It happens every Sunday on the way to visit my mum. As I cross the Thames from Chelsea to Battersea, I get a bout of mid-bridge queasiness, wondering whether her face will light up at the sight of me, or whether she will have a distant look in her eyes, busily fretting about something that happened over thirty years ago.
Early onset Alzheimer’s. I remember my bewilderment when the doctor first broached the subject. In my mind the word dementia was reserved for the elderly and frail. The same term couldn’t possibly apply to my sharp-as-a-tack, Pilates-trim mama. She was in her mid-fifties when they diagnosed her – all the memory loss, disorientation and anxiety, now available for under sixty-fives. I was shocked to hear that people as young as thirty could get it. By their standard she was lucky but three years on I still can’t wrap my head around it – she’s the same age as Lisa Kudrow and younger than Jane Leeves aka Daphne from Frasier. That’s her favourite sitcom and the first thing I put in the DVD player when she is in her worried, searching phases. I’ve grown rather fond of it myself – the perfect blend of wit and farce. Plus, when my mother laughs everything is all right with the world. Everything.
The high I get from her being her ‘normal self’ can get me in trouble because I start telling myself that it’s going to be all right – that the diagnosis was wrong and that she’s coming back to me for good. But when the ‘muddle’ takes over, despite being physically healthy, she can’t be left alone – too many times she’s wandered out into the night, which is just terrifying. Hence the nursing home.
I am still trying to come to terms with it, attempting to accept the new normal. But it’s hard to make peace with something so maddening, so cruel. I wish there was some court I could complain to, that she has been swindled out of the last twenty or thirty years of her life. Selfishly I’d also want to protest feeling like another person has infiltrated our mother–daughter bond. I want to have nothing but compassion for the person she morphs into but my heart sinks and the loneliness I feel in those moments makes my whole body wilt with sadness. It’s like getting a preview of how it will feel when she’s gone for good, while she’s still standing in front of me.
Still, whatever state she’s in, she’ll love these flowers from Gareth. She’s always had a soft spot for him and he’s at his most chatty in her presence. Conversely, Jay becomes his most quiet – his favourite thing is to curl up beside her like he’s a cat and have her smooth his hair, offering him the motherly comfort he lost too young. Personally, I could do with a little motherly advice today. Then again, my mum doesn’t exactly have a broad spectrum of romantic experience to draw from – since the age of twenty her world revolved around the man that would become my father. He’s long gone now – a swift and unceremonious bolt when I was seven – but my mum often returns in her mind to the days prior.
‘Where’s your father?’ she asks me on her bad days. ‘He should be back by now . . .’
This mental time travel is something of a theme at the nursing home. Jean in the room next door is always wandering around looking for her boys, age five and seven. She’s eighty now but that’s the pre-trauma place her mind takes her to when the sun goes down. I suppose we’re all searching for that feeling of being reunited with a source of love.
Here she is now – jabbing at the ceiling panels with her walking stick when I arrive.
‘They’re up in the loft playing again,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve got their tea on and it’s all going to spoil.’
‘Oh, they’ll be back down soon enough,’ I say. ‘You know they love your bread and butter pudding.’
‘Well, I know but—’
‘Come on, Jean,’ nurse Lidia steps in. ‘Shall we have a nice cuppa while we wait for them?’
She heaves a resigned sigh. ‘All right. But they are naughty, they know they should be down by now.’
Lidia eyes the bouquet I’m carrying. ‘Did you catch that at the wedding?’
‘No!’ I laugh as I walk alongside them. ‘Gareth put them together for Mum.’
‘He does have a gift. My friend just ordered a rainbow arrangement from him and was so impressed. So, how was it?’
‘Eventful,’ I reply, glancing at Jean. ‘I’ll have to tell you later, drop by Mum’s room if you can?’
‘I will,’ Lidia confirms as she prepares to take a left as I head right. ‘Come on, Jean, let’s get that kettle on.’
