s world than try and tell them something else, I explained that he used to have two dogs, but they died years ago, and he’d had Cooper since 2014. Or when June drove out to see me one afternoon, and waited while I gave Dad some lunch. He went to his room afterward and June and I sat down to a pot of tea. One of the caregivers came in for her allotted visit, and when she asked Dad if he’d like something to eat, he glared at me and snarled that he was starving, no one had taken any care of him, and it was like he had no family.

There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to get past this. I let him down, in the end. I tried my best, but it wasn’t good enough. I wish I’d known more about dementia before going to care for him. I would not have taken everything so personally. If I’d been educated in the condition, I could have been prepared and made his last months less dreadful for him.

His home had become intolerable for him, despite him not wanting to leave. Everything he looked at reminded him that something terrible was wrong. Always a devoted gardener, weeds were taking over, and moss laced all the patio paving stones in bright green. He was a perfectionist about keeping the house in order and clean, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t match his expectations. I couldn’t do anything to relieve his misery.

Because his short term memory was so bad, he asked every few minutes where Cooper was. Every time he’d sit down in his usual chair, he’d look out the window and complain how high the hedge had grown. Or walk through the hall and complain that the mechanical clock on the wall was broken. I hired people to do these jobs, and Ian came if I asked him to do things in the garden or house.

One of those times, Ian was treating the moss, and Dad hobbled out on his walker to demand what he was doing. Apparently when Ian explained, Dad said he should be doing something useful like preparing food for him as he was starving and no one was taking care of him. I don’t know what Ian said, but Dad lifted his walker high in the air and tried to hit Ian with it. I had left to feed the cats, knowing Ian was there. I’d only been in my apartment for a few minutes when my cell phone rang. I was on speed dial on Dad’s home phone, so he called me immediately after Ian had left to ask me to come and that they’d had a row.

I’m not sure how long he maintained that memory, but he seemed to still know something was wrong when I arrived a few minutes later. The phone was ringing, and cut off just as I went to answer it. I could see it was Ian from the caller ID. Dad demanded I call him right back, and flustered and tired, I said I’d do it in a minute. I just wanted to set my keys down and take a moment. Dad lost his temper and tried to hit me with the walker. I blocked it and he went to elbow me in the face. I also blocked that and stared him down. A few seconds later he apologized, saying he ‘was out of his mind’. I replied that I knew that he was upset and I was sorry. I hugged him. He seemed so frail and small. We talked and all seemed well. I phoned Ian and heard what had happened. After that poor Ian only came back when I asked, which was very kind of him. But who could blame him? Ian didn’t understand dementia any more than I did.

One late afternoon, I came to see that no matter my promise, Dad was living in sheer hell, and the care that I and the caregivers tried to provide, was not enough to keep him safe. I think it was late May in 2019, we’d had the usual stressful day. Then he was doubled up in pain because he was constipated. I put on blue latex medical gloves, got a suppository, and told Dad to lean on his walker and balance one leg on a rung of the walker. I administered the suppository in his rectum and tried not to laugh when he cried out in surprise. Talk about gallows humor. There was nothing funny about it, but in my place I know Dad would have laughed too. I told him to hang onto it as long as he could, and he went into the bathroom. It worked, but it didn’t all make it into the toilet. I got him clean pajamas, put fresh sheets on his bed, and got him all cleaned up and ready for bed. Fortunately, before he got in I noticed he had thick fecal matter all over the soles of his feet. I cleaned that up and tucked him in. He gave me a grateful smile and rolled over to go to sleep. That smile was the best reward I could get. I felt like I’d actually helped him for a change. I watched him sleep for a little while, then left to clean up the bathroom.

I wished with all my heart his misery could end. He’d told me years ago that he’d rather kill himself than live like the way he was now. He’d said recently that he would take all his painkillers if he thought it would end his life. I remember explaining that a Paracetamol overdose would not kill him easily or outright, and that he’d die a very painful, slow death. He laughed at the time.

