The Rum Chester Report

RumChester as: writer, protagonist, bystander, witness, supporting role, conduit, cultural terrorist.

[rumchester]

I’ve been dreading today. The slow reach of it. Like I dread sometimes the sun lifting over the trees. Like I dread the call of you often. Like I dread the space in the minute in the hour when I have that urge to phone you, or visit you, or just check in. Sometimes, the urge gets so great it feels like butterflies in me. All beating. Wings catching my throat. A sickening and I hold on until it passes. This strange muting. This odd non-reaching out. I’ve dreaded today but now it’s here it feels just flat, incomplete. Like half a day. Like a dank morning without meaning.

Last year, you forgot the day, but I arrived anyway. I bought you slippers. I broke open the packet and tried to get them on your feet. Your toes were clumpy, immobile. We tussled a while then folded down the backs. Then we ate tea downstairs. Rachel had made sandwiches and tiny eclairs. The room was full. The other residents descended, they sipped sherry and giggled. They brought you cards. We sang to you. When we took you upstairs you were elevated out of your wheelchair by the hoist, then down into your reclining chair, and you had the broadest smile. It was a good day. A happy day. You seemed peaceful. Benevolent. Like a chocolate-mouthed, be-slippered, tiny white haired God.

This year, there is no party. There is no song to call you back to the day. Your day. There is just the feeling of it. And the gap. I’ll email your friends today. I’ll make it some kind of a day. I’ll imagine I’m doing a few things for you today. In the early days, I wanted to take you far, put you in the car and drive you. Get you to a beach, or a wood, or a mountain. But now I don’t picture this. No grand gestures. Just the small things. The details. The way we sat in your room. The way I took the dirt out of your fingernails. The way you munched Dairy Milk, and I’d wipe your hands with all the mess. The way the hair grew out of your chin, and I’d pluck it quickly so you couldn’t feel the sting. The way you would sleep with your mouth dropping open and the dry air from the heater would dry it out and you’d wake up thirsty. So thirsty. Gagging for a glass of milk. The way, when I’d bring you wild flowers from the park your face would lift. And you’d smell them. And we’d laugh as your nose caught the droplets of dew. The way that we’d blink at the daft things. The mistakes. The time gaps - when you thought I was 20, or I was still at school. The way I’d read Masefield's Cargoes to you and you’d remember the lines and say them with me. The way I’d leave as the evening fell, before the sun went down and you’d get wild, wild, crawling on the floor. Trying to leave with me. Trying to escape. Trying to go back to the other time when you could walk, and drive, and pay bills, and just be in the world as you were. And the way I’d try and distract you, off-set you. The way I’d turn on the TV - extra, extra, extra loud and hope for a cartoon or an easy film or anything but the news.

But today, I will mark it anyway. I’ll think of all those things in my head. I’ll text your friends. I’ll buy a cake. I’ll raise a fat glass of gin at the day’s end. And I'll hope there are green hills where you are, and deserts for your legs. I'll hope there are warm winds, and bars of chocolate, and flowers at your head. And I'll hope you’re having the best party. And you’re in your finest dress. And all those people that you missed (like Dad and Tim and the dog) are singing loudly, raucously, spoiling you. And bringing endless presents to your chest.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

[rumchester]

Mother’s Day

Dear Mum,

It’s hard to say it now but I want to say it’s ok. It’s alright. You don’t have to worry. You don’t have to panic today. Today - or any day really - because it doesn’t matter.

You see, I have had many mothers - in many forms, or kinds of feelings of the word. Some of them have been lovers, some of them have been animals in my arms, some of them have been me with my son. There is this feeling everywhere. Of motherhood. Of care. It doesn’t matter how it flip-flops around. Sometimes, I can feel scooped out. Lost. So far away from you. But this is only the disease sometimes. Because sometimes with the disease I have felt closer. I have felt near. Part of you.

Matron phoned me yesterday. She told me they upped your medication.Your antipsychotic. Because sometimes you get wild with the disease. Wild with wanting to leave the home. Wild with crawling on the floor. And I wanted to tell the matron that you always had this in you. This appetite. This movement. That you were not a still Mum. That you were hard to please. That you were complicated, passionate, dramatic in temperament. That you are and always were a Scorpio. I wanted to tell the matron that you were a huge mother. Inescapable. That when you met my dad at a dinner in 1959, and were put next to him by mistake, you got drunk and threatened to dance on the table. I want to tell matron that you made dad scared and so he suggested that he walked you home. And there it is. My feeling of you. You were always threatening to dance, and dad, or us, or the world was always suggesting something else. This was you. And this is you now. This is part of you. This appetite.

And I want to say that I resent this illness. I wish it would stop. Or go back. Unravel. Arrest. I want to tell it to leave you alone. That it has no business with you. But I won’t say this because you don’t know you’re sick. Or you’re wild. Or you’re struggling. You are just in it.

But I do want to say that it’s Mother’s Day. Your day. And this year it’s also Trans Day of Visibity. So there are a lot of flowers today. There are many mothers today. And daughters. And sons. And there are many families today. And there is also loss. And pain. And lack of care or visibility. There is also death today. But there are also new ways. Possibilities. Roads towards love.

And I want to say sometimes we have found these. As a family. We have done ok. We have stared at this disease and gone into it. And you are are still you. Despite it. And I want to tell you this. And the matron. And everyone else. And I want to say may you always be wild. And uncontainable. And dramatic. And may the carpet never curtail you. And the home. And the workers in uniform. And may you always be drunk somewhere. Somehow. With appetite. And may you always be threatening to dance on the table.