‘Lidia?’
‘Yes?’ She turns back.
‘How’s she doing?’ I feel compelled to ask, though I’m always a little afraid to hear the answer.
‘Good today,’ she assures me.
‘Really?’ I smile.
She nods and my chest inflates with gratitude.
I always feel better for seeing Lidia. Eternally patient, she manages to flit between the residents making each one feel like her main squeeze. A few were thrown initially by her peroxide crop and tongue piercing but then they looked into her clear, trustworthy eyes and felt instantly soothed. She never tires of their chatter and my mum has even adopted some of her native Polish sayings, so now instead of ‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ she says, ‘Don’t call a wolf out of the woods.’ There’s also something to do with gingerbread and windmills that I can never quite remember.
Personally, I’m most grateful for Lidia’s dementia insights. In the beginning I used to get so upset by how quickly my mum would forget that I had visited her, but Lidia assured me that the positive feelings from our time together would linger way longer than the memory itself. She even gave me a little card with a Maya Angelou quote: ‘People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’
It’s comforting and true. I mean, when you think of your friends you don’t have a transcript in your brain of every single thing you ever said to each other, but you do know whether you get an ‘Ooh, she’s just the best!’ feeling versus a sense of irritation or wariness. And you never forget someone being kind to you when you were blue.
Early on Lidia told me that I’m allowed to feel impatient or exasperated sometimes – because that’s just human. You know logically they’re not behaving this way on purpose but sometimes it’s wearing, sometimes you won’t be in the mood to answer the same question ten times in a row. Just like a mum would get annoyed being asked ‘Are we there yet?’ by a six-year-old on a car ride, so a thirty-something daughter can get annoyed by being asked where her father is over and over again. Especially when she’d rather not think about him at all.
Lidia has also taught me the value of a manicure. Sometimes conversation can be a little awkward or faltering and I can’t bear to see my mother berating herself, thinking, I should know this! Why can’t I answer this simple question? So we put on some nice music and set up a mini salon with a bowl of soapy warm water, cuticle remover, nail files and an ever-expanding range of nail polishes. Picking out a new one gives me a whole new sense of purpose at Boots, plus I get to hold her hand without feeling the need to squeeze too tight and plead, ‘Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me!’ Instead, I’m able to say, ‘Ballet Slipper Pink or Scarlett Woman?’
I take a breath as I come to her door. It’s open but I give a little knock out of courtesy.
‘Amy!’
‘Mum!’ I cheer.
It’s her! She’s here!
‘You sound surprised to see me – who were you expecting?’
I don’t know quite how to answer that so just move in for a hug.
‘Oh darling, you don’t look well . . .’
‘It’s just hangover dishevelment,’ I explain. ‘From Charlotte’s wedding . . .’
I quickly take out my phone to show her a photo so she doesn’t have to struggle to picture my friends.
‘Look how smart Gareth looks in his suit – these are from him, by the way.’ I hand her the flowers.
‘Ooh, lovely!’ She buries her nose in the silky petals as she continues to look at the pictures. ‘He does look handsome. But what’s that on his knees?’
‘Funny you should ask . . .’ And so, as she places the flowers in a vase, I begin telling her all about how he saved me from falling, the beautiful hair vines he created, the tangle with Charlotte’s hair, the ceremony . . .
‘Is that your phone?’
I frown. I hear the ringing too but the tone isn’t familiar.
‘I think it’s coming from your bag.’
I rummage through. ‘Ahh! It’s Gareth’s phone!’ The number hasn’t been assigned a name – it could be him calling from the airport. ‘Hello?’ I blurt eagerly.
‘Oh!’ the female voice falters. ‘Sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong number, I was trying to reach Gareth?’
‘Yes, yes, this is his phone. Is that—’
‘Peony,’ she states.
‘Peony!’ I cheer. ‘It’s Amy! From the wedding!’
‘Oh.’ She sounds dismayed.
