Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

(Big sigh)

I finally did it. I edited my "About Me" mini-bio to remove the reference to "and caring for my elderly parents." That phase of my life is over. I'm not done with it, though. There are many aspects of it that I am still chewing on, digesting and processing. I am not done writing about it. There is much more to be said.

There's another little change in the "About Me." I made myself a writer first and a non-practicing lawyer second. That's big for me. Really big. I have spent nearly my whole adult life defining myself as a lawyer. I worked hard to obtain the right to use that title. It feels dishonest somehow to not use it at all. But it is no longer how I define myself. I've had an epiphany.

In all the years I practiced law, I always liked parts of it and hated others. I loved the helping people part, and the research and analysis part and the gabbing with other lawyers part, but did you know that there are a lot of not very nice lawyers out there? Lots and lots of them. Being a divorce lawyer, I dealt with an unusually large contingent of the nastiest ones. It wore me down, dealing with them. It eroded the crisp edges of my optimism and soured my humor.

Some nice lawyers find a way to remain themselves in the midst of all the unpleasantness. They surround themselves with colleagues who buoy them or they compartmentalize or, very often, they drink. None of those routes really solved the problem for me, and I tried them all.

If it were only the other lawyers that were the problem, I could have looked at my lawyer-glass as half-full, but it wasn't only that. I was a litigator. I was in court in some fashion nearly every day and usually in more than one courtroom on any given day. Courts do not operate efficiently. Even when the judges and staff try to operate effectively, and not all do, there are unavoidable bottlenecks and detours.

I do not blame my clients for being annoyed at our rather medieval court system. I tried my best to educate them and prepare them for the inevitable, but seen through eyes fresh to the system, the process seemed worse even than I had described it. Clients tend to hold their lawyers responsible for each and every delay as though said lawyer had control of the docket, the judge and the other side's lawyer. The plot, then, thickens: we now have nasty lawyers, a cumbersome system, and irritated clients.

There is an old saying that criminal defense lawyers represent bad people at their best, and divorce lawyers represent good people at their worst. As with all cliches, there is a measure of truth in it. There were few of my clients that I truly disliked. Most were decent, hard-working people who were going through what is among the most painful happenings in life. I do not share the widely held belief that people rush to divorce instead of trying to work out the problems in their marriages. Some do, but most do not. In my experience, divorce is a decision rarely taken lightly.

My clients came to me at a low point in their lives, full of worry, guilt, anger and sadness. I did my best to shepherd them through the process with their dignity intact, concerns addressed and with the least financial impact possible in the circumstances. I knew all the intimate details of their lives: how and where they spent their money, who cheated, who lied, who screamed and who hit. I knew it all about each of them and it was a heavy burden to carry. Most appreciated me. Some did not. Most paid me. Some did not.

It was my job, but they were not just projects to me. They were human beings, complicated and unique. Although I was careful to maintain a professional distance, every one of them left a mark on me in some way. All that emotion pouring out of them like melting glaciers, and I was the rock. In more than one way, I was the rock.

I came home from the office every day, exhausted; physically and emotionally. I rarely wanted to talk about my day; I didn't want to relive it. There were good days, when I "won" and when I got to strut my stuff in trial. There were funny days, when ridiculous things happened or were said. Mostly, though, there were exhausting days.

When my girls were 2 and 4 and when Hombre and I thought we could live on one income, I sold my law practice. I didn't make a lot of money from it, but it was something; something for what I had built. There were still a few loose ends hanging out there, but I was free to move on. I enjoyed my little ones as I hadn't ever before.

A couple of years and one downsizing later, I went back to work, this time in the corporate world. The intellectual aspect was exhilarating, the social aspect was rewarding, but having been self-employed for so long, I found the lack of control frustrating and corporate policies inane. I hung in there, making the best of it for just over four years. And that's when Mom and Dad got sick and life changed for all of us.

I always told my clients that a divorce is a death: the marriage has died. I gave them a list of books that dealt with grieving and I suggested that they seek counseling. I told them they might go through similar "stages" of emotion as one might when diagnosed with a terminal illness, or upon the death of a loved one. In some strange way, dealing with one type of death prepared me to deal with another.

