by Sonia Beldom | Mar 28, 2025 | memory loss, mothers and daughters, podcasts about moms, podcasts about mums
Mother’s Day is just around the corner and I’ll be avoiding the expensive Sunday lunch tables, inflated prices for flowers and pink cards. Tony and I will probably take my step mum out for a drive and fish and chips (her favourite) and it will be a huge surprise for her as her memory is very bad now. But the good thing is that every visit, phone call or delivery brings her immense joy as she isn’t expecting it (even though we’ll have planned it and phoned to remind her countless times). My gorgeous sister will hopefully be taken somewhere lovely by her two grown-up sons and I’ll be thinking about my mum Margaret as I do every day.My mum Margaret decided one year that she wanted 99 red balloons on Mother’s Day as it was her favourite pop song. If you can remember back to 1984 it was top of the UK charts for Nena. I was sitting in her living room, in fits of laughter when she told me about the balloons, imagining her being raised up into the cloud whilst hanging on to a huge bunch of them. And while I was laughing she joined in and soon it was a loud mess of crinkled faces, tears, aching diaphragms and whimpers of “Stop, no more, no seriously STOP!” Do you know what? I reckon she’d have loved it and would have found a way of getting down unscathed. She was a genius at creating impossible situations and working her way out of them.
We were lucky to live across from a park in Hendon in a tumbledown house which she’d inherited from an old man called Stanley. I had a flat on the top floor and Mum lived on the ground floor. The old chap was someone Mum had befriended while she was working down the road. An old friend had asked her if she could help him out a day a week and it all went from there. She moved in to be his full-time carer and nursed him through his illnesses (he was 92 when Mum moved in) and despite many offers of marriage, Mum refused him politely and carried on. He invited me to live in the house too as I was about to start my first job at the BBC and he thought it would be nice for me to have a bit of independence and start paying bills from the get-go. When he passed, Mum found out that he hadn’t actually left her a “bit of cash” as he’d mentioned, but the whole house which, at the time was costing £290 a month in rates alone. It was in this old place that I heard a spooky noise coming from the ground floor. Upon investigation I saw Mum lying on the sofa with a cassette player under a cushion, playing Nena’s “99 Red Ballons”. The volume was turned up and i asked her why she wasn’t just playing it like normal people do. Her reply was that under the cushion it sounded like it was in a room somewhere else, muffled by people having a party. And it made her feel part of something fun going on somewhere else. I remember feeling sad in that moment as it felt like a lonely thing to say, although she never said she was. This “feeling part of something going on somewhere else” was a normal thing for her. She’d organise parties for me and my brother, get everyone there and then disappear, leaving us to organise our own party from then on. I took these skills into adult life as I was used to arranging parties, functions, outside broadcasts etc. at breakneck speed as it was in my DNA.
I’ve often wondered what drew her to Nena’s song – was it something in the lyric that intrigued her?
“You and I in a little toy shop, buy a bag of balloons with the money we’ve got, set them free at the break of dawn, ’til one by one they were gone.”
Now I’ve just Googled the words I can see it. She had very little money, we did often buy balloons to blow up and bounce around and then the letting free which was something my Mum was always doing. Getting herself out of situations, running away, disappearing. She always said she only loved the song as there were red things in it (and she was the stereotypical redhead), but I wonder if the deeper words resonated with her without her really understanding why.
It’s a year now since I started the MUMBELIEVABLE podcast in Mum’s honour and I’m working on series 2 with a few more famous faces letting us glimpse into their lives through the prism of how their mums have influenced them. I was hoping to get a few in the bag in time for Mother’s Day this year, but there are a couple of people who can only do recordings in April and May, so series 2 will float into the world in the Summer. If you can’t find an individual unique present for your mum, why not get her a red balloon and see her reaction to the idea that a bunch of 99 of them could make her float up into the sky? Maybe there will be a few more houses with daughters laughing mumcontrollably with their children.
by Sonia Beldom | Dec 11, 2024 | memory loss, mothers and daughters, podcasts about moms, podcasts about mums, Uncategorized
Don’t make me laugh. No, seriously don’t. 48 hours after surgery I’m trying to keep my life as boring as possible. Tricky in this household with my wonderfully comedic husband. And it’s a rare moment when HE says “don’t make me laugh” as he’s been coughing so much his ribs are aching. *Don’t mention coffin – oops*.
