Debbie Bennett's Blog

Shout out to Cover2Cover - a new bookshop in Northwich, Cheshire.

Northwich didn't have any bookshops. I've lived here 30 years and don't ever recall seeing a bookshop. There may have been a few books for sale in the old Woolworths, the supermarkets have a row of best-sellers and WH Smiths as-was (now TG Jones) only sells a curated selection of what it thinks will sell best. But there's never been a shop dedicated to an eclectic mix of books, both old and a new, and happy to embrace both book lovers and writers too. They even have my books IN THE WINDOW. How cool is that?

This is a post that’s been maturing for a long time. About eighteen months in fact – since I lost both my parents in fairly rapid succession. It’s something I need to get off my chest, though I doubt anyone will ever read it. But if you are easily triggered by health issues, especially cancer, I suggest you click away now … 
Mum and dad had been married for 61 years when my dad passed away on 13th January 2024, a week before my 60th birthday. He’d been in residential care for eighteen months by that time with late-stage Alzheimers. We’d noticed the decline for several years, but being hospitalised with flu in spring 2022 made everything speed up, not helped by the draconian attitudes of the NHS staff in Macclesfield hospital. My mum also had flu and was in bed at home, while I was point-blank refused entry to the ward, because of some post-Covid-hangover regulations. Fortunately, I knew of a friend of mine who set up something called John’s Campaign  – the right of any person to have another person to be with, stay with, and advocate for them if they are unable to do so themselves. Furthermore, Macclesfield hospital had apparently signed up to this voluntary code. 
So I took myself off to patient services, who promised to look into it and pointed me in the direction of the Admiral Nurses . These are a wonderful group of people who support dementia patients and their families and the lovely nurse based at Macclesfield took it upon herself to sort my dad out and I was (grudgingly) allowed onto the ward the following day. Whilst there I noticed things like my dad being given a card with menu options, which he was incapable of reading himself. When food arrived, nobody checked to see if he needed assistance eating, so dinner was often just taken away untouched and if he needed any personal care while I was there, I had to do it myself. He was stuck in a side room with no mental stimulation or even a friendly face, other than myself and the Admiral Nurse who also visited daily. His mental health declined significantly in the week he was there and I honestly believe if I hadn’t fought to be with him every day, he would never have left the hospital alive. 
Dad passed away in a Care UK home just under two years later. The care in the home was exemplary – every member of staff was so kind and nothing was too much trouble. Even in death, he was dignified and respected in his bed. 
Sadly, while dad spent his last days, mum was in hospital (yep, Macclesfield again) and was given a terminal cancer diagnosis of 3-6 months. She had secondary liver cancer and they never did find the primary site – given the barrage of tests she’d been having for some months previously, I have no idea why. The doctor who came to see her was again kind and patient; the staff seemed mostly absent – nurses huddled around computer terminals, and care staff huddled in groups chatting. Mum was in a ward for a week while they did more tests. The doctor phoned me at work and said she was worried as mum seemed very tired. I explained that might be because the woman in the bed next to her (literally) screamed for attention day and night, and poor mum had barely slept. Not the other patient’s fault, but she should never have been placed in that ward. Mum was moved to a private room and ignored for a few days, except on the day of discharge when she woke and was terrified to find a strange man rifling through her locker and pulling out her underwear – it turned out he was ‘checking her stuff before discharge’, which seemed a little pointless since nobody had checked it in when she arrived. But he didn’t introduce himself or make any attempt to preserve the dignity of a frightened elderly lady. 
Mum went on a month’s respite care and had private physiotherapy. She was desperate to return to her small flat in a warden-controlled complex, so her friends could visit her and she could try to get back to a normal life for the short time she had left. We arranged carers to visit three times a day, but it became apparent very quickly that she needed more care. The company we were using (Alice Chiltern who cared for both mum and dad at home and employed such lovely dedicated and kind people) didn’t have the available staff for extra hours, so I moved in while we looked at alternatives. 
The next few days were the worst of my life. I couldn’t cope mentally or physically, mum’s GP turned up with a prescription for end-of-life medication (nobody told me about this, or explained what to do – it was terrifying) and Macmillan was useless. Two nurses turned up who fussed about for five minutes, gave mum another prescription for oral thrush and said they’d come back in a few days – they could have been delivering library books for all the actual help they were. I phoned Macmillan, cried my eyes out down the phone and they couldn’t have been less interested. So much for hospices. I was just left, with Andy, to deal with mum who by this time was bedridden and incontinent. 
To cut a long story short, we paid for a private ambulance to take mum to another Care UK home, where she passed away 8 days later on 4th April 2024. The ambulance guys were fantastic – ensuring mum’s dignity, allowing her to go through the lounge to say her goodbyes, and yet their sense of humour made everything lighter somehow. And again, the care home staff were amazing, so kind and caring to me as well as mum. 
My parents worked hard their entire lives, paid into the system and never asked for anything in return. Fortunately they had enough savings to be able to afford private care at the end, as the NHS care was undignified, lacked respect and compassion and couldn’t even ensure my dad ate his dinner or my mum’s personal possessions were respected. And I don’t understand why. I doubt the carers in private care homes or the ones who provide in-home care earn much more than the minimum wage and yet they were all, without exception, kind, efficient and compassionate.
Mum met dad when she was 17. In the end, she couldn’t live without him. 
The NHS is broken.