I had been a sporadic journaler since second grade, when I got my first locking, 5-year model, but my journals tended toward archive rather than analysis. As I embarked with my parents on their journey to the end of life, and as I drove the 98 miles between their home and mine, I thought and thought and thought about all they were going through; all we were going through. I was gripped with a need to write it all down, to parse it out. I found that blogging worked best for me because the possibility that someone else might read what I wrote forced me to think it through and to resolve what ever issue I was grappling with - dementia, cancer, being "sandwiched." It took me from merely noting events and thoughts to exploring them and maybe resolving them. And it helped me immensely.

I discovered something about myself this past year. I discovered that I am a writer. I have always been a writer. I will be a writer. I feel self-conscious labeling myself this way. I didn't earn this title through a degree or take a three-day exam. I gave myself this title and I am nervous about that. Am I qualified? Am I kidding myself here? Do I really have a talent for this or am I being humored by my friends and family? Should I finally get rid of all of those suits in the closet? It is risky to rename yourself and then to announce it to the world, but here I go.

I was invited to join a writers group, and I did. For the first time ever, I read my work out loud to near strangers and it felt good. I am working on a blog about poetry with a poet friend. I went to a poetry reading and the next time I go (there will be a next time!) I am going to read something I have written. I am excited about the possibilities and energized every time I finish a piece - an essay, a haiku, a journal entry.

I am a writer.

So why did this chicken cross the road? To be with her peeps.

Lessons

It's been one heck of a year. Along the way, I have learned a few things; things I did not know before because I had no reason to have known them. These are practical suggestions because I am a practical person. I have read one too many articles about caregiving that say things like, "Make time for yourself,""Stay active," blah, blah, blah. How in the heck do you do that?

Without further ado, I hereby bestow my wisdom.

1. Whenever you have reason to accompany someone, anyone, to the hospital or a doctor's appointment, carry a notebook/paper and (working) writing implement. Taking notes on your hand that you, hours later, try to decipher so that you may report to the rest of your family the prognosis for mom or dad only causes frustration. Trust me, I learned this from experience. Plus, it takes a while for the ink to wear off and people tend to look askance at adult women with sharpie script on the back of their hands and extending up the forearm. Not that I care.

2. Never leave home without an a/c charger for your iPhone. I love Siri, but girlfriend sucks the life right out of my battery. It's very stressful to be delayed and want to call home to talk your children through dinner prep and homework when your cell phone battery life indicator is in the red zone.

3. Keep snacks and water bottles in your car or your purse. Hospital cafeterias close at the most inconvenient times. Emergency rooms are often located in dicey areas where you don't really want to get out at the local Circle K at 2:00 a.m. to buy stale trail mix to tide you over on the drive home.

4. Be nice to nurses. Let me repeat: BE NICE TO NURSES. Even the surly ones. Not only are they they the folks administering the "hands-on" care to your loved one, where a gentler touch brought on by fondness is desired, they know where the coffee machines and free snacks are located and will share this information with you if you are nice. Yes, there are nurses in my family so I am biased. However, I have seen what good nurses can do. They can figure out that prescribed medication was not actually ordered from the pharmacy (yes, this happened) and get it ordered. They notice when symptoms are worsening or not improving as they should, and take action - right away- which saves lives. They are the implementers and gatekeepers for the doctors, so when they see something in the chart that the doc may have missed or an error the doc may have made, they will call it to the doctor's attention. They are better educators than most doctors, and will explain things to you so that you understand what is going on and what is likely to happen next. There is a lot they can do to make you and your "patient" more comfortable and at ease. Be nice to the nurses.

5. Be up front with your kids. Give them the truth: "I probably won't be home for dinner, so let's talk about what you can eat if I'm not here." "I really want to go on your field trip, but this time I can't do it." "Grandma is very sick, but it still makes her happy to hear your voice. Would you like to talk to her?" "No, Grandpa is not going to get better, so let's visit him as much as we can and let him know we love him." Nobody likes to deliver bad news, but it often saves tears later. Kids are smart and they know when they aren't getting the whole story. Give them the respect they deserve.

6. Keep an updated calendar and contact list on your person. If plans have to be cancelled or changed you can deal with it right away. Make sure you have numbers for all of the schools and neighbors.

7. Keep a photocopy of health insurance cards, Medicare cards and photo identification, along with medication lists for whomever you care-take, in your purse. I needed these documents often since we utilized several different hospital systems.

If it is not you, but a friend, who is being "sandwiched" between parents and children or is otherwise in a medically stressful situation, here are some things I know, now that I have lived through this. I beg forgiveness from all of my friends for not doing these things before. I'll do them now, pinkie-swear!

