After the Radiologist appointment, mother visited the palliative care physician, a warm and caring woman from the area who seemed to know everybody we had met already. This is when treatment started to improve dramatically. First, the mix-up with the anti-nausea pills was fixed (this led to my mother starting to eat much better and actually regain some weight). Then, low-dose liquid morphine was prescribed for pain, to be gradually increased to solid pill form.

Next, mother was switched off the sleeping pill that had made her feel so groggy all day, and was put on one with a shorter effect. Then, a steroid was prescribed for her energy. Finally, a laxative was provided in case the morphine caused constipation. It was clear the palliative care physician was the doctor we had been waiting for. She knew death, and how to manage it, and this is very specialized medical knowledge, not apparently available to GPs.

While all these things would eventually have fallen into place, it is because my sister was on hand to act as my mother’s champion that some very serious initial errors in diagnosis and treatment were resolved. You can’t let the system police itself, however comprehensive it may be.

My sister cleared out the spare bedroom and turned it into a day care room, with a bed for resting during the day, and a large medication chart and all mother’s medications organized on the bureau. It was decided that when the time for the hospital bed arrived, it would be put in the TV room on the ground floor, which had a good view of the garden.

By this time, my mother was eating Kathie Rose’s excellent cooking, gaining a little weight, sleeping better and enjoying herself during the day more. My older brother and his wife visited, and my mother kept trying to shoo them out of the house so she could have some peace. My other younger sister visited with her husband, and mother complained people were hanging around too long. She was definitely starting to perk up!

Keywords: caregivers, diary