Day 150

Monday 17 August

2.15pm I am sat next to my mum. We are each in an armchair and she is sleeping now. There is plenty of physical space between us but I feel closer to her now than at anytime in the past few years. Dementia not only drags the person you knew away but also drives a wedge of distraction into the relationship. Instead of being able to enjoy being with Mum, it has been about powers of attorney, care homes, finance, meetings with social care and local authority representatives, doctors, specialists and hospital visits.

But all of that is done now, and I look across at her peacefully sitting there and feel good. When I walked in to the room, half an hour ago, we exchanged big smiles and I was able to hug her. Despite wearing a face mask the eyes can still say alot, I like to think she knew I was her son. At the very least she knew that she knew me.

I was nervous about coming to visit; the last time was back in January or February. What would we say? How could I fill the silences or respond to her mumbles? I needn’t have worried. There is no need to fill any gaps or silences, I just need to be here.

Mum is holding a lifelike-doll that is curled in a foetal position and was possibly, in a previous life, used for parenting classes. It even has a hospital name tag – I can make out that it says ‘La Newborn’. She is holding its hand while she drifts off to sleep, keeping it close to her. She has been singing lullabies to it, the words are inelligible but the melody is lilting, I want to drift off too. She has also been chatting to it, supporting its head with a gentle, cupped hand so they are face to face. I like to think she did the same with me when I was a baby.

Despite her eyes being closed and her clearly dozing off, I notice her heel lightly lifting to the rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero coming from the radio. She stops when the sound of the air cushion clicks into action, gate crashing a special moment. This disturbs her a little, she dustily opens her eyes, mutters something ever-so-gently, then closes her eyes and drifts off once again.

Her limp, grey hair is flat and parted on the left side. It used to be ‘done’ every week when she lived at home, lifted and curled. She doesn’t wear her false teeth anymore. Her skin is old, wrinkled and marked by age. Her limbs are tired and heavy – they struggle to fill her clothes. Her memory has gone. But, importantly, I recall again that she smiled at me and her eyes sparkled when I first came in. And each time, when she occasionally stirs and looks over to me, I smile at her and she smiles back saying enough with no words. We both know she doesn’t need to talk. She chuckled when I held her and she put her arms around me. Her face was soft when I kissed her cheek. That’s all that matters.

Now, I sit writing this, as she holds a little plastic baby close to her and sleeps peacefully in her chair. I wonder how many times she held my brother, my sister and I when we were ‘in arms’. And, many years before that, how she would almost certainly have held a toy baby when she was a child herself. The chapters of life are all there as I look at her holding that baby doll.

I know that she is slowly leaving us and this life. But I take some comfort that she seems to be doing so at a gentle pace. She is not angry, resentful, bitter or sad. She is just our beautiful, wonderful, ever-so loving Mum. This amazing woman who brought me into this world and then brought me up. She gave me my values and taught me how to treat others. And, she sang ‘I see the Moon’ to me whilst holding my hand and cupping my head so that our faces were in front of each other. And our eyes sparkled and we smiled at each other, and I didn’t even know.

When I was ready, she reassuringly pushed my boat out from the harbour to sail my own ship but always kept me in sight, just in case.