1. Call her (or him). Listen and let her rant. Don't worry about bothering her. It really helps to know that friends are thinking about you. Or send a quick email, letting her know you are thinking of her. Spending long hours in hospitals and emergency rooms leaves a person feeling very disconnected. Those places are like casinos, with no sense of time or place, so it's nice to have little reminders that you haven't stepped into the Twilight Zone and that life "on the outside" is still going on and that you haven't been forgotten.

2. Cut her some slack - a lot of it. If your friend is in this above-mentioned challenging situation, do not be offended if your calls and emails are not returned. Do not begin conversations or emails with, "I haven't heard from you......". She does not need the added guilt; she has plenty of it already. She got your message; she saw that you called; she appreciated it. Trust me, she was just too wiped out to respond. That or her cell phone battery was dead.

3. Do something with/for her kids. Pick them up, take them to your house to play with your kids. Take them anywhere, just give them some attention. They need it and your friend will be relieved of some of her guilt. She might even have an hour to blow off some steam browsing Pinterest. One of the nicest things anyone has done for me was to take my girls out to dinner during the calling hours at the funeral home. I had completely forgotten about dinner that night. She saved the day.

4. Bring food. Anything. A bag of bagels and some cream cheese. Dinner. A fruitcake. (Well, maybe not). It doesn't have to be fancy or gourmet. Take out and pizza get expensive and tiresome. Exhaustion and worry make planning meals and shopping really daunting. It is such a relief when someone calls and says - "I'm bringing you dinner tomorrow. Any allergies? When can I stop by or where can I leave it if you are not home?" This is also true when someone has a death in the family. BRING FOOD.

5. DO NOT SAY, "LET ME KNOW WHAT I CAN DO." I've said this in the past and I will never say it again. It is perfectly useless because it puts the burden on the stressed out person to come up with something, but she doesn't want to suggest something too burdensome, so she will say, "Oh, I'm fine. Really." Even though she's not. If she's feeling kind of pissy and if you are a close friend, she will think, "Thanks for nothing." And she will be annoyed with you. Instead, offer a couple of things you would/could do and ask her which would help her the most. Or just cut to the chase and bring food. If you are yourself in such a stressful situation that you simply can't do anything for your friend, don't tell her that; she'll feel like she should do something for you. Just call and tell her you are thinking of her or better yet, send a card.

Turning the Page

Nothing in life prepares you to deliver an eulogy for your mother.

She passed away 12 days after Dad, with her "girls" around her. A kind, efficient hospice nurse on her first solo assignment stood by. Mom went, as she always had, in her own sweet time.

She clearly had some things to work out before she left us. We could tell by the mumblings and gesturing she did so fervently those few days. We saw her sewing something (even knotting the thread!), folding laundry and feeding a baby. All those tasks that consumed her life for so many years. The hospice social worker suggested that we place her purse next to her and let her know it was there and that it was all ready to go. It felt strange, but we did it anyway.

I had never before held someone's hand as they let go of life on earth. It felt to me like such an honor, to be there to comfort her, to let her know that she was not alone. It was as she would have wanted it, with her daughters nearby. I felt so close to my sisters at that moment and yet a part of something eternal, larger than all of us. I felt a connection with all those women through time who have sat by the side of ones they loved, giving comfort and sending them off into eternity. It was a sacred event. I felt blessed.

There was grim humor in that night, as well, as we called the funeral home,

"Wait a minute, your name is familiar; didn't we just do a funeral for you last week?"

And as the undertaker arrived for the body and the nurse asked for his identification,

"It's okay, Tina, we recognize him. He came to get Dad, too."

"I thought this place seemed familiar," he said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

And then the quiet as the oxygen concentrator was turned off for the last time.

This time we knew what to do, who to call, what arrangements had to be made. We still had our lists. One thing was different this time. At Dad's funeral, by pure coincidence, all the readings and the eulogy had been done by the men in the family: sons and sons-in-law and grandsons. Without discussion, we knew that it was right that this time it should be Mom's girls. Our brothers were in agreement.

We selected different readings than we had for Dad. Readings that spoke to her love of gardening, her sense of fairness. My sister Ann, far more familiar with the Bible than the rest of us, texted us cites to chapters and verses for consideration. We chose a couple of the same hymns, but also some new ones. "In the Garden" had been sung at her mother's funeral, I remembered. We all agreed it was a good choice. My sister's partner, a beautiful, trained singer, agreed to sing it for Mom. It was settled: Ann would do the Old Testament reading, Jenny the New Testament, Christine the Prayers of the Faithful. The grand-daughters brought up the gifts. I would do the eulogy.

