Mumaggedon

Ran into an old acquaintance the other day who told me excitedly that they were now, “in renewable energy.” “Have you met my mum?” I answered. They were somewhat baffled but I was serious. Whatever force is driving my 95-year-old mother into another winter, it seems more reliable than the sun.

The obvious and traditional answer to this apparent mystery of maternal power would be food, and the time-honoured process of metabolism by which it is converted into energy. Except that last time I made dinner mum said, “I’m stuffed” and fed the rest of her portion to my brother’s dog. The canine connection is apposite since the miraculous energy puppies access from a handful of dry biscuits seems to stem from the same mystical font as my mum’s late life flair for transmuting the occasional mouthful of this and that into almost a century of survival.

OK – she isn’t chasing any sticks, but it is still remarkable. Until last month I was part of a trio of friends, all of whom had surviving mums in their mid-nineties. Over the course of a week, a week we now refer to as ‘Mumageddon’ both my friend’s mum’s died. It feels useful to note how upsetting I found this, and I think that was because my own mother’s mortality is much on my mind – or perhaps I should say I am constantly maintaining my defences around it – whereas the passing of my friend’s mums, one in particular, really took me by surprise. So I am alone then – last mum standing – though not as alone as I will be.

Meantime I take mum’s survival and relative stoicism as a lesson in itself – if she can do this, so can I. In an effort to get my head around where her head is at I have been studying Oliver James’ book ‘Contented Dementia.’ Contented Dementia: A Revolutionary New Way of Treating Dementia : 24-hour Wraparound Care for Lifelong Well-being : James, Oliver: Amazon.co.uk: Books Since my own book came out https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/the-reluctant-carer/the-reluctant-carer/9781529029390 James’ has been frequently recommended to me, and so, despite some resistance to abandon my own ‘make it up as you go along’ policy I decided to buy the book and take some advice.

At the book’s opening James outlines three points as the foundation of his approach, one of them is “always agree with everything they say, never asking questions.” As you will have instinctively understood, this is as not as simple as it sounds. “We haven’t seen much of Dad lately,” says mum. Where once I might have pointed out gently that her husband – my father – passed away two and a half years ago, I adopt the new strategy instead and answer. “I haven’t seen him, and I’d be worried if I did.” This works, Mum laughs, and does a plausible impression of seeing a ghost. This would not have been the case if I had simply set her straight, however gently. So this method is much in favour now, although compared to some of the allegations against reality that I hear these days – that was an easy one.

The book also explores how dementia gets in the way of forming new memories. I realise that something similarly dementia-like is happening to me thanks to mum’s carer’s addiction to greatest hits radio. The non-stop eighties soundtrack that accompanies my interactions with my parent in her nineties adds the emotional complication of making me feel as though I am sixteen. This is amplified by the fact this is taking place in the same house I lived in when I was sixteen. So I do the elderly stuff while another part of me is convinced by music that I am going out for the evening. It is an odd juxtaposition until I realise what teenage and present predicament me have in common is that we are both trying to work out what women are thinking. I would page Dr Freud but I think he’s busy. I must make do with Dr and the Medics, and the beat goes on.

The Naked and the Dad.

nude review I am trying to remember when it became normal here for someone to be naked. It wasn’t like there was a meeting. One day, and this must have been back when dad could get upstairs, nudity became unremarkable. It happened on the landing.

The landing has long been the main intersection of domestic life. Like all crossroads it has known busy periods — when we were kids — and quieter moments. My return, itself sparked by a distant collision of sorts, has bought fresh traffic to this neglected junction.

For a time my needs ran contrary to my father’s*, who, like a slow-moving vehicle executing some precise manoeuvre would spend hours in the bathroom while we, the lesser traffic, could merely fume and queue. Now his needs outweigh his worries about his hairstyle**, and it is from this dynamic that the unbridled nudity (as oppose to the everyday nudity) began.

Getting to the bathroom ahead of him had become a daily mission, and in what seemed to me an attempt to thwart this he would emerge naked sometimes from his bedroom, just as I was closing on my objective (the bathroom), shuffle in before me and close the door. And that would be that. Any plans for ablution on hold, sometimes for over an hour.

The nudity acted as a kind of rebuttal. A technique. You don’t really want to argue with a naked person. I once confronted*** a burglar who could probably have killed me, when I was naked, and they fled, so I am thinking this is true.

naked

Anyway, those were the good old days (and one of the instructive aspects of living with folk in physical decline is that you wake up to what a movable feast our idea of what a pleasent memory can be — today’s anger becomes tomorrow’s sepia dream). One morning he pulled me up on the landing and started talking about something while naked, this was new. Alzheimer attenae ever-twitching I was moved to ask, “You do realise you’re naked?” He just looked at me like I was an idiot, convincingly so. And from then on, naked was the new normal.

We’ve come along way since then, although now upstairs is off limits, we move hardly at all, but a lot of this is naked. I mean I like it****, it’s progressive. Besides, the stuff inside my father forces itself out so often that I now take a certain pride in keeping his nude and blotchy mosaic of flesh in good condition, like polishing an old car. It doesn’t matter if you don’t move it, so long as it shines.

shining07

* Mum is usually up first, this has always been the way. I am a loiterer, like my old man, hence the congestion.

** One of the many small sadnesses that accompany old age… seeing someone meticulous about their apperance gradually resign their values, and then give up altogether. Keeping them tidy then becomes a kind of tribute act. And there’s nothing wrong with those.

*** Shouted at.

**** Sometimes I hate it.