Xxx

#howwastheparty

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#rumchester

[rumchester]

Subtitles

When I arrive, Mum is the lounge. I don’t tell anyone I’m coming. I sometimes do this - to surprise Mum (who is always surprised) and to surprise the home. I just want to see that they’re dressing Mum well, that they’re caring for her well, that she is being well looked after. Even though Cranhill, after 4 years of Mum living there, never seems to be the place of nightmares, it’s hard to let this idea go. That somewhere locked into my psyche I fear Mum is being shouted at, maltreated, subjected to a vindicative tirade by dangerous people in blue uniforms that have somehow slippped through the net.

What if Mum’s bruises aren’t from her falls? What if Mum’s weight loss isn’t old age? What if Mum’s Alzheimer’s is being made worse by bullying?

But when I arrive, Mum is sitting in the lounge in her wheelchair. Someone called Rosie has bustled me in. There’s no panic when I arrive, no cover up job. Rosie is just pleased to see me. The matron is asking about my trip. The phone is ringing. A Hoover is running. There are daffodils in the window boxes. Primroses on the lawn. Rosie’s carrying a remote control that she waggles at me.

“We just brought your Mum downstairs because we want to put on a DVD but this isn’t working.”

Rosie waggles the remote again.

“Oh, OK,” I say.

“Are you good with these things?“ Rosie says - still waggling.

“I’ll have a look.”

I go into the lounge. Walk up to Mum. Mum frowns at me, then she giggles.

“It’s you!”

“Yes.”

Mum looks thinner. Her face is a little far away. Tired. Confused. I hug her and the bones in her shoulders jut out.

“Your hair looks pretty, Mum.”

“Thank you.”

Distraction sometimes works - puts us in the here and now. I waggle the remote control.

“I’m going to try and fix this.”

“Ooh,” says Mum.

The other 7 residents look up at me with expectation and their “Oooohs,” reverb around the room.

I’m hardly techno-orientated. I’m hardly DIY but in this department Cranhill is profoundly lacking. They send the bills by snail-mail. They leave leave ansaphone messages on landlines never send texts. An email is a thing of the new-fangled future. If you talk about Skyping they practically pass out.

I approach the DVD player. I put in the disc Last Of The Summer Wine. The menu comes up - I press play on the remote control. Nothing. I take the plate off the back, and swap the batteries around. I press play in the remote control. It starts the film.

“Aaaah” the 7 residents look up at me.

“Aren’t you clever?” Says Rosie.

I smile and break down the old “swap the batteries around trick”. Rosie looks at me with intent as if this is one of the secrets of the televisual remote-controlled universe. The other residents don’t care. They just want to enjoy Compo and his companions.

Then, a resident called Mary, looks up.

“I can’t hear it. Where’s the subtitles?”

Mary has a point. I go back to business. I move towards the DVD player and the remote. I press menu and tools but nothing comes up. I apologise to Mary. We struggle on without it - but most people can’t follow the film. The next event to eclipse this is tea. Rachel wheels in a trolley with teapots and cups and slices of Victoria Sponge. Rosie, adds her own version of a pick-me-up, Sherry.

This is met with more “Ooohs.”

Small schooners appear. Most of the residents sip contentedly. Eventually, Last of The Summer Wine is disbanded for Neighbours on the TV with the subtitles. The residents drink their tea, munch their cake. Mum seems pretty relaxed. Delighted. She keeps repeating the same phrase, I don’t understand.

“It’s just going so well this year.”

“What is Mum?”

“Christmas. We’re all having such a good time.”

I tell her that it’s like Christmas. With the sherry and everything. But Mum says it again. Throughout the afternoon, till the evening, when I pull the curtains in her room. And even though I’ve bought her tulips and tiny chocolate eggs, it’s this idea that sticks. Christmas. Christmas. And as I leave, Matron lets me out and thanks me for fixing the remote. And as I look at her - I feel so relieved that she’s not a psycho, that Rosie’s not a psycho, and that the worst thing that might happen to Mum in Cranhill was no subtitles on the DVD.

#howwastheparty

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[rumchester]

The Night Worker

I phone Mum. The phone rings in the darkness. In the emptiness. In Room 20. Across the world. I phone Mum from the future. To my past. To her present. I’m phoning backwards across time. 11 hours diffence. My night. Her morning. I’m phoning just to hear her voice. Just that. I don’t expect to hear her for long. I don’t expect to say much of anything. I just want to hear her. The phone rings and then rings off. I try the nursing home. They don’t pick up. I do this 4 times. The same ring. The same expanse of time. The same system of phoning backwards. No one replies. For 3 weeks.

The fifth time, I phone in the afternoon. My afternoon. Mum’s early hours. I don’t phone Mum though. I just phone the nursing home. The office. The phone rings in the emptiness. Then it’s picked up. It’s the night worker. I don’t know her. I don’t know her voice. She doesn’t recognise me. I say who I am twice. I ask again about Mum. The night worker pauses.

“When did you last see her?” She asks.

“Christmas,” I say.

The word seems weird. Like a word from the past. From history. It’s only 5 weeks ago but I’m standing in 26 degrees. Staring at the sun. The light. The Australian summer. I’m staring and I know Mum is in winter. In a cold snap. In Room 20. Looking out over the frost and the rain. Under her rug. I’m standing in boxer shorts and T shirt. Glaring at the sun.

“You’re away,” says the night worker. “You’re the daughter.”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m away.”

There’s another pause. The night worker turns papers - maybe Mum’s file. The phone crackles. The paper turns.