This was the moment I realized he had to go into a nursing home. He had always said that a person dies after three months once in a home. If that were so in his case, at least he’d be safe and cared for, and the misery would be only a three-month duration. He had fallen so many times, and I’d only been able to pick him up off the floor once, and get him back into bed. I nearly put my back out, as he still weighed upward of 140 lbs. So, I had to call an ambulance all the other times. Dr. Greer told me the next time it happened to insist the paramedics took him to hospital. But Dad was very good at ‘there’s nothing wrong with me’ as soon as he was seen by the attending physician.

I talked about this with Carol, one of the private caregivers I’d hired. She was amazing, and so great with Dad. She chatted away with him, and really looked after him the way I wanted to but he wouldn’t let me. We agreed that the next time something happened, if she was there and I was not, she would call an ambulance.

One afternoon shortly after the suppository incident, Dad demanded that Carol call an ambulance as he was suffering so much. She did so, even though as soon as they arrived, he made her send them away! But it happened again, and this time the paramedics insisted he go with them. She drove to the hospital behind the ambulance, and stayed with him in the emergency room until he was admitted. He had deteriorated so much that there was no question he needed medical intervention. I stayed away that day, because the hospital was always so overcrowded, that if a family member was available, Dad would be discharged again, and his hell would continue. Dr. Greer pretty much said this, but in a professional, doctor’s manner.

The timing is a bit confused for me, by now. I was living in hell too, and the days all mashed together. In the UK, social workers automatically get involved when someone in Dad’s condition is admitted to hospital. It doesn’t mean what it does in the States. It’s normal and expected. A social worker in the States can mean there’s abuse or neglect, or something equally horrible, but not the case in the UK, it’s just procedure.

The social worker wholeheartedly agreed that Dad could never thrive if he stayed in his house, so she told me to take a break, go home to the States for a visit, and just not be available, for if I was, when they were ready, the hospital would discharge him into my care, as they were so understaffed. She said they’d admit him into a nursing facility if I wasn’t there. I didn’t go to the States, I stayed and in the background, found the best and most expensive nursing home in the area, and secured a bed for Dad by paying cash per night, even while he was in hospital. It was sheer luck that a bed opened up for him in the home, and I wanted to make sure he went there and nowhere else. It was like a private hotel, with beautiful grounds, and exceptionally clean and comfortable. When or if my time comes, it’s somewhere I’d be happy to stay in.

The social worker told me to stay away for several weeks so that Dad could adjust. I hired Carol to go in every single day for an hour, to make sure Dad was being cared for properly. In the meantime, the social worker visited me and bestowed a generous caregiver grant from the government, supposedly to be used to give me a respite. With the amount of guilt I felt constantly, I don’t think I ever spent it on anything.

I had most of the summer alone. It’s a bit of a fog. I talked to Carol every day and I socialized, but I don’t really remember any of it. A couple of times he had to be rushed to the main hospital in Belfast, and one of those times he was delirious with a high fever. The paramedic thought that I’d have a calming influence on Dad and requested I ride in the back of the ambulance. If anything, my presence made it worse. Dad physically fought the whole journey to the hospital, and the paramedic couldn’t give him an IV or anything to calm him. At that hospital there was an approximately thirty-six hour wait before a person could get into a bed or ward. They were put in the corridor on gurneys, all along the walls. The first time Dad had gone there, I couldn’t believe it. It was like a third-world country. But his time he was straight into the ward and being cared for.

The day came that I could visit Dad at the nursing home. I couldn’t wait, yet at the same time dreaded it. There’s no description for how guilty I felt about having him go into there in the first place. And to not visit him before this. I felt like the most selfish person in the world. Carol met me in the parking lot, and waited in the corridor when I went into Dad’s room. He was in bed, asleep, but woke up when I approached. He looked better than when I’d last seen him. His face lacked the awful pallor, and he didn’t seem just as diminished, but frail, all the same. I joyously said hello, and he replied. “Oh. Where’s Cooper?” Apparently he rarely asked about Cooper, so I guess my presence just reminded him.

None of the visits went very well after that. What with me crippled with guilt, and Dad’s dementia worsening, our conversations were limited. Most every time, he’d be in his bed and turn his back to me, saying, “Today’s not a good day,” or something similar.

