In a few hours it will be Mother’s Day.

I feel awful.

The message came through that the care home I support was opening for an hour to allow relatives to see their mums.

Just an hour, strict hygiene, in the resident’s bedrooms.

I asked the manager to stop.

‘If one person gets Covid, many will die.’ I said.

It is almost impossible to maintain infection-control within a nursing home, particularly when caring for people who have dementia.

A man, I’ll call him, Abe, walks up and down the corridor, he touches the door and continues to walk, up and down; he paces.

Stopping him would be cruel.

He would not understand the rationale; he can’t wash his hands – they are washed for him, and, anyone who has learned recently how to properly wash theirs, will understand how difficult that must be.

And what of the possibility, the likelihood that Covid does get into the home, not tomorrow but in three weeks or a month and half the residents die. What if I am determining that one or two of the residents will never see their sons or daughters again;

Being a doctor, you get used to making difficult decisions, you weigh the facts and come to a conclusion, a plan.

Is this the right one?

The home has Wi-Fi and the staff inside have phones; I am sure something can be fixed to establish a link;

I walked past several young guys out buying flowers for their mums today.

How many of those bouquets will sit and fade without being exchanged.

It is cruel, horrible.

I read on Facebook tonight of a man whose wife is in the same home; he can’t visit her.

For people living with dementia, visitors, family and friends are often one of the few means they have to hold-on to their sense of selves; taking away the familiar and they are lost – that is why hospitalisation can be so traumatic.

I’ll stop now.

I have run-out of words.