Fading from Memory

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Wednesday 2 July 2008

Housing plans

By Mike on Wednesday 2 July 2008, 21:35 - Journal

Slowly, we have gone round and round and finally decided on what to do with the house that mum and dad lived in for over 20 years.

The answer is: what we originally thought, we shall rent it out to tenants after first getting it renovated to an acceptable standard. Consequently, Greg, Rachel and I all gathered there at 1 pm on Sunday, armed with rubber gloves and some fresh milk. We had the goal of going through the house and performing a kind of triage on everything. Each item would be consigned to one of three groups:
  1. items to keep
  2. items to sell
  3. items to throw away
Starting seemed to be the hardest part. We talked about what we might do, where we might put things, without actually doing anything. Eventually I picked up a worn and faded cushion.
'Do either of you want this?' I asked. Both Greg and Rachel said they didn't.
'Will anyone buy it? No, they agreed.
'So, it's rubbish,' I declared, slinging it out the doorway and across the lawn to the skip that had been placed in the drive. And so we started.

The enormity of the job became clear very early on. Behind every object was another. When chests were moved, they revealed a sediment of objects that had fallen down the back of their drawers. There were scatterings of tissues and half-empty food packets, banana skins and clothing in unexpected places. As we pulled furniture away from the wall the dust rose in a cloud.

Floor space disappeared rapidly. The lounge became a staging area for items we will sell. Very soon we could hardly move through it. The dining table, fully extended, was nowhere big enough to hold the hundreds of ornaments that mum had collected over the years.

But among all this unwanted furniture and kitsch, we found some gems: mum's Kodak camera, which travelled with us for many miles and many years; dad's masonic medals (which kept turning up in odd places), the colourful blanket that mum crocheted and draped over us when we were small and sick; my laundry bag from boarding school days, a chest of drawers which, upon inspection, looks very much as if it was made by our grandfather.

We made great progress, but not enough. Next Saturday we must reassemble and finish the job and, then, some time after that, return to oversee the garage sale that will liquidate a lifetime's material accumulation.

I found the day enjoyable. It was good to work together as we did. It was a task that I had been itching to do for many years (and which really should have been done many years ago, by mum and dad themselves). And there was a sense that our endless evolving problems were finally refining themselves into a clear and contained shape: mum and dad's health.

All other issues are now under our control.

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Friday 6 June 2008

Return visit

By Mike on Friday 6 June 2008, 19:03 - Journal

I was late getting over to see mum and dad again today, and knew almost before I left that the plan to go out for coffee was not feasible. I arrived at some time after 1 pm and expected lunch to be only just finished. Into dad's area I went, very determined this time to spot him as soon as possible and not make the mistake of overlooking him again. I walked past two small people watching TV near the door and wandered all over the complex. He was nowhere to be found, so I decided to start my search all over again. I went back to the door and there he was - one of the first two people I looked at. He was huddled up asleep in a double armchair and, as I said, just looked far too small to be my father. When I mentioned to Greg that I had failed to recognise him on Wednesday this week, he said 'that makes three of us.' Apparently both he and Rachel have had the same experience.

I shook dad gently and spoke to him but he was fast asleep. I went next door and found mum. She was happy to come out with me for a walk, so I led her back the way I'd come - to see dad. We found him still asleep and I tried to get mum to sit next to him but she didn't want to. It was as if I was trying to fix her up with a stranger. So, we left dad for the second time, oblivious of the fact that his family had come to visit. Mum and I returned to her area and had a cup of tea kindly provided by one of the staff. I asked mum a few questions, just to see what level of understanding she retained - I have to say that there just wasn't any. She doesn't know waht her name is, how many children she had, and nor does she recognise our names either.

When I came to leave she got up and followed me. I had to circle around and lead her back to another armchair. This kept happening - every time I got up to leave, so did she. I resorted to subterfuge in the end; I sat her down next to a chatty lady who offered her a tissue, and while she was distracted I silently got up and slipped away.

Altogether - not a very satisfactory result at all.

I drove on to Greg's place and we redid the finances for mum and dad. It only took about an hour or so, and the final result there was a good one. Our parents have enough to keep them going with a reasonable surplus each year, and our plans for the house and its contents all now seem settled and manageable. This, at least, is a relief.