There’s a lot in between all of this. Such as hospital stays, and he apparently fractured his hip while getting out of bed. He had awful bruises over his body where he had fallen, even in the nursing home. The manageress told me that Dad was the most difficult patient they’d ever had. He violently retaliated against being there. I learned he kept threatening to call the police because he was being held against his will, and one time he threw things at Dr. Greer when he was visiting. Dad was as miserable there as he had been at home.

The worst I felt was on his 94th birthday when I visited him. But I didn’t mention it because I’d been advised celebrations tend to upset dementia patients. But the date was handwritten on a sign in the main sitting room of the home. So, Dad read it and asked me was this his birthday. I said yes, and pulled out a birthday card I’d brought just in case. I had no present, and because I hadn’t brought it up, I could see he felt very hurt. I told him we’d celebrate when he came home. Every word cut into me, because I knew I was lying. And I suspect he knew too. Because his short term memory was even worse, I slipped away without saying goodbye when he needed to be taken to the toilet.

The next time I visited, the manageress told me that Dad had gone to another patient’s room in the middle of the night, and was found holding a pillow over the patient’s face. The patient also had dementia, and screamed a lot, which would upset anyone. Fortunately Dad was discovered before any harm was done. But the home no longer wanted to keep him. Because I ‘officially’ was in the States when Dad first went to the home, he sort of fell through the cracks, and a social worker who didn’t know me or his original social worker, made him a ward of the state and sent him to the dementia ward in the local hospital.

As soon as I found out I made outraged phone calls and met with the psychiatrist at the hospital, and his ‘mental detainee’ status was revoked. But at this point he couldn’t be anywhere else but in that ward, where he received even better care than at the home.

I know he blamed me for everything. He called me ‘scum’ in front of the psychiatrist. He’d turn his back when he realized I was there. I don’t blame him. It broke my heart and my soul, but this was the way it had to be.

Until I found a newly opened private in-home caregiver company. It seemed to take forever, but a suitable carer was eventually found, and arrangements were made for Dad’s return home. I was to be the carer’s relief, and Carol, of course.. I wasn’t sure how I was going to cope, but it was the right thing, I thought. I kept telling Dad he would be home very soon, but he didn’t seem to remember where home was.

The carer was flying in from Spain, and would be in the house about a week before the red tape was completed about getting a hospital bed, and all the paraphernalia concerned in caring for an elderly patient. But then we got a call that Dad had inhaled some food particles and was suffering from pneumonia. We all know what that means in an elderly person.

We dropped everything and went over there, and were in time to drive behind the ambulance to the main Belfast hospital. Dad was put in a bed in a tiny cubicle in emergency, which was absolutely filled and was very noisy. I sat by his bedside as he drifted in and out of sleep. At one point Dad woke up, looked at us and asked, “Has somebody died?” We laughed, and I was certain he’d be all right. Humor even then. He was an extremely strong man.

Then Dad woke up again and spoke directly to me. He said, “Go home. Just go.”

Those were the last words he spoke to me. The next day, an ambulance brought him home on a gurney. The carer and I took charge of my unconscious father and tended to him throughout the night. I think I was in denial, for I was certain Dad would wake up in the morning, see the sun on the trees outside his bedroom window, and somehow recover. I expected him to live. I really did.

The next day, Carol came over to sit with Dad while the carer took a break, and I went home to get some sleep. The next thing I knew, that Neil was gently shaking me awake to tell me that Dad had passed away. Carol was with him at the end. She says he just stopped breathing, and it took her a moment to realize. I’ll always be forever grateful for Carol.

I don’t know if Dad was ever aware he had come home. I’d like to think so.

Even now, in September 2021, my grief and guilt are as acute as ever. Writing this is most likely a first step in recovery. But it’s been a pretty awful past few years. It’s very hard to move on, with this level of guilt.

At least Dad isn’t suffering anymore. --

(And back to 2023. I am coping with the guilt a bit better, and am obviously in a better place mentally as I'm ready to share this. Thank you for reading.)

Dad and Cooper having a snack and watching rugby!

I was beginning to fear I’d never write in my blog again! When things get a bit rough in my life, I clam up and find I can’t share.

