CARED FOR

I saw my mum today. First time in the two months since Dad broke his hip. First time since she went into the nursing home. It’s only a few hundreds yards from their house, but Dad hasn’t been able to get  there to see her yet. That saddens me because I think he’s putting it off.

Perhaps I’ve been putting it off too. Through Covid, it was out of the question, our contact limited to the occasional stop-start, patience testing phone call, mostly spent trying to find a way though her Alzheimer’s to tell her a story, or to listen to one of hers. But I’ve missed a couple of opportunities since socially distanced visits were allowed.

Covid is still here and one of those August storms is passing through, so, conscious of the bizarreness of it, I am sat outside, under an awning that keeps the worst of the rain off the threadbare waterproof I’ve borrowed from Dad. I can see two chairs through the glass doors in front of me and a residents lounge beyond.

Mum appears, walking with the aid of a Zimmer frame and a young carer, who’s wearing the obligatory blue surgical mask. When she sees me, Mum stops and grabs the carer by her arm, tears in her eyes and wearing the widest smile.

“It’s B! It’s B!” I see her tell the carer.

We have to use a walkie-talkie and it’s deeply unsatisfactory unless you resort to the military “over” to indicate when you have finished speaking, and that isn’t going to work with Mum. Eventually we make a joke of it and, every time it emits its loud, intrusive beep, she takes the device away from her ear, brings it round to the front of her face and sticks her tongue out at it. I love that her humour is still there.

The conversation Is a typical Mum conversation. Subject-wise, she’s sticking strictly to her greatest hits from circa 1990, and new material is scarce. She listens attentively when I talk about the boys and asks a question that shows she remembers about my divorce. I tell her how Dad is getting on and can see that’s important to her. I can glimpse snippets of the conversation she wants to have swirling around in the fog of her Alzheimer’s, but she can’t get enough of them together to form a full sentence. I smile and nod, not because I understand what she’s saying, but to encourage her to keep trying.

Strangely, what most affects me is not my mum’s declining faculties or the sadness of having to communicate this way, but the interaction between her and the young carer. Mum looks so frail and vulnerable but the carer is patient and affectionate with her. There’s something about her constant, reassuring touch and the way she puts her arm round Mum’s shoulders when she’s upset that makes it seem like they’ve known each other for years. With her surgical mask covering her mouth, she can only smile with her eyes but she smiles so brightly, so directly into mums face and with such genuine and obvious affection that I’m moved by it. Mum’s returning smile is just as bright and affectionate and I find it rather emotional to watch them together.

Mum and I touch fingers through the glass at the end, and she hobbles away with her new friend. I have to sit in the car for ten minutes, just steadying myself, before I can face the supermarket crowds.

I’m glad I finally got to see her and any residual guilt about having had to “put her in a home” has faded. She’s in the right place, she’s mostly happy and she has the care she needs, and that’s a reassuring and positive thing.

(A stock image. Not my mum)