In which Aunty Debbie muses over questions about writing and books and stuff. Some of it comes from Facebook - and may be just a teeny tiny bit embellished for entertainment purposes - but I promise you it's all rooted in actual things I've read online ...

(I Don't Need No) Good Advice(More) No Good AdviceEven More (No Good) AdviceStill More Good AdviceAunty Debbie Returns ...The Return of Aunty DebbieAunty Debbie's Advice Column, part 6 of the trilogy(I Still Don't Need No) Good Advice?Aunty Debbie, part 7

Once upon a time, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead walked into a bar. They really did. I was the brunette. 
Read more ...

My (adult) daughter and I went to see my dad yesterday. He's nearly 89, has late-stage Alzheimer's and lives in a care home a 40 minute drive away. I try to get over for an hour or so every fortnight, although it's more for me than him, as he doesn't remember my visits and forgets I was there by the time I've signed out at reception.

He does appear to get some comfort from our presence though. Yesterday was particularly strange. Dad has a habit of getting stuck in a loop and he'll repeat the same words, sentence or idea over and over for a few minutes until he spins off into a new sequence. Sometimes he knows who I am; mostly he confuses me with mum. Yesterday he was at peace. I was there, he was there, Clare was there and he was at peace and happy. He told us he'd died several times and come back again but that in the end it didn't matter as he was at peace. He was holding our hands and he was frightened, but it was all OK.

At this point, both Clare and I had shivers down our spines! He's looking wide-eyed across the lounge at things we can't see - his eyesight isn't good these days, but he seemed to be seeing something. And he tells us that all his brothers and sisters are there and that makes him happy. He's one of the youngest of a very large family and I think there are only four of them left.

And then he slept. And Clare and I wondered if he'd wake up again or whether that was it. I like to think he'd stepped very briefly close to the veil, that he's standing closer to it every day, and one day - when he's ready - he'll take that final step across.

Love you, dad xx

Sixth instalment, eh? Who knew this advice lark could get so exciting? My first agony column (and yes, it really is agony most of the time) was waaay back in 2013. Bad writing has of course been around for much longer than that, but I like to think I've helped so many people better themselves over the years.
I thought it was worth pulling together my occasional agony-aunt column I've written on my monthly post over at AuthorsElectric. You can read more here ... and there are links to the earlier posts at the end.
It's all a bit tongue in cheek. For those lacking in my admittedly offbeat sense of humour, don't take it too seriously!

So I'm now in our local independent bookshop! If you're out and about in Nantwich in Cheshire, I thoroughly recommend you visit this amazing place where you can not only buy books, but eat an all-day breakfast, drink coffee and eat cake too! And all in a medieval timber-framed building with an attic they let you explore ... 

2022 was not one of my better years. I think I achieved very little in the grand scheme of things and certainly no writing of any importance at all. But I have been blogging the story of the dental implant surgery I had last month. It wasn't a good period in my life - it still isn't - and I wanted to help anybody else considering the options I had.

You can read more here. This is a separate page on this blog that I will keep updating until I get to the end of this journey, but I'm keeping it off the menu tabs above as it's not directly related to my writing catalogue - and not everybody wants to see my X-rays!

 Richard & Judy. I remember them as the king and queen of daytime television in the year or so of my life with a small baby when daytime television kept me sane. I don’t know when they stopped presenting This Morning, but these days it’s all about books isn’t it? I’ve not done any Googling or other research to write this, but the R&J book selection seems to be everywhere and being selected pretty much guarantees a book a place on the best-seller lists. Are spots for sale or sponsored in any way? I genuinely have no idea of the integrity of the spaces on this list and I’d be interested to know. Read more ...

Gosh, is it a year since my last blog? To be fair, 2022 has been one of the worst years of my life. My dad's rapid decline into Alzheimer's and moving into residential care, getting their bungalow sold and helping my mum move into sheltered housing, and culminating in facing and dealing with childhood trauma this last couple of months.

I've just got my teeth 'done'. After a childhood accident, I had extensive cosmetic dental work in my teens and early twenties. Now, as I'm approaching 60 at ever-increasing speed, my young, cool and scarily-experienced dentist at my new shiny modern dental practice told me my bridgework was failing and the remaining teeth would not support a simple repair/replace job. So after much discussion, I opted for full dental implants and had the surgery a few days ago. It's not been an easy journey as I've never really dealt with the childhood trauma; I haven't slept properly for a month or more and the whole experience is occupying 95% of my brain right now as I sit on the sofa on sick leave from work and looking like a hamster. I'm seriously considering some counselling in the New Year. Things can only get better!

But the reason for the title of this post is to do with the actual surgery. I opted for for full sedation and was slightly amused when they told me it would be midazolam. In the second book of my series Paying the Piper, that's the drug my bad guys use to sedate Michael when they have to take him into town to meet with other bad guys. I researched delivery methods and effects and I'm pleased to say I got it spot-on! One syringe into the cannula in my elbow and I felt like I was two bottles of wine down on a good night out. Apparently I had another two syringes and I don't remember anything of the first couple of hours. Andy says he could see my blood pressure dropping as the stuff was going in, which considering my BP was probably stratospheric at the start, can only be a good thing! After that I was conscious and I recall vague snippets of conversation and things happening, but I wasn't the least bit bothered by any of it - it was like watching a movie.

So a drastic way to do research. But why let an experience go to waste? I might as well let something positive come out of it. At least I got it right as I'd hate having to do a rewrite! Onwards and upwards.