How do you eulogize your mother? Relationships between mothers and daughters are complicated. Mom and I butted heads, early and often. Mom was not a saccharine, warm-n-fuzzy personality, and yet there was so much to her: her dry wit, her braininess, her creativity, her practicality; her beauty. I struggled with writing it.I tried to capture her essence and to describe memories that were shared among us. The words did not come as easily to me as they usually do.

The day of the funeral was sunny and bright. I had been hit with a respiratory bug that had me coughing and snorting and reduced my voice to a sexy rasp. I was concerned that I wouldn't be able to deliver. I'm not really much of a crier, but when the music started, my eyes welled. My daughters watched me as I dabbed at my eyes. They squeezed my hands. My sisters rose and did their parts, without hesitation or error. I knew then that I could do mine.

I stood at the lectern in my serious lawyer suit and prepared to speak. I looked out at my Hombre, my girls; an aunt; many cousins, friends and family who had gathered and I felt an overwhelming wave of pure love and support. Then I started to talk. I know I didn't follow exactly what I had written; I never do. I can't recall exactly what I said. What I do recall is that at points there was laughter, at others nodding and smiling. When I finished and returned to my seat, I began to cry.

I wasn't crying for my Mom; she was where she was meant to be. It was her time. I wasn't crying for myself; I knew this time would come, when Mom and Dad would be gone, and I didn't balk away from it. I wasn't worried about their souls; I don't believe in heaven or hell. I think it was simply relief. All of the stored emotion from the intense few weeks we had just had and from the weeks and months of care taking just flowed out of me.

I felt like you feel after you have driven through a blinding rainstorm, when you are so focused on keeping the car on the road and trying to see ahead, when you are gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles are white and then suddenly it stops and the sun comes out and you release your grip and start to shake. You hadn't even realized how hard you were gripping that wheel or that you hadn't even blinked for hours.

That's how I felt. That's why I cried. It was all over and I could let go.

Lost

He wasn't supposed to go first.

We all thought Mom would go first. Her health has been iffy for a long time now: the out of control blood pressure, the dementia, the congestive heart failure, the repeated falls. The gastric cancer.

Her cancer odyssey started 2 1/2 years ago, on December 30th, 2009. She and Dad had come north to Ohio for Christmas, planning to stay a week. The night before the day they planned to leave, she awoke, passing blood; lots of it. The ambulance was called and she was rushed to the hospital. The Pauken clan converged upon the hospital from corners far and near. We paced, we ate, we stood watch over medical staff, we took care of Dad.

She had lost so much blood that in all, she received (I think) 5 units of blood via transfusion over the course of the next few days. The surgeon discovered an ulcer in her stomach that was bleeding. It was cauterized and we thought that was the end of it. We all exhaled.

As she slowly began to regain her strength, the surgeon reappeared and said he had seen some "suspicious" areas in her stomach "while he was in there".  He wanted to do a biopsy, which revealed the cancer in her stomach. It was a small area. The surgeon proposed a gastrectomy. He would remove the lower half of her stomach and reattach the small intestine. He would pull a few lymph nodes and then we would decide what to do next. We agreed and pushed ahead.

Following surgery, the news was pretty good: no affected lymph nodes and no invasion through the stomach wall. "Stage 1", as I recall. Mom's recovery was slow. She was so very weak from the previous blood loss. The pain medications made her hallucinate.

After a long hospital stay, she was released to a rehab facility. I will never forget the day we moved her in there. When it was time for us to leave, she looked up at us and said, "Don't leave me here." We cried. We reassured her that it would only be for a short time, until she was stronger.

All through a snowy January and February and well into March, Dad drove 40 minutes each way, every day, to be with her. She progressed; she got stronger; then a setback. She fell and broke her arm. She progressed, she got stronger, then she fell again and cut her head open. It was a long, long winter.

She didn't come home to their condo on Lake Erie until just before her birthday in March, 2010. No sooner were they home, than Dad was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. He had completely worn himself out, taking care of her. We sisters converged on them: cooking and caretaking and helping in whatever way we could.

They both recovered, and in a few weeks were eager to set off for South Carolina. They could hardly wait to return to their home and their friends and social life; to get back to normal.