A belated explanation: I have just surfaced after a few extremely difficult years. In a nutshell, I returned to live in Northern Ireland full time in 2017 to help my elderly father. He quickly descended into dementia, which in my opinion is the absolute worst thing to happen to a person. Without going into details, I pretty much had a breakdown. There’s a name for it: caregiver burnout. Then Dad died in November 2019, and I began to prepare my return to Oregon. Then I decided to postpone leaving because my nephew was getting married in Spring of 2020. And we all know what happened that year ... Covid. Consequently, I ended up waiting a few months to return.

At first, I was so relieved to be safe at home, away from the terrible memories of Dad’s affliction. I was overwhelmingly grateful, even though I missed my family and friends in Northern Ireland. Only then did I begin to process the past few years. That’s when the problems began. I sank into despair. That’s the only word to describe it. I despaired that I couldn’t help Dad more; I felt I failed him.

Ours is a complicated family. Isn’t everyone’s? It’s just that now both of my parents have died, I have time for intense and proper introspection. Only now could I find out who I actually am. Fortunately, I’m still me! But now I can see with painful clarity how damaging the early dynamics in my family were. Children learn their behavior from their parents. I won’t go into the nature versus nurture debate; I agree we are probably born with our own foibles! But how you deal with generally navigating life is surely learned by observing those closest to us.

Both my parents had quick tempers. They were not physically demonstrative, except for a peck on the cheek to say goodnight. They never praised their children, and only seemed to criticize. Both were emotionally unavailable, particularly my father. All the details are probably worth going into in another blog, so perhaps I'll share them at a later date.

The result is that I blundered through life, making the classic mistakes that the children of emotionally abusive parents make. Abandonment issues. Insecurity. No self-confidence, no idea really of who you are and what you want from life. Until these past three years of self-reflection, I never knew why I behaved the way I did throughout my life. Nothing criminal or dangerous. But so many cringe-worthy memories that are so difficult to forgive or forget.

Of course there are lots of great memories too, but I’m concentrating on this new insight. I’m learning to forgive myself now that I understand. I’ve begun to feel great compassion for myself, which is something I never knew how to do before. Or that it was even possible!

I’d say I’ve finally emerged from the fog. What’s next, is the question. I’m looking forward to finding out!

With Dad and his dog, Cooper.

My most recent blog was about my experience as a film extra in Northern Ireland. I keep waiting for the film to be released before I share the next part, but it looks like the production has been held up. So, as I seem to be using this delay as an excuse not to blog, I’ll go ahead and share without revealing the name of the film, or where the shoot was.

I arrived nice and early, and helped myself to the wonderful coffee provided, and hauled myself and my costumes onto the Ulsterbus to join the other extras. I recognized a couple of people from the previous day, and we huddled together, trying to warm up in the frigid winter morning.

We were taken from there by minibus to a small vacation home, just down the road from where the shoot was taking place in a farmhouse. When I clambered out of the minibus, I realized with horror that perhaps I had consumed too much coffee. My gut cramped, making me hurry into the house and straight into the bathroom. I know it’s embarrassing to talk about one’s bowels, but this story can’t be told without them!

I succumbed to awful diarrhea, and when finished, opened up a window in the bathroom to try and alleviate the stench. Unfortunately no air freshener was provided, but I did try spritzing some of the travel-sized hair spray I had in my bag. I stepped out of the bathroom and joined the other extras, hiding my mortification. No one appeared to have noticed, to my utmost relief.

Now, we’ll come back to the bowel situation, but shortly after that we got called on set. As we filed into the farmhouse kitchen, I recognized the director and greeted her with a big smile. The scene turned out to be a funeral with mourners gathered around an open coffin in the parlor. One of the extras, a very slim elderly lady was helped into the coffin and she showed remarkable patience playing a corpse for all of the takes.

My father had just died after many terrible months descending into dementia, so when the director encouraged us to cry, I had absolutely no problem switching on the waterworks. All I had to do was think of Dad and tears immediately streamed down my face. It was quite cathartic.

Then the director wanted to change the grouping in the parlor. She asked which of us had been in the kitchen scene, and moved them to where I stood.