“She’s OK,” says the night worker.

“Really?” I say.

“Really. She’s OK.”

There’s another pause. The night worker seems to galvanise. Find some strength. She stops turning papers.

“There have been no changes.”

It’s the standard phrase. The medical phrase. I heard it with my dad. When he went into hospital. I’m hearing it again. It means no significant decline. It means the same. It means she’s eating. Sleeping. Taking her medication. Not rowing with the staff. It means she doesn’t have an infection. She’s going downstairs. Socialising. Sitting in the dining room. At her table. Using her knife and fork. Holding her own. I feel relieved. It’s the best I can hope for. I wanted to hear Mum. For myself. I wanted to listen to her voice. But for now, the night worker has let me in. Given me information. Told me what I wanted to know. Helped me reconnect. Time travelled me backwards. Through the night sky. Riding the trail of continents. Across the outback, over Asia, over Europe, back to Britain. And Brexit. And Mum.

We speak a little more. I ask the night worker to send Mum my love. Then I wish her good night. I hang up. Stare at the Australian sun. At the deck of the Air BNB. At the pale wood and the flowers. At the huge sky and the flimsy clouds. And I feel Mum’s past and my future meld. Across time. And seasons. And continents. Now it’s her morning. The staff will be going in. To Room 20. Mum will be getting up. Getting ready for breakfast. They’ll put her in the hoist. Raise her out of bed. Lower her into her chair. She’ll sit there. Upright. Under her knitted rug. Drinking her tea. Eating her porridge. Asking questions. All those questions. And retaining only snippets. Tiny, tiny bits.

No changes.

No changes.

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#rumchester

[rumchester]

Little Women

Christmas Eve. It’s early. The morning’s pale. Dry. The night’s rain glimmers still on the pavements and the tarmac’s kernels. Hackney is still. The car starts; I get in. Almost instantly, I hear the heating’s off. The lights come up but the fan’s not whirring. I wrap my legs in a spare coat. Put in my gloves. Start my journey. The roads are free, I make easy passage. The M4 is a breeze. Spotify plays on shuffle - new tracks, old tracks it doesn’t matter.

When I get to Mum she’s eating in the dining room. There are 5 others with her - all women. I walk in wish everyone the perennial “Merry Christmas.” Mum’s looking at Independent with a photo of Paddy Ashdown. When I arrive,she looks at me.

“I think he died didn’t he?” Mum says.

“Yes, Mum. Hello!” I say.

“Hello!”

I kiss her. Mum’s shoulders stick out under her shirt. She ‘s lost weight. Her legs are wrapped in a rug. As she breathes in, her chest rattles. Phlegm catches in her lungs. She’s been on antibiotics 5 days. I leave her to finish her lunch. Go upstairs. She has sprinkle of cards, an early present, a pile of Radio Times.

Stuff has been disturbed. Lipsticks on her dresser. When I open it, her jewellery drawers have been rummaged through. We took out all Mum’s good stuff. But there is costume jewellery in there. Nick Nacks. Bangles. It’s a good home - most of the staff are amazing. But they do have agency people in at the weekend. And it just takes one rogue worker. Mum’s digital radio went walkies year 1.

I empty out Mum’s jewellery drawers, again. The glass bits, the retro plastic. It’s more out of principal really. I load up my rucksack with it. Then I write sign for the drawers: “There Is Nothing Of Value In Here”. As I write, I’m reminded of people leaving glove compartments open with the same principle. Don’t Bother To Nick From Me I’m Broke.

I go downstairs. We spend the afternoon singing Carols. The vicar comes. Then a duo called Candlelight. They sing around a Casio keyboard. I do the first reading, Kathleen’s granddaughter does the second, a woman I don’t know does the third. Mary, one of the residents, that always wants to escape, keeps saying:” I can’t a note.” But we sing anyway, all the perennial favourites - Silent Night, Hark The Herald, Away In Manger.

Mum sings, then doses, then wakes as the vicar passes a communion wafer and wine. After taking the “body” and the “blood” she takes my hand and starts to weep. This is rare. She sits in her wheelchair and sobs. I rub her hand.

“It’s OK, Mum.”

“Yes, yes. It’s a nice time.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“With all the lights and everything looking pretty.”

The front room is bejewelled. There’s tinsel and candles and baubles; an electric penguin that dazzles; a wooden manger that comforts; a tree that chokes with festive glare. And the daylight clings to the room, but as Mum’s sobs pass, night falls. The decorations reflect in the windows. More residents join us. I count them. It’s Mum’s third Christmas in Cranhill. Some familiar faces, and some new ones to add to the mix. Some in wheelchairs, some with Zimmers holding practical net bags for all their belongings - lipsalves, magazines, polo mints, tissues. The room again is filled with women: Grace, Joan, Kathleen, Mary, Alwynne, Bea, Jill, Jean, Susan...

Mum’s tears pass. We sing on until the mulled wine arrives and the sausages on sticks. Mum’s eats well. Tires some. Asks to go upstairs. I push Mum into the hallway. Pat her cardigan on her shoulders. Cherish the flush in her face and the last moments of the home’s warmth, before my journey.

With the cold of the car. And the motorway. And Spotify.

#howwastheparty

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[rumchester]

25

Wilbur comes cleanly.Jumps in my car that he doesn’t know. That he’s never seen. Settles in the back. Sleeps a little. Wriggles some. Puts his belly on the seat. Sleeps some. Puts his nose in the middle. Sleeps some. When we stop at a service station, he bolts upright. Comes away quickly. To the services, the services. Wags his tail. Jogs a little. Flicks his ears. Like they’re the best thing - the services, the services.

