Mum made sandwiches for imaginary friends and thought there was a little girl trapped in the radiator# LES - 同女之舞
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The consultant smiled at Mum. ‘I just want to ask you a few simple
questions, Rose,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’ Mum beamed back at him.
‘Tell me, what year is it now?’ asked the consultant. My mother frowned.
‘Let me think’, she said. ‘Is the war still on?’ ‘Do you mean the
Second World War?’ he asked. Mum nodded. ‘No, that ended in 1945,’ said
the consultant. ‘What year is it now?’ ‘Then it must be after that,’ she
replied. ‘It’s 2002,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said mum, who would have agreed if he’d told her it
was 1812, and that Napoleon was running the country. I squeezed her hand
gently.
‘Who is the Prime Minister?’ continued the consultant. Mum was on firmer
ground here. ‘Margaret Thatcher, the milk snatcher!’ she announced
triumphantly. ‘No, it’s Tony Blair now,’ he replied. ‘Oh,’ said Mum. ‘
I don’t like him.’ The consultant had stopped smiling. ‘I think we need
to do some tests,’ he said.
Alzheimer’s disease is the only medical condition that I know of which
affects the family of the patient more than it appears to affect the patient
themselves. If you break your leg, it’s your problem. You sit at home in
plaster; you suffer and you deal with it. Your family have to fetch and
carry for you a bit, but that’s it.
With Alzheimer’s, it’s the other way round. You behave as though nothing
has changed, while everyone around you has to deal with the dramatically
different person you’ve become.
‘It’s like rolling up a rug,’ the consultant had told me. ‘The end of
the carpet nearest to you represents the present, and the other end
represents your mother’s childhood. As we begin to roll up the rug,
starting from the front, the memories inside the roll are erased and lost
for ever, and her reality slips backwards in time. The more we roll, the
further back in time Rose has to travel to find a point in her life that she
remembers.’
I’d nodded slowly, trying to understand. So that was it, he seemed to be
saying. Looking back on it now, I am convinced that my mother’s dementia
began the day my father died.
My parents had been married for more than 50 years, during which time they
had never been apart.
Mum had nursed my dad devotedly through his final illness and when death
eventually came, she had gone into a deep shock. It had been a difficult
period for me too, with my own marriage coming to an end at the same time.
Which was why I found myself, a year after Dad had gone, sitting in Mum’s
kitchen and asking whether I could move back in with her. ‘Oh, that would
be lovely!’ she cried. ‘We could have tea together every day!’
I hadn’t realised quite how much the dementia was starting to ebb and flow
in her mind — already much worse than when we’d seen the consultant just a
few months before. But once I’d moved back in, filling my childhood
bedroom with the remnants of my marriage, her decline became all too
apparent.
questions, Rose,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’ Mum beamed back at him.
‘Tell me, what year is it now?’ asked the consultant. My mother frowned.
‘Let me think’, she said. ‘Is the war still on?’ ‘Do you mean the
Second World War?’ he asked. Mum nodded. ‘No, that ended in 1945,’ said
the consultant. ‘What year is it now?’ ‘Then it must be after that,’ she
replied. ‘It’s 2002,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said mum, who would have agreed if he’d told her it
was 1812, and that Napoleon was running the country. I squeezed her hand
gently.
‘Who is the Prime Minister?’ continued the consultant. Mum was on firmer
ground here. ‘Margaret Thatcher, the milk snatcher!’ she announced
triumphantly. ‘No, it’s Tony Blair now,’ he replied. ‘Oh,’ said Mum. ‘
I don’t like him.’ The consultant had stopped smiling. ‘I think we need
to do some tests,’ he said.
Alzheimer’s disease is the only medical condition that I know of which
affects the family of the patient more than it appears to affect the patient
themselves. If you break your leg, it’s your problem. You sit at home in
plaster; you suffer and you deal with it. Your family have to fetch and
carry for you a bit, but that’s it.
With Alzheimer’s, it’s the other way round. You behave as though nothing
has changed, while everyone around you has to deal with the dramatically
different person you’ve become.
‘It’s like rolling up a rug,’ the consultant had told me. ‘The end of
the carpet nearest to you represents the present, and the other end
represents your mother’s childhood. As we begin to roll up the rug,
starting from the front, the memories inside the roll are erased and lost
for ever, and her reality slips backwards in time. The more we roll, the
further back in time Rose has to travel to find a point in her life that she
remembers.’
I’d nodded slowly, trying to understand. So that was it, he seemed to be
saying. Looking back on it now, I am convinced that my mother’s dementia
began the day my father died.
My parents had been married for more than 50 years, during which time they
had never been apart.
Mum had nursed my dad devotedly through his final illness and when death
eventually came, she had gone into a deep shock. It had been a difficult
period for me too, with my own marriage coming to an end at the same time.
Which was why I found myself, a year after Dad had gone, sitting in Mum’s
kitchen and asking whether I could move back in with her. ‘Oh, that would
be lovely!’ she cried. ‘We could have tea together every day!’
I hadn’t realised quite how much the dementia was starting to ebb and flow
in her mind — already much worse than when we’d seen the consultant just a
few months before. But once I’d moved back in, filling my childhood
bedroom with the remnants of my marriage, her decline became all too
apparent.