It’s hard to know how much attention Don is paying, especially when he so often lies there with his eyes closed.  Sometimes I think he has gone to sleep but if I get up leave very quietly, he is as likely as not to open his eyes and say in astonishment, “Are you leaving?  Why?”

He has been keen for me to read David’s book “The Secret Code-Breakers of Central Bureau” but I know he finds it hard to follow the thread of anything for more than a few minutes, so when he closes his eyes I keep on reading, but thinking it is only for my own benefit.

So I was very surprised when I picked up the book today and started riffling through a few pages, he said, What about that woman who was the electrical engineer?  It was a chapter I had read last week, and is probably my favourite chapter in the whole book.  The chapter is called “Mrs Mac and her Girls in Green” and it tells of Florence Violet Mackenzie in Sydney who taught herself electrical wiring from books, wanted to become an electrical engineer but in an era when girls were not given apprenticeships this was not possible, got around the rules by opening her own business and apprenticing herself, then later realised a knowledge of Morse code would be helpful for the war effort and single-handedly set up a training facility for girls, which became highly regarded.

That potted summary doesn’t do justice either to the chapter, or to the woman who should be a household word.  But it was wonderful that Don had understood enough to be impressed, and even more remarkable that he remembered it five days later.

Our son’s second book has just been published.  Hopefully it will become a runaway best seller!!

Most people have heard of Britain’s code-breaking centre, Bletchley Park, and the enigma machine etc, but our David has written about the equally important but little-known code-breaking team that operated in Australia. His book “The Secret Code-Breakers of Central Bureau” was launched a couple of weeks ago, at the Australian War Memorial, with some top bods from intelligence and defence in attendance and speaking.

codebreaker book

Also some of those original code-breakers from the Second World War, now in their 90’s, travelled to Canberra for the occasion!  This is a photo of one of them, Gordon Gibson, chatting with one of Australia’s most senior intelligence chiefs, Steve Meekin, who was keynote speaker at the launch.


Being parents of the author, Don and I of course have a courtesy copy.  I confess I am not particularly interested in reading books about the war, or code-breaking, but I found the book completely absorbing and easily readable, and finished it in a week.

I keep a copy in Don’s room at the nursing home and read him a chapter every now and then.  The book follows a chronological thread but each chapter is more or less stand-alone, and it’s full of stories and human interest, so I just dip at random into a chapter that looks interesting, and that seems to work.  Despite Don’s difficulty with cognitive function, he is taking in quite a bit.

Nice that David’s son was there at the launch, whether he realised the enormity of the occasion or not.  I was there too.

Barb at launch

Most poignant thing, though, is the dedication.  Don became quite emotional when I read it out and showed him the page.

“To my parents, Don and Barb Dufty”
Feels pretty good to have a book dedicated to us.

I don’t think of myself as old, but things seem to be breaking down all over the place.  Having had the lump removed, apparently very successfully thank God! – I am now informed by the doctor that I need some follow-up procedures from other things that had question marks a year or two ago and although everything came up clear and normal it’s time to check again.  Hence a thyroid scan (the nodes still a bit funny but basically OK), a repeat colonoscopy planned for a couple of months (all clear last time but a polyp in a funny place they could not reach or identify) and most urgently, a bone person to look at my hips because I am not so mobile as I was.

Added to this, Don himself has had a problem with “pressure sores” which at one time became bit infected and now there is some scarring and outgrowths that need to be removed.  This of course is more major than anything I am undergoing, simply because of the transport factor and the planning required.  And his condition and being bed-ridden for so many years makes any operation more fraught than it would be for anyone else.  Arranging a consultation with the anaesthetist has been a frustrating exercise over the past weeks and we still don’t have a date scheduled.  Once that happens, they will arrange a date for the procedure itself, which will involve a hospital stay.

I have always believed the most boring conversations anyone can have are descriptions of medical problems and procedures.  Sorry about that.

flower show

Flowers and cards, and people offering to drive me places – feeling very loved.

And the follow up appointment tells me that everything is clear and nothing to worry about.  I feel very relieved and grateful.

The screening mammogram that they do every two years picked up a small lump.  Emphasis on “small”, and they seemed confident that it was also caught early and everything seemed optimistic etc etc.

Don’s greatest fear has always been that something will happen to me.  So at first I thought I would not even tell him, in fact in the first confused feelings I thought it would be hard to tell anyone at all.  But of course that was ridiculous, and within a day or two I decided to be completely open about it and tell anyone, and of course Don above all people deserved to know.

In the end I just told him very matter-of-factly that I had a small lump and they were going to cut it out and it might take a few days away but then it would all be back to normal.  He accepted the whole thing without fuss and in fact I thought he might not even remember.  I was wrong, and as the days go on he seems to be getting more anxious about it rather than less.

That was over a week ago, and I think it is weighing on his mind even more now that I have had the surgery.  Every day he asks about it, and then might ask the same question again, just half an hour later, and then again later before I leave.  Hard to know how to reassure him.  I guess after the follow-up consultation when we know for sure what is happening, it will be easier.

Not Being Missed

Apparently Rachael was on duty yesterday so I asked how Don got on without me being there.  She said firmly, “Barbara, he didn’t ask for you once.  Not once.”  I was so pleased not to be missed.

As she walked away, Rachael looked back and said, “You should do it more often.”

Any time I’ve been away in the past, has been for a big reason eg going to spend a couple of days with our son, and it is talked about and prepared for well in advance.  A big deal.  Now I’m thinking we can change that, so it isn’t a big deal any more.