We go into Starbucks. Wilbur sits on the floor. Blinks at people. Like they’re the best thing. All of them. Every one. In their groups, or their couples, or on their Tod. Drinking lattes, and smoothies, and breakfast teas the colour of mud.

When Wilbur meets Mum he’s the same. Effortlessly cheery. I lift him up. He comes smoothly in my arms. I hold him up to Mum. She frowns at Wilbur, giggles, wants to know his name, jiggles his fur, pets him, fusses over his curls, wants to touch him, like he’s the best thing.

“This is Wilbur, Mum.”

“Hello, Wilbur.”

“He’s a Cavapoo.”

“My...my...my...” Mum says.

Mum ruffles Wilbur’s forelock. He wriggles more, so I put him down. Mum looks up again. Looks at me. Then she looks at Sylvie. She hasn’t seen her for a while but she’s known her for over 25 years. Mum doesn’t say hello. Her eyes go blank. She doesn’t smile. No feeling, no feeling.

“It’s Sylvie, Mum,” I say. “You know...Sylvie.”

“Ohhhh.”

Mum’s face goes quizzical. But still, nothing. No feeling.

“Maybe when you hear her.”

Sylvie speaks. Her accent as wide as the Pont du Gard. Full of the garrigue and the swallows. Full of the Vent du Midi. Still nothing.

Mum’s face stays blank.

And so it goes. But we don’t stop. We stumble through the day. Wilbur is the same. Irrepressible, enthusiastic, relentlessly cute. The staff love him. The residents love him. Wilbur is the best thing. I take him to the park and he chases a soggy stick. I throw it this way. And that. Wilbur chases it around. Bounces over to the other dogs. He charms the children and the owners and the old people.

After lunch, Mum goes quiet.

“I don’t feel well.”

Staff take her up to her room. We follow. Wilbur makes a nest on Mum’s bed. He pulls his blanket under him. Starts to chew his Eyore soft toy. Mum’s face looks flushed, irritated. She closes her eyes. Like she wants to shut us out. Like she wants to get some peace. Like she wants to go to sleep.

We leave. Wilbur bounces off Mum’s bed. I kiss Mum, but she doesn’t notice. Sylvie kisses Mum, but she doesn’t notice. She’s off. Gone away for a while.

In the car, we don’t speak about it. Sylvie and I. Mum’s memory. The lack of recognition. What that means now. What that means next year - when she doesn’t recognise her friends. 40 years, 50 years. When she doesn’t recognise me. Or my brother. Or remember our names. When the amyloid plaques meld over. Compact. Restrict that access in her brain.

It is what it is.

What it is.

The motorway’s dark. Wilbur sleeps in the back. His breath rising like a song. His nose flat on the car seat. Some parts of his muzzle dribbling. Spinning liquid into the fabric. Into the soft toy, Eeyore. Into the pads of his paws. Like it’s the best thing.

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[rumchester]

Surrender

Dear Mum,

I wasn’t the child you wanted. Not really. I didn’t get into the right clothes. I hated the long hair, the dresses, the dolls you wanted me to play with. I hated the way that you shoved me into things. Even if so many of these things you created yourself - handmade. The skirts, the blouses, the headbands. Even though it took you months you still tracked down a dollshouse long before eBay existed. And Pippa dolls and a Sasha doll. You found needlework utensils and sewing kits. You taught me how to help lay the table, and iron the shirts, and darn and craft and stitch. Above everything else, you hoped that I’d be happy. Fulfilled. Boyed up by your care and detail. That I’d be over the moon to have such an attentive Mum. You hoped above all hope that I wouldn’t be what my brothers were - Action Man crazy, football crazy, rubberband gun crazy. One brother shooting, fishing, outward-bounded; the other brother nerdy, electrical-boarded, meccano-centric.

Of course it back-fired. You didn’t ask for this. You just asked me to be what the other girls were. What was wrong with that? What was wrong with me? In the end it didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to work. This way. That way. It wasn’t going to work. Then, when I was 12, you gave up. Resigned yourself. Stopped willing it all away.

You got smart to it. Because most smart mothers must get smart to it.

It’s a kind of survival.

You started to buy me other things - pajamas, Kicker boots, notebooks that I could write in. You let me stay in my brothers’ hand-me-downs. Old Levi’s, sweaters, t shirts that frayed at the edges. Aged 16, you watched me cut my hair. Peroxide it. Start smoking. Cigarettes. Embassy, Benson and Hedges, Number 6. It wasn’t without fallout. You railed at me for sure. Shouted. Slammed doors. You drove away in the car. To cool down. Cool it off. Get a grip.

I grew into something that wasn’t planned. You let me. This wasn’t easy for you - it was worse for Dad but he wasn’t around - it wasn’t easy for you. I don’t think you ever got it. But that didn’t matter. You put the other stuff away - the hairbrushes,the makeup, the family ring that might have been for my wedding. You swallowed it all down.

And somewhere in our past, Granny stopped being a Jew for love. And you stopped being the mum you wanted to be. For me.

And now I have to stop wanting you to be something else. The old lady living out your last years in peace. At home. With all your things around you. With us, the family. Holding it all together. These things. These people. We are now small in numbers - one brother and me. And you’re in a home that isn’t yours. Isn’t ours. In a bed that you don’t know. In a place that you don’t recognise. After three years, after four, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. You wake up every day in a country as unfamiliar as Narnia.

Blinking in the green light, at someone in a uniform staring down at you.

“Where am I?” You say.

“Who are you?” You say.