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Wednesday 4 June 2008

Overdue visit

By Mike on Wednesday 4 June 2008, 20:27 - Journal

I went into dad's section and looked for him all over, finally going to the desk and asking where he was. He was sitting right behind me, and I'd walked right past him. Neither of us had recognised the other.

I think I'd glanced at him on the way in, because I think I looked at everyone, but obviously his appearance didn't ring any bells. I knelt down and saw only that he recognised me but couldn't identify me. 'Do you know who I am?' I asked. He hesitated. 'I'll give you a clue: I'm one of your sons,' I said. Even then, I had to introduce myself.

Dad immediately asked if I had come to take him out, take him home. I said I hadn't, but that we could go out to a cafe if he liked. 'Then go home after that?' he asked. Again I had to disappoint him. By the time we had got a key, found his room, and got him into his shoes and jacket, it was looking as if my time was running out. I walked him out and round to the door next door, passing my car on the way. 'See that car, dad? That used to be yours.' He seemed amazed.

Mum's eyesight is incredible; she saw us right across the room as soon as we came in, and returned my wave. Mum and dad kissed, and then I found a double armchair for them to sit in together. They don't speak. Dad just likes to sit there and mum usually doesn't mind, as long as there is one of us there too. I took a good photo of them. Mum tried to tell me long and complicated things about things, but it is all just soft grunts and mumbling sibilance now. Only occasionally do phrases like 'and so', 'but then' come out. Dad soon closed his eyes and appeared to doze off. He tapped his foot and mouthed lyrics to the music that was playing ('Wonderful wonderful Copenhagen' and 'Hands, knees and bumpsadaisy'). He also opened his eyes and grinned when he heard me talk about him.

By this time I was sure that the trip outside had been forgotten, and so I took dad back and promised to be there again on Friday. Mum had seemed quite anxious at times. She put her head in her hand and almost began crying at one point. I had to keep telling her 'It's all right, mum. Everyone's looking after you.' She looked at me in a strange way when I said this, as if to say, 'Is it? It is really all right? Are you sure? Oh, I do hope so!'

Mum's area seems a bit nicer than dad's, which smells more strongly of urine, and has some noisy residents who irritate dad - people who repeat the same thing over and over all day, or keep laughing loudly. I feel sorry for him. He wasn't able to cope any more on the outside, but I think he deserves a bit better than what he's ended up with inside.

Dad's lost his glasses, so Greg has ordered two new pairs, each of which will have his name engraved in the glass. This will mean that if anyone else takes dad's, the staff ought to be able to see the mistake, and if they simply get lost, they should be easily returned. One wonders why all the residents don't have this. Instead they have sticky labels attached to their glasses, which they always pick off.

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Friday 23 May 2008

Stability

By Mike on Friday 23 May 2008, 16:16 - Journal

While things may not be ideal, or even as good as they were a short while ago, it seems we are getting back to some kind of even keel.

Dad has started to attend his exercise classes again. Greg visited recently and took him to see mum. Twenty minutes was enough, and then he was ready to go back to his own section. Just like mum now, he is being led around by other people, and seems to have lost his own initiative, which was tenuously alive until only a few weeks ago.

So, for now, they live within a few metres of each other; mum completely unaware that dad is there, or even that he is her husband, dad perhaps knowing that somewhere he has a wife, but not sure where. All they have, between them, would barely fill a trunk, but it is more than they need or want.

The last time I saw dad it took him a long long time to recognise me, and I do not think it will be long before he forgets my name. I am visiting infrequently now, so I am not doing my chances of being remembered any good at all. The thing is that I don't feel it is any use. People say that it is, but it doesn't feel that way. It depresses me, and mum and dad forget my visit a few minutes after I've left. Yes, but they enjoy it while you are there, people say. Perhaps. The possibility of a vague short term pleasure seems such a small and nebulous pay-off. Every day I seem to have other things I feel I ought to be doing instead. So every day another day slips by. Writing this makes me think: well, it's about time you drove over and made another visit. It feels like a duty, it's not something that comes from within.

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