The Flamingo Diaries
Y ou’reliving under house arrest!’ emailed a friend when she heard I was so fearful of being attacked in the house I was staying in that I never unlocked the patio door unless I had a visitor with me. The three-day long power cut I’d told her about probably added to her concern. Her words made me realise just how trapped I felt.
I’d come to South Africa six weeks earlier to visit my ailing father and found myself acting as caregiver, cook and carer-supervisor as I fought to keep him in his own home despite his dementia diagnosis. I’d heard stories of how people in care homes were locked up for 23 hours a day, and worried understaffing would mean my dad wouldn’t be able to go for his daily walk. My mind was made up: I’d stay in South Africa and use the caring skills I’d honed when my husband was dying to make sure my father lived life to the full, in his own home, until his last breath.
But I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle everything myself, so in addition to his long-time carer, we hired three agency carers to offer my dad 24/7 support. As each new carer arrived, I’d sit with them for hours, going through their duties. It was soon apparent that two of his (now) four carers were loving, attentive and had a great sense of humour. But the others made mistakes I found horrifying. One gave my dad half of his recommended fluid intake and left him in the same clothes for two days and a night. The other put him to bed in urine-soaked socks, administered his after-dinner pills after breakfast and claimed the big bruise on his cheek was the result of a mosquito bite and not a fall.
Not surprisingly, coping with this constant stress took a huge toll and I began to experience severe chest pains at all hours. I sensed that now, more than ever before, running would be my salvation.
I was told that the risk of vi