“What is going on?”

And yesterday, the home told me your TV broke down. It’s only a TV but it’s your lifeline. To the world. To some kind of a connection. Even if your brain works in 10 minute loops. You need it. The TV. Like I needed to get away from the dresses and the dolls. And like you, back then, I can fix some things. I can get some things right. A new TV. A remote to control the volume. Some slippers for your feet. But I can’t change you. I can’t fix your brain, get your legs to work with your body, your feet to line up with your hips, your taste buds to not stack with medication.

And I can’t get you to know me completely. Or hear what I’m doing. Or tell me my age. Or remember where I live.

But we can spend a little time. In this space. In this way. Doing what we can. Together. Together. To surrender.

Xx

#howwastheparty

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#rumchester

[rumchester]

Slippers

When I arrive, Mum doesn’t know what day it is - but she’s pleased to see me. I look at her cards. She unwraps her present. Mum’s amazed that the sheepskin slippers are the same.

“How did you do that?” Mum says. “What Mum?” “Get exactly the same ones.” “I took a photo of your old ones and found them on the internet,” I say. “Oh that thing. It’s brilliant.”

I put them on her feet. The slippers fit but it takes time - I forget to take out the tissue and the card - Mum’s feet are immobile. Clumpy. She can’t move them. The right one is wider somehow. Colder. Because she can’t wriggle her toes, I pull up the back with my finger. She doesn’t have sensation so I don’t know if she can feel them. But they look good.

“How are they Mum?” “Cosy.”

At lunch, another resident, Bea, shouts across the dining room. “Gill is it your birthday?” Gill shakes her head. “It’s Ruth’s birthday.” Bea doesn’t seem to hear this, or understand. She asks again. Gill answers again. Then I say “ It’s Ruth’s birthday.” I point to Mum. Bea looks at Mum and looks back at Gill. And asks again. Bea doesn’t seem to want it to be Mum’s birthday. Gill seems to be a better option. This happens a few more times. Then Bea gives up and goes back to her soup. Mum seems unfazed by this. She eats her ham and salad. She enjoys it but she says everything tastes the same.

“Like cardboard,” Mum says.

At 3pm, it’s Mum’s party. The residents gather. They seem excited. Rachel’s made fresh cupcakes, scones, even tiny eclairs. There’s also a birthday cake. Morag’s there organising it all. We dish out the cakes and Bea sits in her wheelchair by the door. Her daughter’s visiting. She sits next to Bea. In her arms she’s holding the family cat, Dougall. I’ve seen dogs visit the home before but never a cat. Dougall’s on a harness and lead. He seems pretty calm. Bea’s daughter shows Mum Dougall and Mum smiles but seems unimpressed - she always loved dogs. Mum’s friend, Mamie, arrives and I wonder if Mum will recognise her but she does. Her face explodes. “Mamie!” Mamie sits next to Mum. She takes photos on her tablet. Mamie likes Dougall a lot - she readily snaps him. “I’ve never seen a cat at a birthday.”

The cake arrives and we all sing to Mum. Mum blows out her candles. It takes her two times. Then they cut the cake in the kitchen. We farm it out. Afterwards, Morag pours the Sherry. Most of the residents take a glass. Dougall munches on Dreamies and surveys the room. Morag turns to me. She always cuts Mum hair. Morag’s worked in Cranhill over 20 years.

“I’ve got a soft spot for your Mum,” she says. “Room 20’s better for her. She comes down more often. In the other room she was isolated. Sometimes she thought she was in a hospital. She’d be waiting for your dad to collect her. Take her back home.”

After tea, we go back to Room 20. Morag and Sarah move Mum from her wheelchair into the hoist. Then from the hoist to her armchair. This seems to touch Mamie - she took a long time to accept Mum’s Alzheimer’s. Mamie takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. But Mum’s happy. And tired. The sugar and the Sherry course through her. Her face is flushed, lively. When Virginia comes to give Mum her medication, she smiles.

“Thank you,” Mum says. “That was a really good birthday.”

[rumchester]

Room 20

The room’s green when I walk in. There is light from the bay windows. Outside, the oak trees rustle. The room’s at leaf height. Some of the foliage is turning - yellow, orange, red peeps through - but for the most part it’s green. Mum sits in her remote controlled chair. That’s green. She wears a silvery green top that’s not hers - clothes often get mixed up in the laundry. It’s quiet, apart from the over-loud TV. Nigella fills the screen - her voice resplendent in the room, overwhelming. Mum munches on a Digestive. She’s not really looking at the screen but she seems calm. At home.

“Hello!” I say. “Hello,” Mum says. “I’ve got a new flat.” “I can see,” I say. “How is it?” “Wonderful.”

Most of the day, I move in and out of the room. Mum watches me. Tells me where to hang paintings; tells me where to put the plants. When we break for lunch, she asks me why she’s in the home. What’s the matter with her?

“It’s just getting older, Mum. That’s all.” “Oh dear,” she says. “It’s better to be in here. There’s no pressure.” “OK,” Mum says.

Mum eats everything in front of her. She uses her cutlery well. She spills some stew on her napkin. But she wants to eat - has appetite. When the ice cream comes, Mum swoops it up liberally, and it drips over her chest, and her lap. After lunch, she sleeps. I decant her clothes and her books and her photos from Room 14. It’s strange to be back there. Because of the room’s size and lack of cupboards, the hoists and the zimmer were always visible. Now it stands empty. I strip the wardrobe and the chest. The last time I did this, I moved Mum from her flat. Her home. It took me 10 days. This time, it takes hours. I pile the things to discard into the centre of the room.