‘I’ve just got Gareth’s phone because he left it behind and now he’s driving Charlotte and Marcus to the airport. He’ll have it back tonight. Shall I let him know you called?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll send him a text. Do you know roughly what time . . .?’
‘Around six p.m.?’ I estimate.
‘Okay. Thank you.’
‘No, thank you! Thank you for calling him.’
So. All is not lost there. That’s something.
‘Where were we?’ I huddle up.
‘Have I missed the photos?’ We look up to see Lidia peeking around the door.
‘No, come on in,’ I smile.
‘Show her the one with you all lined up.’ Mum taps my arm.
‘Oh, I love it!’ Lidia coos, using her fingers to zoom in on the faces. ‘You want me to print it out for your wall, Sophie?’
‘You’re so sweet, yes please!’
I swiftly text it to Lidia, as we do from time to time. My mum takes a shine to the strangest pictures. She’s got a whole bunch of my co-worker Becky’s Jack Russell because he has the same wiry coat and tan eye patches as Eddie from Frasier. She never tires of hearing how the real-life dog ended up with dementia but spent his retirement living with the Brussels Griffon who played Jack Nicholson’s dog in As Good As It Gets. You know these celebrity couples . . .
But back to my coupling situation. I am about to begin with ‘It’s a tale of three kisses . . . ’, as if reading from a book I dusted off from the attic, but Lidia throws in a new tangent.
‘You should invite your friends to our fancy dress party. It’s been a while since they’ve been in as a group.’
‘When is it?’ I ask.
‘Three weeks from now. We just decided last night. We’re asking people to dress as their favourite sitcom character.’
‘Really?’ I like the sound of that. Though I suspect there will be an inordinate number of Golden Girls, with even the sharp-as-a-tack Dorothys experiencing rambling Rose moments.
‘Guests are encouraged,’ Lidia continues. ‘We want to try and get everyone up dancing and it helps if at least one half of the partnership is stable on their feet.’
As Lidia and my mum start casting the residents – flirty Nyreen as Dorian from Birds of a Feather, well-meaning Morris as Baldrick from Blackadder – I consider who my date might be. The waiter is lanky enough to be Basil Fawlty but would a moustache and cravat project Fawlty Towers when he’s so chilled and smiley? What if I came with Tristan? Hmm, I can’t say a nursing home would really be his scene.
Suddenly I get a weird, disorientating feeling, like a memory is trying to force through a sheet of rubber. I can’t make out the details but I feel like he’s here, at the nursing home.
I walk to the window and try to catch my breath.
‘What do you think?’ Lidia asks me.
‘What’s that?’ I’m still trying to bring the memory into focus but already it’s dissipating.
‘I was just saying I could go to the army surplus shop and kit out all the old fellas as the cast of Dad’s Army?’
‘Oh, they would love it!’ I reply.
‘I’m going to go and get some measurements now!’
‘Better have your slapping hand ready!’ I call after Lidia, knowing she’s going to make several chaps’ night.
And then I pull my chair closer to my mum and cut to the chase. ‘Mum. I’ve got news. It’s happened, I kissed The One!’
Her eyes widen. ‘What?’
‘It’s true! I felt this amazing flood of contentment and joy, like I couldn’t believe my luck. And I got the sense that we were old in the premonition, so I think it’s for life.’
‘Oh darling.’ She takes my hand in hers, her eyes glossing with tears. ‘Then it is real.’
I nod back at her. ‘After all these years of disappointment, I can’t believe it!’
‘I don’t know what to say . . . except, who is he?’
‘Well, funny you should ask!’ I take a breath. ‘It happened at the wedding so there are actually three candidates: a waiter, a man called Tristan who works with Marcus and, well, I don’t know the identity of the third man but I’m working on it.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘My biggest concern is making the wrong choice.’
‘Maybe I can help – my mum always said she knew I was meant to be with Pete.’
‘Pete? Who’s Pete?’
