Ever Decreasing Islands

Mum wakes in a foul mood. Drinks tea. Climbs back into bed so that she is a mound under blankets heaped over her. She looks like something in hibernation. She tells me she is too cold to get up. It isn’t cold.  This is either a marker of mood. Or a marker of a metabolism that is slowing to the point of stillness. When she walks now she is breathless.

I urge her up. Get up. Get dressed. Get something into you. Cereal. Toast.  More hot sweet (sometimes three heaped teaspoons) tea.

I have said these things to her many times, many years ago.

But it’s easier now, to coax her up. It’s not her worries and fathomless fears that stop her getting up. She doesn’t get up because she doesn’t know what to do once she has. 

The ill humour sustains over breakfast. Nobody has mastered the art of looking disgruntled the way my mother has. The milk in her cereal bowl threatens to curdle.

To her blind right side I furiously text my siblings for moral support. We share a WhatsApp chat and it is dominated by conversation about our mother.

She’s in a furious mood this morning.

My sister commiserates.

My brother sends me a video of his adorable five year old granddaughter singing a song.

The same little girl used to pile into mum’s bed when she lived with my brother during the pandemic, they’d hunker down and look at books. My mum would know when Roybn was on her way down to see her by the urgent patter of small feet along a corridor, sometimes tailed by a heavier tread: her mother, ‘leave Granny rest’.

She loved her.

Here Mum, I say, and stick my phone under her nose, ‘isn’t she sweet?’

Mum watches with something like boredom.  She is more interested in what to put on her toast.

‘Who is she?’

“That’s Robyn. That’s Rob’s Grand-daughter. Your great granddaughter”. 

And I deliver the punchline with emphasis: Fancy that: you’re a great grandmother.

Who is Rob?

Robert, I saw, “your son, Robert”.

She scowls: “oh right. Well he might have told me he had a family!”

Sometimes, often, I tell myself, I will not argue a point – the fact of a thing or the existence of a person – my mother’s great granddaughter, and that she spent most of her first five years with her. 

And today, I don’t. Today I opt for peace.

But every time I buy into the fiction of dementia, the denouncing of people and a past because of it, I slice off another chunk of my mother’s life and the thinner her memories and recollections grow, the less there is for us to hang onto. Like a lifeboat growing deflated on a huge, open sea where there isn’t a single hopeful islet of land to swim to.

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