I’m just home after the same operation my beloved mum had after my brother was born and now I know how she felt. She said she’d had her tubes tied off so no more babies could come. It was another confusing story for an already confused child when it came to reproduction stories. I’d just got my head round the fact that Mum was fibbing when she said that ladies had babies when the man gave her some milk (listen to the Mumbelievable podcast with David Baddiel for more on that). Now, babies were delivered by underground? And how was I going to go and see Nan and Pop if the tubes were tied off? Perhaps they would only be tied off for a little while, as there were always strikes happening and then everything started running again. Then my little brain worked it through. I knew I couldn’t read the tube station signs at that age, but if I got out and went upstairs I’d recognise the Gray’s Inn Road and could walk to their flat which was bang opposite the tube station. That made as much sense to me as anything Mum told me. She also told me that I would have three children; two girls and a boy. It was something I’d grown up knowing and you don’t question these things when grown-ups tell you, do you? Sadly, babies never happened for me, despite trying. In my case it was all about creating a safe, secure family into which children could be introduced. No plate throwing, arguments, flouncing out, banging doors etc. But it wasn’t until I married my beloved Tony that home life was in the right balance and sadly it was all a bit too late. I didn’t think I’d be feeling emotional about the salpingo oophorectomy (I’ll wait a sec while you Google that) but I find I am. The fallopian tubes and ovaries are gone and even though they never worked properly, it’s a reminder that my natural mothering instincts were never realised. Yes, I took care of my little sister and have always felt the need to protect and look after people, but it’s different.
To distract and cheer myself up without making myself laugh, I wondered the origin of salpingo as it sounded to me like a rather exotic margherita-style cocktail with salt and fizz. No, it comes from the Ancient Greek for trumpet.; TRUMPET! Here comes the egg – fanfare – and it’s entering the womb – parp parp, parpetty parp. Flags and heralds spring to mind. Stop! It hurts and I’ve now got the trumpeting elephants from Fantasia in my mind. Why does my brain do this to me? Remnants of anaesthetic and strong pain killers no doubt.
When I understood more about the reproductive system I asked my Mum why she had her tubes tied and she brushed it away, not wanting to talk about it. And now I think back, she went through a very tough emotional time after my brother’s birth and we’ve always put it down to post-natal depression. Now I’m wondering if the operation brought on early menopause for her which messed up her hormones. I was warned about that myself and almost hugged the nurse to death when she assumed I was approaching menopause rather than having left it behind ten years ago. My poor mum had so much going on emotionally with her mental ill-health, so with this on top of it, she coped as well as she could.
I told my step mum that I was having the operation and now her memory is so short, I was pleased that she’d forgotten about it almost immediately after getting emotional herself and reminding me how sad she was that I’d never had children. Sometimes, seeing someone NOT remembering sad stuff is quite comforting. I feel like I’ve told her the truth and given her the respect of knowing what’s going on, but the pain doesn’t linger for her, as the cat’s toilet habits are equally important. It’s very sad to see her forgetting who people are now, especially her own daughter and my sister is having a horrible time witnessing that. D always tells people that she was lucky having me as a fully fledged daughter as she didn’t have to go through the pain of childbirth. But do you know what? That’s a pain I wished I’d had the chance to witness. But I’m not going to get all emotional as I’m going to toast a crumpet and remember my mum who used to call them strumpet crumpets, although I had no idea what she meant.
by Sonia Beldom | Nov 22, 2024 | memory loss, mothers and daughters, podcasts about moms, podcasts about mums
Beloved step mum rang this morning in a panic as she’d forgotten to go to her dance class. When I say dance class, I mean stretch a bit, breathe, sit down, gossip about absent members and stretch another bit class. I’ve been a couple of times and in the beginning it was all disco pump, aerobics and dance routines to give Pineapple a run for their money. Now, it’s about curling and uncurling toes, alternate shoulder lifting and granny dancing for grannies with no puff.
It’s sad to see the decline in her memory and the slow dwindling of her energy. And despite being nearly 80, she feels as if she can still conquer the world. I can put a funny spin on it, as is my way as you know, but it upsets my poor sister more as she’s on the receiving end of the frequent calls and is the daily support. Let’s refer to step mum as “D” as she may one day get her head round the internet and read this, although I suspect that’s as likely as Gemma Collins winning Mastermind. No, that’s unfair, Gemma could win if pitted against Joey Essex in the Celebrity version. I digress. Here’s a snippet of the sort of conversations we’re currently having. Picture the scene … D ON PHONE – I’ve fallen over and hit my head. I’m a bit dizzy and can’t focus. ME – I’ll be right over. D – why are you coming over? ME – because you’ve hit your … look, never mind. I’ll be round in 10 minutes to take you to the hospital. CLICK. KNOCK KNOCK – Hello darling. how lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were coming. ME – Good lord, look at your head ( huge bulbous bump, deep purple shiner, swollen eye). OFF TO HOSPITAL. After various inappropriate conversations with women in veils, naughty kids and drunk patients, we’re whisked into triage. NURSE – Hello D, so what’s happened to you today? D – haven’t you got pretty eyes! NURSE – thank you. Do you know why you’re here today? D (ANGRY NOW) – Of COURSE I know why I’m here. I’m not an idiot. NURSE – OK, can you tell me why you’re here today? D – I don’t know. Was I going shopping?