We convinced Dad that Mom shouldn't be driving any longer and that it was maybe time to think about selling their home in the south and moving back north to be nearer to family. If the events of that winter had taught us anything, it was that being near family was essential.

My Dad's perpetual optimism did not allow for the possibility of future health crises. He took care of himself and worked out several days a week. Sure, Mom had her issues, but she was on the mend and he could take care of both of them. At 84 and 83, they were not ready for assisted living.

Mom was supposed to have seen an oncologist at some point following her surgery, but with the various setbacks, the appointment had been rescheduled so many times it was ultimately forgotten. Mom and Dad weren't too crazy about the oncologist at the hospital and thought they would see a different one anyhow. We were more focused on her regaining strength and balance than about the cancer anyway. The surgeon was confident that he had gotten it all. Somehow the follow-up slipped through the cracks.

The next year brought her a number of falls, one requiring stiches to her forehead. It brought at least one hospitalization for an out-of-control UTI and congestive heart failure. This delayed but did not prevent their return north in the spring of 2011 for Mom's 85th birthday party.

Mom's dementia and other frailties made her very dependent upon Dad. He was her caretaker in every sense of the word. In the last few years he had taken over the shopping, cooking and cleaning and finally, over great protest, the laundry. Although it was exhausting, he seemed in many ways to revel in his role. He watched the food network, looked up recipes on the internet and became quite a good cook. As a launderer, he never quite measured up to her standards, but in all other respects she would say, "He takes good care of me."

That spring I started my weekly trips to their condo on the lake, to give Dad some time to golf or run errands without her. I'd take her shopping or to get her hair done and then out to lunch. It was good for everyone involved. Mom had softened as her dementia had advanced and she was no longer as argumentative and "prickly" as she sometimes used to be. She got winded easily and was unsteady on her feet. We all felt she was declining and tried to make the most of our time together. We had no idea how long she would be with us, but instinctively, we knew it couldn't be long.

It was on my May 10, 2011 visit that Dad admitted that his annual bout of bronchitis had sent him to the emergency room the previous weekend.

"They wanted to admit me, but I told them, "No, I am my wife's caregiver , just give me a z-pack and some cough medicine and I'll be fine in a few days"."

And then he dropped the bombshell:
"They said there was a spot on my lung that wasn't there last year at this time. It's probably nothing, but they said I should have it checked out just to make sure."

My stomach clenched. "What?"

"The doctor said there was a little spot on my left lung that wasn't there on the chest plate they did last year when I was there. I'm sure it's nothing. I'm not worried. I feel fine."

Except he wasn't fine. A day and a year later, he was gone.

Mom had gotten to the point over the past few weeks that she could no longer walk on her own. She used a wheelchair and moved from place to place only with assistance. She was much weaker, with virtually no appetite. She sat in her recliner, where my dad had sat just yesterday, her brow furrowed, lost in thought.

"Are you okay, Mom? Are you hurting anywhere?"

She softly placed her hand on her breastbone.

"Just here. I'll miss him for the rest of my life."

Her aquamarine eyes were watery. She looked away and then closed her eyes and dozed off.

Not 20 minutes later, she opened her eyes and looked around.

"Where's Jim? Has anybody seen Jim?"

Bainbridge Abbey

I never thought that in helping to care for my parents, I'd be managing a staff of dozens. Since I am, does this mean that I can wear the fabulous clothes of Countess Cora Crawley of Downton Abbey as I supervise the housekeepers, caretakers, groundskeeper, nurses and cook? It seems only fitting that I should.

When Mom (Dowager Countess) and Dad (Earl of Bainbridge) moved into their apartment at Bainbridge Abbey in February, there were certain repairs that had to be made: a malfunctioning shower head, broken refrigerator door handle, etc. There has been an intermittently balky clothes dryer (it seems that birds nest in the vent), the installation of grab-bars and temperamental wi-fi service to be dealt with. It seems that every other week there is another little item that needs repair and follow up. Paul, the groundskeeper, and I are on a first-name basis, but I am thinking this should be in Carson's realm. I'll have to speak with him about that.This week, it's the dryer again. Damn those birds! I'll have to suggest a hunt.