She pointed to me and said, “I know you’ve been in the kitchen scene.”

I shook my head and reminded her that I’d only been in the bar scene.

“Oh, well,” she replied. “It won’t change anything for you to stay on this side of the room.”

I smiled and nodded, a little confused. I got the feeling she thought I was trying to push myself forward, or something. Which is the last thing I’d do! I love being an extra because there’s absolutely no stress involved. And I still get to be part of something I enjoy.

The director restaged us around the coffin and we prepared for the next few takes. Then she called from the doorway, “Lady with the red hair? Change places with Sam.”

I obediently moved from where I stood in plain sight by the coffin, to directly behind one of the main characters. I found myself squished between a man on my right, and a tall blonde young woman to my left. The woman didn’t budge an inch. Nor did she reply to my greeting or look at me at all.

I continued to cry on cue for each take, even if I was close enough to the actor in front of me to wipe my nose on his shirt!

The scene wrapped up and after a very nice lunch, we were let go. Back in the minibus I found myself once again squished beside the blonde woman. She again didn’t acknowledge me, so being somewhat contrary at times, I made a point of making polite small talk with her. Without ever looking at me, she told me how she’d been in every single project that had been filmed in Northern Ireland over the past few years. I’ve looked for her on screen since but have never spotted her. She’s very distinctive, so she’d be difficult to miss!

Then she said, “I’m sorry I’m not very talkative. I was sick in that bathroom in the house we were waiting in.”

Her scathing tone gave me the impression she blamed me. Me, the diarrhea fiend, who did it *on purpose* just to make her ill!

That should have been my cue to explain about the coffee, but I didn’t. Perversely, I was amused. In addition I felt embarrassed, and that, along with the odd encounter with the director earlier, made me come away from the experience a tad uncomfortable.

And once again, totally vindicated in my decision to leave professional acting long, long ago.

A movie is coming out sometime next year, which was filmed in Northern Ireland during my time there. Due to privacy until its release, I can’t say which one it is yet. Having been an extra in shows in the States, like Grimm, Leverage, and my favorite, Wild with Reece Witherspoon, I’d enjoyed it so much that I signed on with the local Irish extras company as soon as I learned it existed.

Almost two years went by, and I heard nothing, so forgot all about it as I got increasingly enmeshed in caring for Dad as he succumbed to dementia. Then, just after he died in November 2019, I got a text on my phone, asking if I were available for some filming in a local coastal village. Excited at the prospect of seeing how filming was done nowadays in the UK and Ireland, I replied in the positive. By day’s end they’d booked me for one day of shooting, starting at the ungodly hour of 0700 on a frigid, winter morning.

It sounded akin to what I was familiar to in the States: bring a couple of suggested outfits to let wardrobe choose from, do your hair normally, and wear make-up, just not the mineral kind as it shines on camera. I got up a 0430 to get myself ready, then drove the twenty minutes over to where basecamp was.

A single decker Ulsterbus with all lights blazing sat at the center of the action, with tents huddled around it, sheltering an open-air kitchen and I assume equipment. The extras ‘wrangler’ met me with a huge smile, told me to help myself to a cooked breakfast, and join the others in the bus. I forwent the breakfast as I’d had a gluten free version at home before I left, but filled up on coffee.

About five people sat chatting together on the bus. It looked like they all knew each other. Feeling a little nervous as this was my first time, I introduced myself and sat near them as I sipped my coffee. Which was surprisingly good. We were all of an age, but I was the only woman.

Looking around the bus and listening to the good-natured ribbing between the guys, I couldn’t stop grinning. I felt like I was in an episode of Ricky Gervais’ Extras. But no one appeared to take themselves too seriously, which was nice. It’s one thing to do your job well as an extra; it’s another to think you’re going to be discovered. I enjoy extra work because there’s no stress at all. I get a little whiff of the acting world, which usually brings back good memories, get paid for it, and go home and forget about it at the end. Career acting was extremely stressful for me. I’d never go down that road again. I look back at the person I was back in England when I was a professional actor, and I cringe. I was a selfish, narcissistic, practically unhinged person. The lifestyle did not suit me at all. I think to navigate a career such as that, being selfish and narcissistic is a necessity. And the unhinged part is, too. Look at people like Heath Ledger and Judy Garland, dying so young of drug overdoses. They couldn’t cope and I totally get it.