Room 20 is deeper in the house. Above the kitchen. On a half landing. It’s a quieter wing. Mum calls it a flat because it has an en-suite bathroom. That’s where they keep her wheelchair and her hoists. Mum’s taken to the move well. Because of her memory, she’s long since forgotten she’s lived anywhere else. This is a blessing. Room 20’s cosy. Manageable. There are pull-down blinds and built-in wardrobes. It faces south-west. There is light from the corridor windows and the bay window. When Mum wakes, she eats Dairy Milk, and watches me hang her clothes - commenting on her checked shirts and trousers and knitwear.

“That cardi’s good,” she says. “Practical.”

Later, Mum asks more questions. Seems more stressed. The repetitions start. The endless loops. It’s common - the sun is going down - and this is called Sundowning. I turn on Mum’s TV. It’s Frozen. This appeals. Mum becomes absorbed - she always loved cartoons. I leave her, kissing her temples. Her face of smells of facecream and Dairy Milk. I go downstairs. I walk into the back office to authorise Mum’s move to Room 20 with Virginia, the Matron. Mum’s happy (she likes it) but it is more expensive. We discuss prices - barter a little. The £40 weekly difference becomes £25. It’s a saving we badly need.

“Mum can stay there long-term?” I say. Virginia nods. “Forever.”

Later, I sign out. Walk out to the car. I’ve taken some things Mum no longer needs. Shoes. Old coats. An umbrella. The family safe. My fingers are dusty. My legs ache. But it’s been a good day. Mum’s content. She’s eating, sleeping OK. And she’s got the green room - with the bay windows and the honey light - to stay.

[rumchester]

DNA

Mum looks through the photos. There are many of them. Bunched together from different eras. Different houses; different homes. We moved a lot as kids. “20 times in 40 years, “ Mum always used to say. Service kids. There are black and white photos of my brothers and I; coloured photos; large prints; thumbnail photos - matt and gloss; photos with borders; photos with tears at the sides - taken out of old albums and bashed holders. Mum was the family’s custodian. She hoarded. She collated. She gathered.

The earliest ones are from the ‘30s. Dad as a baby; Mum as a toddler. The most recent ones stop in the 1980s. There’s a lot of people Mum doesn’t recognise. Family friends. My friends. Relatives. My grandparents. Mum’s work colleagues. Even the family dog, she looks up at me:

“What did we call him again?” “Rum,” I say. “That’s it.”

We don’t dwell, we move on. More photos, more stories, broken in pieces, fragments of time. Mum seems to enjoy the activity - touching is important. She thumbs over the images. As if to remember via her fingerprints. The DNA of the memories. Smells rise from them. Dust. Old glue. There’s a few of my dad that Mum doesn’t know. Doesn’t know him, or his face, or his uniform maybe. It doesn’t matter. There’s a lot she does enjoy - 50s, 60s, 70s. There’s a photo she stops over. It’s Black and White. Mum with her parents. Sitting in chairs under an awning. Wearing sunhats. Squinting. It looks like they’re looking at a race. Horses, I think.

Mum nods. “The Queen’s parade.” “What?” “It was the Queen’s birthday.” “Ah!” “We were in Nicosia.”

Mum was born in Africa. A service kid, herself. She must be a teenager in the photo. It must be from the 1950s. The detail of that. The memory. Mum laughs. I wonder how she knows this. How she remembers. What prompts the brain. The sharp focus; the dull areas. It’s not to do with time. The dog was from the 1980s. Thirty years later. We move on - backwards in time but this is not relevant, I realise. This is my construct, on Mum. My logic. Nothing to do with her. Mum stops at a photo of herself. As a toddler. With my grandad. On a beach - somewhere. Grandad wears an all-in-one bathing suit. It must be the 1930s.

“Who’s that?” Mum says. “You, Mum.” “And the man?” “Grandad.”

Mum draws the photo closer. Her long fingers spilling over its shape. It’s a tiny image. But one that seems to delight her. She was always close to him - Daddy’s girl.

“Aha...” she says. “What skinny legs he had.”

We both laugh. And then Mum looks at me.

“I can’t fit it all in,” she says. “My brain.”

We put the photos away. As soon as they’re gone, Mum doesn’t dwell. She might have even forgotten them. I’m used to this now. Life’s a flickerbook. Moment here; moment gone.

“When’s tea?” She says. “I’m hungry.”

[rumchester]

Song

When I walk in, Mum’s under a crochet rug. In her chair, by the window. Her face is peaky but she looks peaceful. Her eyes glisten under her glasses; little dull beads. I’m carrying yellow roses & brassica. And 2 bars of Dairy Milk. Mum smiles - at me, the flowers and the chocolate. She looks overwhelmed. Giggles rip from her like song. I kiss her. Her temples are cool, sweaty. Mum’s watching Loose Women. The volume’s up. It’s loud. And there’s another noise - a buzzing. It’s the pump for her mattress, reverberating against the bed frame. I take the pump off the frame and put it on the chair. It’s less noisy.

Next, I find a vase for the flowers. I go into the side room. Where the laundry is and the bed sheets. I find an earthenware one, run some water into it. I go back to Room 14. Mum and I put the plant food in in the vase. We break open the packet and then squeeze it. Drops hit the water.

“That’ll keep the flowers going,” I say. “Yes,” Mum says. “Maybe we should take some.” “Ha!” Mum says. “Do you think it would work?”

