Yesterday, I took my dad to vote.
So what, you say. But my dad has Alzheimers and, had I not told him about it, he would not have even registered that there was an election let alone that he could choose to vote in it. In fact, had I not made the effort when he first moved into a residential nursing home near me, he would not even appear on the electoral register here.
Me and my family are used to doing things for my dad. I receive and act on most of his mail and my sisters manage his finances and the rental of the house he used to live in. Someone else buys and prepares his food, puts out clean clothes, and shows him how to use the CD player. Someone else does his washing and makes his bed. Someone else gives him any medication he needs and takes him to appointments.
As one of dad’s Lasting Power of Attorneys I am also used to being involved in decision-making in dad’s best interests. He still has plenty of gumption and is well able to make his voice heard, he simply does not always understand the consequences of a particular course of action or have the awareness of what is possible in the first place.
So, dad has choices that we present to him and help him to put into practice, but those choices are totally dependent on us deciding to offer them to him in the first place. This is a big responsibility. It is especially a big responsibility when dad’s level of understanding and mental capacity is in question. It is an even bigger responsibility when, if I offer him the chance to vote, I know he will select the completely opposite political colour to myself in a potentially marginal seat!
I think you will have gathered by now that I am someone who takes my responsibilities seriously. I know that dad is a proud man who likes to do his civic duty. When I told him there was an election and asked if he’d like me to take him to vote his response was an immediate ‘yes’. He may not remember that I had telephoned him 20 minutes before when he said he would like to join me for my trip to the garden centre coffee shop and that he would be ready to go – he was sat in the lounge with a newly brewed pot of coffee when I arrived and insisted on drinking the whole pot before we set off – but he absolutely remembers which political party he has always voted for.
I thought about how much I should take into account dad’s understanding – or lack of it – of politics and the consequences of voting. So, for both this election and the local council elections before, I spent some time talking to him about his choices and what the different parties offered. We talked about the very different party politics in the area of South West London where I grew up, and his memories of voting in the past. He couldn’t remember the names of all the parties, but he knew the one he wanted to give his vote to.
So, with a slightly guilty conscience, I set off with dad for the polling station. My conscience was guilty for two reasons: firstly for the party I supported who were in a close two-horse race with the party dad wanted to vote for, and secondly because I even considered my own views at all when helping dad to exercise his right as a citizen. Why, just because he has dementia, should we write off every aspect of his life and understanding? How easy it would be to abuse the power I had and not to take him to vote at all. If I had wanted to, how easy it would have been to put the ‘X’ in the wrong box (dad is partially-sighted and cannot read the ballot paper or see to fill it in).
So, there I am, dad on my arm, completing forms to show that I have helped someone to vote, reading out to dad the list of candidates and who they represent, and carefully marking his choice on his behalf. I give him the folded ballot paper and guide his hand to the slot to post it in the box. We walk out into the sunshine and he says: ‘Thank you for helping me to vote.’ I feel like a million dollars.
Last night, half-asleep on the sofa in the wee small hours as the results came in, I held my breath as Broxtowe was declared. Dad’s candidate won, with a much reduced majority. I was gutted because I felt that we had a real chance of change here. My only consolation was that we were not the constituency that was returned with a 2 vote majority. That, and helping dad to exercise our hard-won democratic right to determine the kind of government we have.
Nine nutty hours of gardening on behalf of my tenant – scratches, mud, and melting muscles!
That Hung Parliament. Just not quite hung enough…
Isla the dog voted to go for a walk instead…
© Anne de Gruchy