Another woman climbed onto the bus, and I smiled in greeting, glad to see another female. She was about my age, with long dark hair and a slim build. We got to chatting and the time passed as she told me about all the previous things she’d been in as an extra. I never bothered mentioning my acting history; it was irrelevant. For those who don’t know, I’d navigated my way through an acting career from 1983 to 1990, working pretty consistently. I’d had a blast … it was so much fun to be a German dancing bear in a clown troupe, or play a wide range of roles in a touring repertory theater. My very last performance was when I first arrived in the States, and played an ingenue in an English comedy stage play. That led to me becoming a writer, but that’s a story for another day!

Our wrangler appeared in the bus doorway and announced we’d be heading over to the location now. He herded us out and across the parking lot to a minivan that was to ferry us there. Just as we were about to pull out, a young blonde woman carrying a breakfast plate clambered on and tried to balance her meal as the bus navigated flooded, pitch-black country roads. She looked stressed, and I learned later that with rain causing so much flooding, it had taken her twice as long to drive from her home than she thought it would.

We pulled into a tiny town that I knew well. (But can’t say which one until the film is released!) The minivan parked behind a picturesque old pub that looked out over the bay. I had just been there a few months earlier with an American friend, as the owner has a famous connection with one of the US presidents. (Again, I’ll fill in the details when the film comes out.)

So far everything mirrored how things were run in the US shows I’d been in. But then we were ushered into a little tent pitched outside the back of the pub. It had plastic windows so as the gray dawn slowly crept in, we could just about make out each other’s faces. I had to laugh. The difference between us and the main actors was now glaringly different. They stayed warm and cozy in the heated building, while outside the rain still fell and the wind cut in from the Irish Sea, causing us all to huddle together, shivering. Finally, a gas space heater appeared, and we began to thaw in front of it, sucking down the free coffee to warm up.

We began chatting amongst each other, and I found it fascinating to learn what people did in real life. The younger woman who’d arrived late turned out to be a hairdresser. I pointed to the unruly thatch on my head, and she laughingly gave me her card. The dark-haired woman was still talking about her acting experience to the rest of the group, so we sidled away so we could talk about other things.

Then the tent flaps pushed open, and a friendly woman with a Northern Irish/American mix accent addressed us. She turned out to be the director and asked if any of us had any acting experience. Without thinking, my hand shot up. So did the dark-haired woman’s. She said she’d had amateur acting experience. When the director turned to me, I played it down, just saying I’d had a couple of speaking roles in various things.

She withdrew and anticipation grew amongst us as we knew we’d be called on set any moment. Sure enough, soon the wrangler led us out of the poky tent and into the pub. My role was to sit at the bar with one of the main actors and react to the scene as it unfolded. The director ordered me to mime an animated conversation, which I gladly did. The dark-haired lady was placed at a table in the bar and given a line to say! For a second, I felt the old sickening tug of rejection, vividly reminded of one of the reasons I got out of proper acting years ago. I stifled laughter. Of course the director would never have considered me, what was I thinking? Ginger hair. Freckles. Not stick-slim. The old, old story. Thank goodness I didn’t care anymore, but the little momentary pang unsettled me.

I had a fun time with the morning’s shoot, and got along well with the actress, who was from Dublin. I can’t wait to see the film, regardless of whether my ugly mug can be seen in the background or not. I suppose the moral of this little tale is that our insecurities never leave us. But as time and experience hone who you are, hopefully you’ll be able to see it all in perspective. I mulled over my momentary feeling of rejection for some time, surprised it had surfaced like that. I remain steadfastly grateful I got out of that industry long, long ago. I am suited so much better to writing. Rejection is usually by proxy with editors or agents, and it’s never personal. I like to say: “Being the puppet-master works so much better for me than being the puppet!”

Not that I’m dissing those who do act for a living. They have my utmost respect as it is an exceedingly difficult life to live.

On the set of Grimm, USA. Another bar scene!

