My appointment at the Riseborough was with Anne, the manager. She sat me down
in her office and went to organise coffee. There were certificates with her
name on them on the walls and I checked them out while she was away. She was a
well-qualified lady. The home was part of a national chain of care homes, which
I liked, because it meant it would be run like a business. If a business
doesn’t give people what they want, it won’t survive and, from what I had seen
so far, this establishment was not only surviving, it was prospering. When Anne
came back with the coffee I explained about Liz, about her brain surgeries, how
she couldn’t talk, how she had a problem with seizures and how Dr. Kirkham,
whom Anne said she knew quite well, had informed me that Liz could live another
year. None of it fazed her. She suggested a tour of the
building.
As she showed me round, she explained that the Riseborough
had two wings. One for residents – people who lived there on a permanent, and
one for nursing. So I would see the level of accommodation they provided for the residents,
she took me into one of the residential suites. I was impressed. Had the suite
been rather bigger, I could have lived there myself. It was beautifully
appointed, as - I was to observe - was the rest of the building.
The entrance hall comprised a reception area with
wrap-around desk and full-time receptionist, and a small sitting area for
visitors. Off this was a wide corridor leading to a lounge at the rear of the
building, and a smaller lounge at the front of the building. The lounge at the
rear of the building was occupied by people of retirement age and older.
A gentleman and two ladies were in wheelchairs, and there was an elderly female
patient in a hospital bed. Anne explained that they wheeled patients from the
nursing wing in here occasionally to give them a change of scene. There was a
grand piano by the patio windows and Anne explained that on a Thursday
afternoon they arranged entertainment in the form of a local pianist who played
the music of Ivor Novello. She said he was a great hit with the ladies.
Along the corridor was a restaurant. It was set for the
evening meal. I wouldn’t have said it was set for fine dining, but pretty
close. I could hear kitchen clatter in the background and Anne said the
restaurant had it’s own kitchen. She said they had an excellent
chef.
Before Anne
showed me the nursing wing, she walked me down a staircase into the basement
where she showed me a twenty-seat cinema, a hairdressing salon and a fully-functioning laundry.
She then took me up in the lift to show me the room she had
available. It was on the third floor at the rear of the building. We
stood by the window and she told me that behind the wall at the bottom of the
garden was the eighteenth hole of Meyrick Park golf course. Had it not been for
trees getting in the way, we would have been able to see the course from here,
but we were close enough to hear golfers talking, and the thwack of a club hitting a ball.
The room was furnished with an electrically tilting hospital
bed, a small circular dining table and two chairs, and two small
armchairs. To accommodate the incumbent’s clothes was a wardrobe
and a lengthy wall unit with drawers. There was a chair and a mirror at the
wall unit, and perched on one end of the unit was a colour TV. A remote sat beside it. On the walls were pictures, which blended colour-wise with the décor, and there
was a wheelchair-friendly bathroom.
I told Anne I thought Liz would like this room and suggested
we go back to her office to discuss details.
When I learned that there was a difference of a mere fifty
pounds a week between the Riseborough and the home I had walked out of in distress in Broadstone, I told Anne she had a deal. She asked if I wanted to bring Liz
round to see the place herself before I made a final commitment, but I said I didn’t
think it was necessary; I thought Liz would be very happy here. Anne
said she looked forward to meeting her, and I
went away feeling that my day’s endeavours had been well worthwhile.
Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
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