Today I share a poignant story of aging and memory loss sent to us by Kim Healey (my daughter-in-law) and her friend Heather Matthew.
HI Nancy-
I thought you might enjoy the attached piece from my friend in the UK, Heather Mathew. Heather and I went to Oxford together and she is a hugely interesting and talented person — she works extensively with the elderly, handicapped, mental disabled, etc in London.
Both her parents died about 2 years ago, but not before her mom got dementia and her dad had other illnesses that forced her to fight the government (for ages) to have them both committed to formal care. It was a sad story, but she wrote this piece (for a London writing contest) about the joy and pain of seeing them both at their Care Home. I thought it might resonate with you given all your ombudsman work….
From, Kim
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Mum loves Banjo Man. Her fingers tap and flutter in her lap, like a mist of butterflies rising from her flowered skirt, as the music bobs and weaves around the room. Dad and I sit either side of her wheelchair, facing the patio doors to the garden beyond.
“Did you bring any chocolates?” says Mum. A sunflower gently nods in the summer breeze, and a robin hops and tugs at the earth below. I can see Reg and Diana on a bench framed by wisteria. She leans towards him, a silent communion of comfort as their heads incline.
“Lucky you didn’t come yesterday,” says mum “We were in America.”
Dad looks confused and starts to correct her, but I jump in and ask her about the trip. Off we go on a journey up the Orinoco, parrots flapping, the thrash of a crocodile tail, the towering walls of the Panama Canal rising around us. Dad shakes his head and looks utterly lost in the reality we are presenting. He picks at a tissue, agitated and disconsolate.
The resident cat jumps down from a nearby chair and eases into a pool of sunlight, as if it’s a hot tub.
“Are you enjoying it?” asks Banjo Man, and Mum smiles with the soft beauty of a renaissance Madonna. I think of the photos of their wedding day sixty years ago, Mum’s cat’s eyes glasses and hand-span waist, Dad coiffured and shiny by her side.
“You cow,” shouts Hannah, and the moment is broken, as a fight erupts over a Daily Mail. Mum laughs and tells me not to worry. Staff intervene, and the tea trolley begins its rattling progress around the conservatory. Dad refuses a biscuit, but Mum wants both, and I go to help her. Mary sees her chance and strides across the room towards my father calling, “Frank darling, I knew you would come. Shall we dance?” She perches herself on the arm of Dad’s chair and begins to stroke his hair. Dad looks embarrassed, but is too polite to say anything, and stares into his tea-cup.
“I am here against my will,” says Mary. Dad lifts his head and looks as if he recognises her.
A flare path of candles heralds the arrival of a heavily frosted cake, brought in with great fanfare by the cook and set in front of Dad. We all look at each other as an enthusiastic chorus of “Happy Birthday” rings out, and Dad is invited to cut the cake and make a wish. It’s not Dad’s birthday for another three months, and we don’t know what to say. I quietly tell the cook and the party moves on. By now Dad has shredded the tissue, and a blossom of white confetti surrounds his chair.
“When can we go home?” he asks me, and Mum answers “Don’t be so ridiculous John. This is our home.”
The cat gets up, his paws padding a trail of white petals, as he walks through the open door.