Giving up your youth for this?

My father is 89. He is frail after suffering a stroke three years ago and is prone to urinary tract infections. He lives with us but receives quite a good care package because my husband and I work erratically – often being based at home but also often being away from home for a few days on end. Dad is pretty with it – he keeps a calendar to record what is going on every day, and if it weren’t for him, we’d always forget to put the dustbins out in time. In fact, the first sign that there’s something wrong is often that he does become confused. He does sleep a lot. But he is continent and with the care package, we can cope with him at home and shall continue to do so unless he deteriorates.
It’s no less than he deserves. He was called up just after his 21st birthday in September 1939 and was then a conscript for seven years. This happened just before he was about to sit his final exams at the Rylands Art School. This would have admitted him to the Royal Academy, given him a degree-equivalent qualification and given him the right to teach art in either a normal school or one of the Art Schools. He just about stayed out of most of the action in the war – his art skills meant he was good at drawing maps, and they preserved him for that. He went over to Normandy three days after D-Day. Most of his work then involved clearing up the debris – including clearing out Bergen Belsen. He never talks about it. But it was clear that it affected him quite badly. He wouldn’t go back to art after he was demobbed. Not for a long time.
He lives a genteel life now. He cannot cook for himself. We cook for him at weekends and holidays and make especial arrangements when we can’t be there. On ordinary days, he gets Meals on Wheels. They’re not bad. They’re better than hospital food and it’s a well-meaning service. It gets quite complex on the days when we’re not there and neither is the Meals on Wheels service. He usually pays by cheque each Monday. His bank still accepts his cheques in his rather scrawly hand-writing. However, he often spoils cheques and sometimes posts them and forgets to put the stamp on the envelop. So, the trigger cheque does not kick in and he does not get a new cheque book.
The local council send him an invoice. It seems to be for a period when he was in hospital. I try to phone to find out. When I do eventually get through, I’m told they can only discuss that bill with him.
“Good luck,” I say.
With a state of the art hearing aid, all cleaned up and with a brand new battery, my father has the quarter of normal hearing in one ear. His eyesight is not too good either. He is bright, but modern systems defeat him. They defeat me and I’m only 56 – and I have three degrees, all of them language related. I’ve taught communication skills for over twenty years. Obviously, my colleagues and I did a bad job.
So, they send him a nasty letter, outlining ways of paying, but also saying in what would be a hoity-toity voice if it were spoken, that the bill will not be considered to be paid until the cheque has cleared. I have to read the thing three or four times before even I understand how to pay. Couldn’t a gentler approach be taken with someone who gave up so much so that we don’t live under a Nazi regime?
I hear you murmur “power of attorney”. Really? Take away that last little bit of independence? I wouldn’t dare.
We went to Barclays Bank today, the Hedge End branch. They know him and me there. And cheers to Gemma who managed to assure him that a new cheque book was on the way. They also made it possible for me to be a third party who can deal with his affairs if need be. That is a good arrangement. This tends to be the exception rather than the rule, though.
But please, can we treat out World War II veterans with a little more dignity?