A Day of Chores

I sometimes think how nice it would be to just stay home for a day and not go anywhere.  So today I did just that.  We had a busy day yesterday at the nursing home and I guessed he would be fairly tired and sleeping quite a lot, so it seemed a good time to stay away.

What did I do instead?  Chores.  Boring stuff, the sort of jobs everybody puts off.  Guess what, I loved every minute.

I changed the beds, put on a load of washing.  Cleaned and sorted a couple of shelves in the pantry.  Then decided to sort one single shelf from the photo/memorabilia cupboard.

Feeling virtuous enough at this point to sit down with a cup of tea and do the crossword, right about the time I normally go jump in the car and go to Bayside.

The weather was beautiful so I decided on some outside chores.   Cleaned a window.  Then I had a lovely time washing the car, re-potting some bromeliads, nurturing my marigold seedlings, hosing the courtyard.


Nothing on telly so I had afternoon tea and read my latest, “What Alice Forgot” by Liane Moriarty.

All day I didn’t leave my house and all day I didn’t get in the car to go anywhere!  It was such a treat.  A truly lovely day.

I’m hoping Don has not been plaguing the nurses all day with “Where’s Barb?  Where’s Barb!!!”  I’ll find out tomorrow.

Nobody Talks to Me

When I’m sitting beside Don’s bed he usually drifts in and out of sleep, sometimes has to be woken up for his meals, might ask what’s on the news but then shuts his eyes within a couple of moments when you try to tell him.

On Sunday I was sitting beside the bed half watching the TV and half skimming the newspaper.  He seemed asleep.  Then, without moving and without opening his eyes, he muttered, Nobody talks to me.

What do you mean, nobody talks to you?  I asked.  Don’t the nurses ever talk to you, is that what you mean?

He was motionless for quite a while, with his eyes still shut, and I thought he had gone back to sleep when eventually he said, You don’t talk to me.

I realised he was right.  I said, No, I haven’t been talking to you, you’re quite right.  I sit here and do the Sudoku or watch the news or read the paper, and I don’t talk to you.  He gave a tiny nod, so I added, So will I tell you about church this morning?  He nodded again.

He kept his eyes shut but I told him things such as, that the sermon had been fairly pedestrian even though it was on doubting Thomas, that there had been a couple of children there as visitors who took great pleasure having the job of collecting everybody’s cups after morning tea and in fact had been standing hovering and pressuring people into swigging the last dregs so they could rush off to the kitchen with the cups, that there had been one hymn nobody knew and one that I thought was a dirge and some very good ones, and that Shirley and Joy had asked after him.

He didn’t respond in any way, so after a while I said, So what do you think about everything I told you about church this morning?

After a long pause, eyes still shut, he said, I didn’t hear a word.

All the same, it was very cheering to me that he wants a conversation and wants people to talk to him.

Since I bought a deluxe wheelchair for our outings, staff have been putting him into that whenever they get him up and take him to the common room.


But that chair is really only for outings away from the nursing home.  It fits into the back of the taxi – just! – and is bearable for a couple of hours but it is made primarily for convenience, not comfort.

I have protested many times to staff that this chair is not suitable for getting him up regularly in the home, and they need to be finding something better – not sure what you call it, different names such as a tub chair / air bed / pressure relief chair – for him, when he is not leaving the building.  They would go all vague and tell me that those are not supplied by the home but are the personal property of other residents who may no longer be using them, or who may have indicated that they can be used by anyone.  And apparently nobody is sure which ones might be the right size for Don.

In the end, I decided Don’s comfort is more important than arguing about who should provide what, so I got him a new chair.

New chair

It has transformed the days he gets out of bed.  Instead of pleading to be put back to bed after a couple of hours, he is quite happy to stay in the chair all day without complaint.  It’s as good as being in bed, as you can see.

All the same, I don’t think something this important should be left up to whether the resident or the family can fork out the necessary $4000.  It should be a normal provision by the facility.

Here we are almost halfway through January and I am still getting myself organised for the year.

Christmas went well at the nursing home.  They used to provide Christmas lunch for carers and visitors, provided you put your name on the list well in advance, and there was a wonderful feast of ham and turkey and mountains of food, and Christmas pudding and pavlovas and a whole smorgasbord of goodies.  However, as sometimes happens, people make a welter out of a good thing, and so they had people turning up who had not notified beforehand, including family groups of up to 16!  Consequently the last time they did it this way, they not only ran out of food but also places at the tables.  This was three years ago, and it was a year we could not get Don home for Christmas Day as we usually did, and we were some of those who ended up having to sit in our own room with a last-minute sandwich rustled up by the kitchen staff.

Now they have a firm policy of no extra meals on Christmas Day, but they put on a big shindig a couple of days beforehand, on a come-one-come-all basis.  They have an afternoon with entertainment, Santa, a marquee in the grounds with extra seating, and staff serving lemonade and finger food until everyone is practically waddling.


It went on for a couple of hours and I thought Don would be asking to taken back to his room as he normally does but this time he wanted to stay until the end.  It was really well done and very enjoyable and the singer was excellent and got everyone involved.

You can see his hair needed cutting and in fact that did happen just the week after Christmas when he finally said it was too long.  Up until then they had been trying to insist on getting him to the hairdresser but he was rather stubborn and said he wanted to grow his hair long.  They wanted me to agree to an appointment and I just said, If he wants to grow his hair long what is the harm in that —  it’s his decision.

This question of empowerment versus disempowerment comes out in so many small ways.

Don at Christmas