My reason for sharing this difficult story? Memory loss is horrible for the one losing memory, but it’s a also very difficult for loved ones, family and friends to cope with. I’ve learned a few tips on how to make the whole sad process easier to navigate and have been wondering whether those tips and more recently acquired professional insight could help people going through the same things. As with my mum Margaret (the inspiration for this blog), I love D very much and I spoke to her recently about sharing these stories. She’s totally up for it as she too feels that her experiences, if shared, could help support others. A cousin is outraged at the whole idea and that is a legitimate reaction, because the whole thing is sad, but my way of coping is to write the hell out of it in order to get things clear in my own mind rather than melt down and get depressed, because that doesn’t help in my books. My sister and I support each other by sharing the stories and coming up with different strategies as D’s state changes, so I hope I’m my sister’s main support, even though I sometimes have to make light of it all for my own sanity.
My precious mum (Margaret, real mum) didn’t lose her memory, even up to the day she died six years ago. She just lived in a fantasy world and couldn’t focus. She used to call D “Fancy pants” because of her posh clothes, but it was never malicious. In fact, Mum did everything she could to praise D when she took over the family. Every Sunday we’d get a knock on the door and a stranger would ask in a puzzled and slightly scared voice if we were ready as Mum was lurking around the corner. On the bus Mum would then tell us how pretty D was and wasn’t it better to have nicely cooked food? And when we came back from a day out that Mum had obviously been planning all week, we tried to act as if the day was just a hum drum event so as not to cause any ripples. I always felt that if I enthused too much about Mum’s trips to go fishing (with tights stretched around a bent coat hanger) or visiting a kipper factory (with very curious workers wondering why their fish dunking efforts were being scrutinised by a little blonde girl dressed like a bride), it might upset her. Little did I realise at the time, that D was going through her own inner turmoil, but did a wonderful job of covering them up, whereas Mum’s were loud, proud and out there.
I feel as if I’m entering a whole new mum phase now. D is now suffering the real effects of not having Dad around. He was her memory bank and we didn’t really see it when he was alive. I was always inwardly amused when D thought she was including him in her non-stop chatter with the occasional, “Didn’t we, Charles?” or “That’s right isn’t it?” to which Dad would find a hundred different upbeat ways of saying “Mmmm”. Now that her memory’s failing and she’s been banned from driving, the roles are reversing and once again I’m the adult in the mother/child relationship. She doesn’t understand the ban and thinks I’ve stolen her car, which in a way I have as the doctor whispered “take her keys and move the car to another location” after delivering the blow that D was now officially banned and had to give up her driving licence as a mini stroke could have been the cause of her fall. The loss of independence must feel so unjust, but we all agree ( even her in her more lucid moments), that driving with an underlying health problem is dangerous and with memory loss it’s easy to lose your way geographically too.
I’m now working with a brilliant professor of neuroscience on a new podcast to talk about memory loss and how to cope with the effects it has on loved ones, and also on the carers who need their own support (and occasional spa break). I can’t wait to tell you all about it when it goes LIVE, because it’s going to be such a help, as both myself and the wonderful host have had issues with motherly memory loss. And you won’t be surprised to know that I throw in the odd mumbelievable anecdote to lighten the mood and shed light on one of Mum’s brilliant antics.
My mum would often laugh at herself, tap her head and say “My brain is playing up, Sonia darling. I want it to do things that are normal, but it just won’t.” It was heartbreaking and hilarious in equal measure. Step mum eventually laughs at herself after a lot of distraction, bringing in jokes and reminding her that life is a gift that Dad would have loved to be enjoying with her too. She soon comes round and we always remind each other how much we love each other, but boy is it a struggle at times.
One thing that came out of a recent podcast recording is that we should all start thinking about how we’d like our lives to be organised if we do start going a bit ga-ga. Not as in strange clothes made out of steak or telephone hats, but if we grant early power of attorney in anticipation and tell our loved ones that we’d be happier being looked after in a care home so that they can enjoy their own lives. I’m not kidding … if my beloved husband went before I did, I’d want to set myself up in sheltered housing with a bit of independence while I’m still fit and active. That way I’d have people around and support if I needed it, unlike D who believes that she lives a totally solitary life because everyone has drifted away, despite daily phone calls, visits and people caring for her.
Next week I’m picking D up and taking her to dance class which I’ll be forced to participate in. Oh well, I guess my thumbs could be with a bit of waggling and my knees could do a bend or two. Louis Spence, look out!