‘It doesn’t matter now. I didn’t choose him, I chose your father.’
‘I didn’t realise there was an alternative . . .’
‘Well, I don’t like to dwell on that.’
‘But—’
‘Could you bring them here, so I can meet them?’
‘The three guys?’
‘Yes, bring them to the fancy dress party!’
‘All of them, at the same time?’ I baulk.
‘You’re right, it’s too much. At least bring one?’
Considering I don’t actually have any contact info for the waiter and I still don’t know who number three is, I guess Tristan is now the prime candidate. Which would also tally with my flash-forward to him being here.
Suddenly I feel really nervous. What if my mum and I favour a different man? Would I go with her judgement or mine?
‘Whatever choice you make, I’ll support it.’ My mum reads my mind. ‘I just want you to be happy.’
‘Thanks, Mum. It means a lot.’
‘You know I’ll always be here for you.’
My heart sinks. If only that were true.
‘Ah, there’s the love of my life!’ A male voice interrupts our flow. It’s Scottish Malcolm, burly, bewhiskered and clearly the jealous type. ‘Who gave you those flowers, Sophie? Was it Derek? I can’t believe it. I’ve made it quite clear you’re mine.’
‘She’s not yours, Malcolm.’
‘They’re from Jimmy, of course,’ my mum scolds. ‘He’ll be back soon and he’ll fly into such a rage if he finds you here.’
‘Jimmy?’ Malcolm frowns.
‘My husband!’ my mum announces.
‘But—’
‘Come on, Malcolm. Today’s not the day.’ I walk towards him. ‘And next time, try putting on some trousers. Oh god, and underwear!’ I blanche as his shirt rises.
I make sure he’s puttering in the right direction down the corridor then turn back to my mother.
She’s staring out the window. ‘He should’ve been back by now. I always worry so much when he’s late. Anything could have happened to him.’
I try not to be too disappointed. I’ve had a good innings with her today and she’s given me a lot of food for thought. I just can’t bear that she returns to this anxiety-ridden state. Though it must be so familiar – every day of her married life thinking this could be the day he leaves. I do remember her crying a lot when I was young. Or not so much the crying itself because she tried to hide that from me, but the puffy, pink eyes the following day.
My heart feels heavy again.
‘Mum?’
‘Oh, hello, dear. When did you get here? Did you see the flowers your father bought me?’
I sigh. ‘Yes, they’re beautiful. He obviously loves you very much.’
‘He does. He would never leave me.’
For a second I stand motionless. But then I jolt myself into a faux-cheery state, asking, ‘Do you want to watch an episode of Frasier?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Here, I’ll just put it on.’
As I reach for the remote control I go to remind her where we left Niles and Daphne’s romance, but of course, it’s all by the by.
Within minutes, she’s absorbed and chuckling. I’m glad for the distraction myself and titter along. We continue to click ‘play next episode’ until the dinner gong rings.
‘Right! I’ll leave you to it, I’m off to return Gareth’s phone.’ I bend down to kiss her. ‘I love you, Mum.’ I press her close, layering the sensation of her warmth and affection atop all the love that has gone before.
‘I love you too, darling,’ she whispers into my hair. ‘To the moon and back.’
‘To the moon and back,’ I echo.
My eyes well up as I leave. I hold it together long enough to wave to Lidia, who is helping Malcolm to the dining room, now sporting a kilt. That man obviously wanted to feel a breeze in his nether regions today.
There’s no one around as I step back onto the street so I let my tears stream unchecked. I’ve learned to just ride out these swells of emotion – to let it all out, even though I sometimes fear the pain might engulf me – and then wait for a sense of calm to return.
By the time I reach the top of Gareth’s road my face is wiped clean. I just hope his face is now angst-free. It must have been such a shock hearing about Freya’s wedding. As for his poor lip, I feel so bad about assaulting him. I must think of a nice way to make it up to him.
Like maybe buying the flat next door . . .