Hoping to inspire myself back into regular blogging, I answered this question on Quora: Has someone ever uninvited you to their wedding? (It seems to have worked, as I’m updating my website and preparing to add more adventures to my blog.)

Before I share my story, I want to say that about ten years after this happened, the lady and I met randomly at a book signing. We both decided to let the past go and have worked at several other signings together. Just in case she happened to read this, I wanted to make sure she knows there are no hard feelings!

Now, to the story. Several years ago, I was a member of an international meet-up, where I met the bride-to-be. Learning that I used to be in professional theater, and liking how I applied my make-up, she asked me to do hers on her wedding day, a few weeks hence.

Members of the meet-up threw parties from time to time in their own homes, and I attended one of them, accompanying a male friend and his teenage son. We were not dating; we were colleagues. One of the host’s friends was a hairdresser from South America, Jorge. (Names all changed!) He and I had met previously at one of my own parties, a costume ball, where he had dressed as Zorro. He had just arrived at my house, left his coat on my bed with the other partygoers’ belongings, and was checking his appearance in the mirror when I walked in on him in the bedroom. We’d had a great laugh about it, as I was tickled pink at finding Zorro in my room! We enjoyed a little bit of flirting and verbal sparring throughout the evening, but that was as far as it went.

The host of the next party was a chiropractor, and apparently had her treatment room at the top of a circular iron staircase, in what looked like a tower attached to the house. As Jorge was close friends with her, he offered to show me the intriguing room. We took, perhaps four minutes at most, to climb the staircase, admire the treatment bench, and return back downstairs to the party.

The next morning, I received an email from the bride-to-be: “Dear Lizzy, in view of what happened last night, we are not comfortable with you coming to the wedding.” Puzzled, I replied asking what had happened. No response. Eventually I phoned the host, and she told me that the bride had assumed that Jorge and I had had sex upstairs in the chiropractic treatment room.

I found her assumption and condemnation ludicrous. Later, Jorge and I joked that if we had, it would have taken a heck of a lot longer than the two minutes between going up and down the spiral staircase!

(As he's wearing a mask, I think it's all right to post this picture from the costume ball.)

Here is one of those Dad stories I promised. This happened during the summer of 2005, just after he had knee replacement surgery and I flew over from the States to look after him. And, coincidentally, it includes the sock-yelling I referred to in my last post!

My older brother Steve and sister-in-law Moya came over from Inverness in Scotland to visit while I was there. They arrived on Friday and seemed just the distraction Dad needed. As in the past, one-on-one I get along fine with Dad, but bring a third party in and the dynamics change. Dad suddenly became fractious, bad-tempered, and gave me the cold shoulder throughout the visit. Well-used to this treatment, I was only slightly irritated but mostly amused. I had dinner ready for us all when Steve and Moya arrived and afterward, we finished up the wine and caught up - we haven't seen each other since Mum's death. in 2003. We had a really enjoyable evening, and I got Dad off to bed in good time and in reasonable temper.

The next day, however, was another matter. altogether. For the first time since getting out of hospital Dad rose earlier than me. I was immediately in the doghouse for not having breakfast ready, and not having fetched the morning paper. Then Steve and Moya took the dogs out alone giving me a break. (Dad could not for the life of him understand why one would want a break from those two spoiled dogs!) I was lurking in my bedroom when I heard a long string of curse words from Dad's room. I listened in case he needed help, but he was only shouting at his socks.

"Damn and blast you, you bastards!" Then he apparently shouted at the window. "Fucking close, will you?!"

After that, any inanimate object was fair game.:

"I can NEVER ... find a bloody THING!"

"Who stole my fucking shoes?"

"Jesus Christ, damn your soul!"

After another few minutes of this I heard an almighty crash so went in to see if he was all right. "I'm spilling water everywhere," he complained, so I cleaned it up, poured him a fresh glass and beat it out of there on the double. The man is highly educated and intelligent and I love him dearly, but he has always been temperamental and rather fond of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary.

When he was settled with his favorite soup in front of a rugby match on television, Steve and Moya invited me out to lunch. We went to our usual bar in Newcastle, Rooney's, which sits on a corner looking out over Newcastle beach. The building has been many things since, the last being an Indian restaurant, but has recently been bought by Brunel's next door, although presumably because of COVID-19, nothing's been done with it yet.

