And a step,2,3,4
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!