I put the roses in the water. Then I put the vase on her dresser. I sit next to Mum. On a stool. We watch Loose Women. Caitlyn Jenner comes on. Mum likes Caitlyn’s hair; it’s very thick. I agree.

“Her voice is low, “ Mum says. “I guess,” I say. “So’s mine.”

We watch Caitlyn a bit longer. Then, when lunch arrives, we turn the TV off. Mum eats in her room now. Every day. It’s easier. She gets tired and it’s quicker with everything on the same tray. I eat opposite Mum on the stool. I put the napkin around Mum’s neck. Mum tucks in - she eats her soup, her sausage and mash, her broccoli. She complains everything tastes the same. It’s the pudding she savours. Pears and cream. Mum scoops up the fruit - not stopping to cut it. Cream splashes down her; pear juice; cinnamon dusting. I wipe Mum’s chin. She’s enjoying it. So much glee on her face.

Afterwards, when the trays are gone, we drink coffee and hit the chocolate. I open the Dairy Milk. Mum breaks off three squares. I take one. We guzzle.

“I miss chocolate,” Mum says. “Good isn’t it?” “It is good.” Mum looks at me.

Mum chews a bit longer.

“And I miss men.” “Ah...” I say. “Do you miss men?” Mum says. “Not really.”

Mum shrugs.

“Well I do.”

Mum eats another square of Dairy Milk. Soon her eyelids droop. I move her chair back. Reinstate the crochet rug. Mum sleeps with her glasses on. Slipping away. Her feet twitching on the foot rest. But elsewhere effortless. Still. Maybe dreaming of chocolate and men.

[rumchester]

Someone

Someone wrote on here yesterday how devasting Alzheimer’s is. On those that are suffering and in those that are watching. Something struck me. How this illness has also stripped me back; stripped me down. Mum has been ill for 9 years. She’s now in Stage 7. She can’t walk, or read, or write, or concentrate for long periods. She asks me the same questions every 8 minutes. She gets confused. She sleeps a lot. Sometimes she cries or asks to see her Mum. Every time I visit her, I steal myself; I try to become positive, enthusiastic; I try to keep her safe, cared for, amused. I turn myself into a blue coat on some surreal summer camp. I tell jokes, I read poems, I show her old photos. I bring her chocolates and flowers and wildlife books. Often, when I leave her, I cry. Not gut-wrenching but there. Wetting my face. It takes me about 24 hours to come round. But the impact is far-reaching. I have little energy. Small enthusiasm. No reserve. I get easily overwhelmed. Shut down. At tipping point. I struggle to stay close to people. I’m always waiting for the phone to ring - the home, the hospital. It’s living in semi-alert. I wonder how spouse carers cope. Or offspring who have moved back home. It’s the most challenging thing I’ve faced. To be in it. With Mum. As much as I can. But also to snatch onto myself. To keep going. To hold on. To not let the weeds of the disease drag me under. To remember there is life beyond it, and more, and more.

[rumchester]

Notes To Self When Being a Non-Binary Dandy In Menopause 1)Osteo care is Gold. 2) Ginsing is Gold. 3) Testosterone is Gold. 4) Resting is OK because you are weak & crashing fatigue is REAL. 5) Eating Haribo is OK because you crave youth & sugar is LIFE. 6) Wearing shirts is not OK because your armpits are swimming pools. 7) Wearing t shirts & short sleeve shirts is OK because your swimming pools need draining. 8) Puppy videos are not OK. Especially ones with Cavapoos and cross breeds in deer onesies - you will bawl. 9) Baby Elephant videos are not OK. Especially ones with rescused ones who still have furry heads - you will bawl. 10) The news - Brexit, May, Rees-Mog, Corbyn et al is - is not OK. You will want to lie in a darkened room. You will fall asleep. And when you wake up you will forget it is a darkened room and think someone has buried you alive. 11) You are still alive. Despite ZERO memory and ZERO bones. 12) Working out is God. 13) Tumeric & Black Pepper is God. 14) Janelle Monae is God. 15) HRT is overrated. It made you nauseous and calf-achy and hot (but not in a sex-positive way more in a I Need A Triple Bypass way.) 16) Brain fog is a pea souper. You will have days of Dickens- like scale. 17) Cardigans are interesting. 18) Trench coats are interesting. 18b) Sport Socks with cushioned soles are interesting. 18c) Slippers are the sweetest things. 19) Avoid crowds because rage. 20) Avoid cars because rage. 21) Avoid learning students’ names and new Blackboard systems because pea souper. 22) Look for Silver Fox. 23) Chanel Silver Fox. 24) Wear suits and attempt to embody Silver Fox without rage and pea souper and swimming pools and crashing fatigue and bawling. 25) Think of Tampons & laugh. 26) Think of Mooncups & laugh. 27) Think of periods & laugh. Then think of everyone of any gender struggling with sanitation and negative impacts of menstruation and get arrested by that. Go and lie in a darkened room. Get overwhelmed by biology & global poverty. 28) Donate your tampon money to Meghan Markle’s campaign. 29) Donate your kidneys. They’ve lasted long. 30) Respect your thyroid. 31) Respect your face cream. 32) Respect your mum. https://www.instagram.com/p/BnqKO-4BEiT-uq8d4IaQtPp_rSAwiHX4g8-JaI0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=17wlolwhdxc94

[rumchester]

Mum's been in her care home for 35 months now. Alzheimer's is a long road. And Mum is still going through so many changes. Her speech is going. Her sleep is increasing, her TV watching, her chocolate eating. Her memory is like a rabbit on the run. But the staff are amazing. We all hear the horror stories. And it's such a worry for families to have their loved one move out of their own home. But we've been very lucky. They accommodate us; they understand. Even when my brother had a manic episode and refused to leave Mum's room. Even with all his swearing and anger, they find a way through. With tact and good training. Mum doesn't recognise a lot of the staff. Just Morag who cuts her hair, and Samuel who changes her, and Monique who makes her face combust with pleasure. Many of the residents that first lived with Mum are now gone. Mum never talks of them. Although she talks of death, and walking, and sleeping, and chocolate! When I phone, Mum often tells me about her bedroom. As if she's just moved there. As if I've never seen it. She tells me about the big windows, and the lights on the hill, and the cherry tree. Like she's re-discovering itthis way. And sometimes, on better days, she says, "It's brilliant here." And I agree with her. Even though there are many other places, I'd like Mum to be. All things considered, it is.