This day in 2005, however, was not to be the quiet lunch we sought. A Scottish pipe band festival was being held in town that weekend, and the streets were choked with traffic and a huge influx of plaid-clad tourists. It also coincided with Live 8 and the 20th anniversary of Live Aid. These blared from a huge television in the bar, competing with the bar music being piped through the system.

"What are you's havin'?" yelled the friendly young waitress.

"A Bloody Mary, please," I told her.

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, Gawd! I don't know how to make them!"

I quickly explained and the three of us attempted to relax with our drinks. The combating music made it impossible, so we eventually moved to a different part of the bar away from the television. That was quieter and we began to unwind ...

... until a few minutes later when a family entered and sat near us. An older woman, a younger one, (obviously the mother of the two young children), her husband, and an elderly man. The young woman wore what was the height of fashion at the time. A gypsy-style skirt but slung low so it only covered the pubic and buttock area. A bright scarf was attached to the 'waistline', giving a Turkish effect. Even on the slimmest, model-like female, this fashion looked appalling!

"That's just not right," said my brother, who never passes remarks about such things.

Then one of the children made a call on her flip cell phone, and screamed into it at the top of her young voice. She was so loud that we couldn't hear each other.

"Sorry, Steve, I can't HEAR you over the RACKET!" I'd bellow.

"WHAT?" he'd bellow back at me, but to no avail. The family was oblivious. He lit up a cigarette (has since successfully given it up) and we encouraged him to blow the smoke toward the family.

Our waitress returned. "Everything okay?"

We asked if she could turn down the volume on the children and she collapsed in giggles. When we ordered paté as appetizers, she said, "Jesus, I don't know how you can eat that stuff, I hate it."

During lunch we became aware of a low droning noise. It grew louder and rhythmic tapping began. A tuneless, awful sound began along with clacking of feet, and we came to the horrible realization that the children were thumping about loudly to the out-of-tune torture of their grandfather's humming.

"Right, finish up - we're leaving," ordered Moya.

"Too right," we agreed.

When we got home, Dad was obviously annoyed at being left alone. "These plants need watered," he snapped at me.

"Okay." I lifted the water jug he had ready and headed to water them.

"Not like that! They need soaked."

I couldn't soak them in the kitchen sink as Moya was getting dinner ready for that night, so I lifted all twelve of the plants and put them in the bathtub.

"Only some of them need watered," growled Dad.

"Which ones?" I asked.

"I don't know!" He flounced (as best one can on crutches) away and disappeared into his room for a while.

We three had a pre-dinner drink and relaxed. Again.

After dinner I brought the plants one at a time to Dad. "Does this one need watered?" I asked cheerfully.

He'd 'yes' and 'no' appropriately, and finally the job was done. I'd forgotten how difficult things could be when Dad's out of humor. But the good thing was that he must have been feeling better if he was that bad-tempered again!

I knew he was improving when I had to confiscate the toilet plunger from him last week. One of the toilets was blocked and we borrowed a neighbor's plunger to see if we could clear it before Steve and Moya's visit. It was entirely the wrong shape for this toilet, and it didn't take rudimentary physics to realize this. But Dad insisted I try anyway. Always obliging, I moved some water about and made a splashing noise with it, but naturally there was no suction, so nothing happened. Leaning on his crutches, Dad snatched the plunger and rammed it in and out of the toilet, splattering water over the walls and carpet. And over me! I saw Dad was quickly tiring so I took it away from him.

Later, I was working at my computer and I heard a slosh, slosh noise from across the house. "Are you PLUNGING?" I bellowed, then looked up through the open window in front of me to see three startled workmen gaping at me from the neighbor's roof. Blushing, I got up to investigate the sound, and sure enough, Dad had covered the bathroom in water again.

"You're going to exhaust yourself to no end," I told him firmly, and hid the plunger in my room. He spent the rest of the evening surreptitiously searching for it, and only found it the next morning when I was out getting the papers! We ended up having to call a plumber, and that, as they say is another story!