location location location

I'm sitting at a table with Mum and two of the other more high-functioning residents. All three ladies are neatly dressed, articulate and plausible. All three look askance at the woman by the next table, still in her night-shift, which is wet and which she is asking me to feel. There is a hierarchy here - I'm sitting with the Heathers. In conversation, of course, all plausibility is quickly shattered. Each of these women is living in her own world, a world she has shored together from a heap of broken images, the shards of her life. 

Heather no.1 brings the conversation back to her favourite anecdote. In her head, she is a young girl again, living at home in a large family of older brothers with whom we must all be familiar. They are evidently just out of sight for now but will be here soon. Her story is one where she scolds one of them and he shrugs his shoulders, looking sheepish. She swells herself up to mimic him. She finds the tale hilarious. I've heard her tell it for two years now. She is always happy, firmly rooted back home in the bosom of her family.

Heather no.2 drums her fingers on the table and tolerates this story. She knows that she is an adult and that she is retired. Just retired, in fact. And she recognises where she is, worked in the same building, in a different wing. Perhaps I know it? She worked "with the infants" (hospital or school, I don't ask). She is serious, professional, rising above those around her. Just occasionally she will betray a little nervousness as to our precise location. She names first one town and then another. I reassure her that we are nearby to both. Then the tape loop begins again and she's telling me that she used to work here. At one point Heather no.1 asks her a question, calling her "Nana", and she scowls.

Mum's preference is to listen rather than tell stories. Over the years, as her dementia grew, I think she learned to stay quiet and not volunteer information which might then be queried and lead to her exposure. It's only when I open my laptop and begin showing her pictures that she perks up. We go through the usual responses to my childhood pictures (adoring) and to pictures of her Husband (completely baffled). And then I show her a video of the approach to her last residence, her retirement apartment and ask her if she remembers it. She says, "That's this place, of course." I distract her and stop the video before it becomes obvious that she is wrong. It won't do any good to correct her, and I'd rather she believe she is home, too.

Each woman at this table addresses herself to me almost exclusively. I see their need for confirmation, for me to validate their conception of the world. They can't get this from each other because their realities conflict. For Mum and Heather no.1, they are both home and that's all that matters. As the property shows keep telling us, it's all about location.

lick

"I've got a Teddy Bear in my room. I walked into the shop and there it was, looking right at me. And it was only £10, so I said 'I'm going to buy that'."

Mum's talking about the Bear I bought her for her Birthday 6 weeks ago.

We are the stories we tell ourselves. Mum is recycling herself.

It's slow work. There are pauses of over a minute in the middle of sentences where she scans the remote horizon. Sometimes she frowns, sometimes she chuckles, sometimes her expression is quite blank. On a couple of occasions I am just about to break the silence myself when she resumes.

"Do you know, I was on this train travelling to......London. And these older girls......... they pushed me off it....?"

This happened just recently, she tells me.

"And I was in hospital.......and I came around and I said to the Doctor 'they licked me' and he was very surprised...."

Mum's family moved to the UK from Cambridge, Massachusetts, when she was around 10. The "licked/hit" confusion story has been a family anecdote all my life, but I've never heard the origin of the injury before. There may be some truth in this.

However, as the morning progresses into the afternoon, it turns out that each of several different stories Mum is telling ends with the same incident, the hospital confusion over the word "lick". Gradually, Mum begins to get the punchline wrong, until it's only the words "lick" and "Doctor" that indicate she's telling the same tale.

Mum's pauses in speaking seem beyond rumination, they are like a re-buffering, a re-spooling of some tape within her head before she can go on. They remind me most strongly of the way she's been walking for months now: several steps followed by a pause where it seems she cannot recall how to make a step at all. I'm beginning to recognise it as a signature in Mum's dementia.

times are hard

Mum had some visitors today.

D just rang me to tell me that she and my Uncle spent a pleasant afternoon with Mum, taking her out to lunch at the place where we will be hosting her 80th Birthday party later this year. D said that Mum appeared well. They had asked her if she was settled and happy and she had assured them that she was, and had extolled the staff and facilities.

D said, however, that Mum was noticeably quieter than on previous encounters, and that it had been difficult to engage her in conversation. Also, Mum had seemed a good deal more confused than at their last meeting. 

For instance, Mum had announced that they were now forced to sleep two to a bed at the Home, and that the lady sharing her bed last night had rolled over and fallen to the floor.

When I heard this, I wondered whether this was Mum time-travelling back to her Depression-era childhood (Mum was born in 1928 in Boston, Massachusetts). 

D told me that she had questioned a staff member at the home and discovered that the doubling-up idea had originated with Mum's neighbour, who cannot find her way back to her bedroom in the evening and had wandered into Mum's room and exclaimed "do we have to sleep two-to-a-bed now?" The rolling out of bed incident had had happened to another resident ('screaming lady') a few weeks ago.

D told me that when she questioned Mum's version of events, Mum had become uncharacteristically angry and insisted that it had happened exactly as she had described.