#howwastheparty

#tumblrblog

#rumchester

[rumchester]

Potato

There's tinsel on every mantelpiece. Baubles in the lamps. Baubles in the branches outside. The Christmas tree in the corner has more tinsel, ornaments, robins, angels. The matron wears earrings with lights. Santa hands out presents.

There are new residents. And some regulars, I don't see. You learn not to ask. Stay in the moment. Mum likes the Santa. But he's pretty lack lustre. He apologises for wearing half the outfit. But I take a photo of him anyway.

Mum eats at the table. She recognises the turkey and the carrots and the Brussels. The only thing she struggles with is the roast potato.

"Shall I cut it Mum?"

"What?"

"The potato."

Mum points with her fork. "Is that the potato?"

"Yes."

I cut it up. Mum eats it. She finishes the pig in blanket. Her plate is cleared. Then Mum eats a Christmas pudding and cream. Later, she falls asleep at the table. Sitting upright in her wheelchair. Her eyes slipping shut. It's the first time she's done that.

After lunch, in room 14, she sleeps again. When she wakes, we eat chocolates. M&S. Straight from the box. Mum eats 2 truffles and a genache. Then I cream her face and file her fingernails. Her face is dry. She has chocolate in her cuticles. When tea is cleared, Mum wants to sleep again. I start to leave. Pack up everything. Put on my coat. Mum watches me.

"Phone me. Very soon."

I nod. I kiss Mum, promise to phone. I walk downstairs. Sign Out. At the car, my brother looks distracted.

"She's deteriorating," he says.

"Maybe."

"More confused."

I nod. "She's sleepy."

"Always, now."

I turn the car over. It's raining. I drive away. As I hit the motorway, I wonder how long Mum will sleep. How many chocolates she might eat. How much confusion will set in from now on. How fast she will deteriorate. I turn on the radio. Watch the headlights. And the rain. Put on the heating. Head back to London. Stay in the moment.

Stay in the moment.

#howwastheparty

#tumblrblog

#rumchester

[rumchester]

Soundtrack

"Where are you living at the moment?"

"London, Mum."

"Oh."

This a phone conversation. This is today. This is what we say...most times. When Mum picks up the phone that is. Sometimes, it rings and rings and she doesn't answer. Sometimes, she speaks but can't hear me. But today, she picks up and we talk. And Mum always asks me the same question. And my answer doesn't change. It hasn't for 30 years. Today, I can't decide whether the repetition is frustrating or strangely comforting. Like we're stuck in a loop. Forever asking. Forever telling. The same stuff. Over and over.

"I'm drinking coffee," Mum says.

"I'm drinking tea," I say.

"I love tea."

"I know. I love coffee."

"I know."

We talk on. It's routine. Uneventful. But I hear her voice. And she listens to mine. Sometimes, Mum gets a bit shouty. Or confused. But today, she seems content. She responds. She giggles. She even calls "Little One." The staff say when Mum talks about me, she often thinks I'm small. A toddler maybe. Or older. Maybe 8? Maybe 9. When I hear this... it makes me think about Alice In Wonderland or Benjamin Button. Reducing. Shrinking. Aging backwards.

The TV's on. I hear it. Mum's watching Homes Under The Hammer or Wanted Down Under. It doesn't matter. It's omnipresent. The TV. There must be 50 in the building. On most of the time. The sound of The Nursing Home. The sound of Mum's room. The sound of the other residents' rooms. The soundtrack to Mum's Alzheimer's.

The phonecall lasts 2 minutes. It's light. Easy. As ephemeral as air.

I say goodbye.

"Are you being looked after?" Mum says.

"Yes, Mum."

"That's good. I'm glad."

I think of Alice...

I think of Benjamin...

I hang up. Put the kettle on. Make a coffee. Listen to the sound of the fridge. And the birdsong.

#howwastheparty

#tumblrblog

#rumchester

[rumchester]

Sand

It's Mum's 3rd Christmas in the Nursing Home. She's doing OK. She eats well. She sleeps weell. She enjoys watching the TV. She likes facecreams and manicures and any kind of chocolate. Mum always loved cartoons and nature programmes. She's a big fan of David Attenborough and Blue Planet. Mum doesn't read anymore and she can't write. Or draw or paint. But sometimes, we look at wildlife magazines together. And she enjoys the pictures and the colours and the tones. This year, I've bought her the Blue Planet 11 book. And I'll wrap it up for her for Christmas. I can read out the longer passages and she can look at the dolphins, and the seed-spreading turtles, and the penguins and the marine meadows and the armoured octopuses, and all the whales covered in barnacles. And maybe she'll get a little transported. Out of her armchair into the deep, saline, sand stuffed waves.

#alzheimers #mum #blueplanet

#howwastheparty

#tumblrblog

#rumchester