I recently stumbled across this old BlogSpot I created years ago, and for reasons I still can’t explain, I haven’t written an entry since late 2019. I’m not entirely sure what happened. My stepfather did pass away around that time, but I don’t believe that event had a major impact on my life, so it must have been something else.
It feels almost as though I’ve suddenly been transported to the year 2025—right to the end of it, in December. So much has happened since 2019 that I hardly know where to begin. Tracey and I are still living in Glasshouse Mountains, and our eldest granddaughter, Annabelle, who is now eleven, has been living with us since October 2024. That situation is a long and sad story in itself; one I won’t go too far into here. I will say only that we’re hoping the state will allow Annabelle to live with her father, our youngest son, James—the person she desperately wants to be with.
I’m still writing, although I went through a period where my mind seemed to wander off without me. I found myself dealing with some mental health challenges—something I can’t deny. I wouldn’t claim I’m completely past it, but I’m certainly in a much better place than I was a few years ago. My self-confidence and sense of self-worth took a hit, along with everything else that comes with that kind of struggle. I’ve documented a lot of it over the years—enough to fill several books, though I doubt many people would want to read that. I’ve often joked about calling it The Scribblings of a Strange and Unusual Man. I probably have enough written to make it a multi-volume set. Maybe I’ll keep that idea tucked away for the future.
Naturally, all of this has forced me to take a long, serious look at my life. I can’t change the past, but I can try to correct or improve the things I still have some influence over. My mum passed away in 2023, and although that was a significant event, I feel she is finally at peace. Her last few years were far from pleasant—both for her and for many of us around her.
We had tried to convince her that a nursing home would be the safest place for her. She was prone to frequent falls and spent most days alone. After a couple of incidents where she fell and couldn’t reach her medical lifeline—which she always left in the kitchen before falling in the bathroom—she eventually realized she wasn’t safe at home. She agreed to enter the nursing home, where she continued to fall, but at least there she received immediate care, and they soon put protective measures in place.
Even with Mum in care, I essentially became her carer. I held her Enduring Power of Attorney and Advanced Health Directive—documents I believe everyone should have in place while they are still mentally able to make those decisions. Mum had several health issues. Parkinson’s took a heavy toll, she’d had multiple knee surgeries, and her weight didn’t help. She was also her own worst enemy at times, refusing to do the therapy needed to keep her legs strong. The wheelchair, meant to be a temporary aid during therapy, became something she believed she couldn’t live without, even though initially there was no medical reason she couldn’t walk.
After her last surgery—though I can’t even recall what it was for—she suffered post-operative delirium. That was the beginning of her real decline. She was never the same again. She became aggressive with the staff, and I was constantly called in to calm her. Eventually I had to take away her phone and credit cards because she began ordering furniture and other items, she had no use for and couldn’t possibly have at the nursing home. I lost count of how many conversations I had with retailers, cancelling orders she’d placed.
As her behavior worsened, the staff asked for my permission to move her to the secure ward—for her safety, and for the safety of residents and staff. I agreed, because I knew it was necessary, but it broke my heart to leave her behind that locked door. She truly believed I had imprisoned her.
One of the hardest moments came when they presented me with a document titled Approval for Chemical Restraint. They needed my written consent to medicate her during violent outbursts. Signing that form—authorizing them to chemically restrain my own mother—was one of the most painful decisions I have ever made.
I think I’ll leave it there for now. I have so much to catch up on, but for now, writing all of this has been emotionally taxing, and I need a moment to breathe.