The rent (hefty) for the apartment is supposed to include daily bed-making, rubbish removal and weekly cleaning. So far, rubbish removal has gone very smoothly.   The art of proper bed-making has eluded the young staff members who cheerfully arrive some days of the week to perform this duty. They would most certainly benefit from some instruction by Aunts Peace and Plenty. The Earl has taken to coaching them when he feels up to it, because he is an egalitarian sort. I have demonstrated hospital corners on occasion, but really, shouldn't Mrs. Hughes be handling the day-to-day instruction of the staff?

The cleaning has been sporadic at best, so I have had to go to Mrs. Hughes' stand-in and have a few chats about both quality and quantity. Fortunately, the Dowager Countess keeps a sharp lookout and informs me when things are not up to snuff. The Earl is far too permissive to be relied upon for an accurate report of such things. He has a soft heart where the staff is concerned.

The nursing staff is mostly a dedicated set and my supervision of them involves the monitoring of symptoms and frequent adjustments in medication on behalf of the Earl and Dowager Countess. Near daily (and often more) communication is typical, so we have established a collegial relationship. Fortunately there are nurses in the family (Sybil Crawley?) to provide the necessary expertise which I lack.

Unfortunately, there has been a recent staff change in the kitchen of the Abbey. It seems that the previous cook, who produced palatable, if unexciting, meals has been succeeded by a less talented chef. Much less talented. So much so that I have had a request from the Earl to purchase a few Stouffers frozen entrees. Can you imagine? The Earl dining on frozen entrees? Unthinkable. Once again, I have had to step in where Mrs. Hughes should have been attentively handling the issue. I can only hope it improves.

There have been automotive issues requiring attention, as well. The Earl's vehicle lease concluded while he was (and remains) unable to drive, necessitating the inspection and turn-in of his Lincoln. Alas, Branson was nowhere to be found, so I had to attend to this myself. I must speak to Carson, once again!

The most troubling area of oversight has been with the caretakers. We began to utilize round the clock caretakers for the Dowager Countess when the Earl was hospitalized in early February. Once he was released from the hospital after having broken his leg, he spent three weeks in the Rehabilitation Wing of the Abbey before returning their apartment. A mere five days later, he was readmitted to the hospital with a severe case of  pneumonia. Another week's stay in the hospital was followed by ten days in the Rehabilitation Wing. The Earl has not regained his strength, so we have continued with the caretakers, around the clock.

The caretakers are to assist with meals (serving only, no preparation) and "personal care"; keep the apartment tidy (no heavy cleaning); do laundry and dishes; attend to the needs of the Dowager Countess and the Earl, and communicate any concerns or needs to me. By and large, they have been lovely women who care for the Dowager Countess and the Earl with compassion and kindness, but there have been a few exceptions.

The first troublesome caretaker was the Drinker. Every staff has one, I suppose, (Thomas Barrow?) but it simply is not acceptable to have several glasses of wine while you are caring for an elderly woman with dementia and poor balance. Completely unacceptable! Moreover, the Dowager Countess was not fond of her ("She never shuts up!"). She had to go.

Soon after, she was replaced by the Emotional Basket Case. Overbearing in every possible way, she in turns browbeat me (The Countess!) about potentially dangerous conditions such as mold in the garbage disposal (horrors!), lint in the dryer vent (shocking!) and a wobbly table leg. I actually resorted to upending the dining room table, removing and reattaching each leg in turn just to silence her. She berated Lady Sybil about calling more often and burst into tears frequently and without warning. The Dowager Countess was not positively disposed toward her, either. She had to go.

Most recently I have had to terminate the services of the Lump. She schlumped into the apartment in a cloud of stale cigarette smoke (the Earl has lung cancer!), dropped her coat and bag onto any nearby chair (has she not heard of closets?) and immediately sank into the sofa and watched television. She was utterly devoid of initiative or energy and performed no task unrequested. I arrived one afternoon to see the Dowager Countess emerging from bathroom, unclothed, having both showered and cleaned the entire bathroom whilst the Lump remained immersed in TV watching. The Lump did not even notice the arrival of  "guests" despite my loud knock at the door before entering. The Dowager Countess found her tiresome ("All she does is sit there and watch TV!"). Without question, she had to go. Hopefully her replacement will be better suited to the position.

Managing an estate like Bainbridge Abbey would not be possible without sufficient staff and good people are so hard to find. Handling the financial affairs of the estate is one responsibility I simply cannot delegate to staff, no matter how trustworthy and loyal. Merely describing the goings-on of the Abbey makes me tired! I hope O'Brien has drawn a bath for me. I simply must have a good soak.