Where Has Mummy Gone?: Part 3 of 3: A young girl and a mother who no longer knows her. Cathy Glass
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It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t add anything and thought I’d got away with it.
Amanda was sitting as usual in one of the high-backed chairs at the edge of the room, looking clean and well dressed in the clothes donated to the care home. They kept all the residents looking very presentable. The patio doors leading to the courtyard were open and two residents were pacing up and down outside. Many of the residents paced from time to time and I supposed it was part of their illness, although I hadn’t seen Amanda do it yet. The occupational therapist sat at the table, helping two ladies play a game of cards. She said a welcoming hello and asked Melody if she’d liked to bring her mother to join in. I went with Melody to Amanda and said hello as Melody kissed her cheek. She asked her if she wanted to play cards and, without replying, Amanda stood and went to the table.
Once they were settled, I sat in the chair Amanda had vacated with a resident on either side. The two care assistants in the room were busy with other patients. From where I sat I could see the game of cards and it was very slow. It seemed to be a form of snap where the players were meant to shout ‘Snap!’ when two cards that were the same appeared from the pack, but it had lost its usual fervour as Amanda and the other two residents had to be told when to call ‘Snap’. I think it was more to help them recognize the cards than win a game, although of course at her age Melody couldn’t appreciate that. After two very slow, laborious games, when there was no competition and Melody won easily, she lost interest and asked her mother if she wanted to go to her room. Amanda ignored her and the occupational therapist began to collect up the cards, ready to deal again for another game. I saw Melody place her hand on her mother’s arm and tug slightly, as children do when they want to attract a parent’s attention. Amanda reacted by slapping her daughter sharply on her bare arm.
‘Ouch!’ Melody said, rubbing her arm. ‘That hurt, Mum!’
‘You mustn’t slap,’ the occupational therapist told Amanda firmly.
I went over. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Mum slapped me,’ Melody said, clearly shocked.
‘She didn’t mean to,’ I said. I’d heard care assistants before tell residents not to slap, pinch, thump or grab, but Amanda hadn’t behaved like this towards Melody before. I assumed it was another indication that her illness was progressing. Amanda remained unconcerned by what she’d done.
‘Amanda,’ I said, leaning in towards her. ‘Melody would like to go to your room with you now. Is that OK?’
Amanda looked at me and then at Melody, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Go to my room,’ she repeated, and she stood and left the table.
I thanked the occupational therapist, and Melody and I followed Amanda out of the lounge and along the corridor. Although Mr Wilson’s room remained silent, Mr Andrews appeared from the opposite direction on his way to the ladies’ lounge making his ‘boo-boo’ sound.
‘Boo-boo,’ Amanda imitated as he passed.
Mr Andrews immediately stopped, turned and squared up to her. ‘Boooooooo!’ he shouted loudly, jutting out his chin aggressively.
‘Booooooo!’ Amanda yelled back, mimicking his posture.
Melody giggled, but I was concerned.
‘Come on, Mr Andrews,’ his care assistant said and, taking him by the arm, led him away.
Amanda looked as though she might go after him, so I linked my arm in hers and, drawing her away, said, ‘Melody wants to go to your room now.’ Which seemed to work and we continued along the corridor, Mr Andrews’ ‘boo-boo’ sound steadily receding. While the scene had had some comical elements, they had squared up to each other quite aggressively and if left unchecked it could have turned nasty. The care assistants often had to deal with small acts of aggression between the patients.
Once in Amanda’s room, Melody shared some of the cakes with her mother and then put the rest in the bedside cabinet and gave me the box from the previous week. At some point during our visits to her mother’s room Melody usually checked the cupboards and drawers to make sure her mother had everything she needed. Today in the top drawer she found the letter she’d written and was delighted. ‘Look, my letter! Did you read it, Mum?’
Amanda took the few steps across the room and snatched the letter, as she had with me the week before, and stuffed it into her pocket. Melody looked taken aback.
‘She probably thought you were going to take it from her,’ I suggested. ‘It’s very precious to her.’
‘I’m not going to take it, Mum,’ Melody told her. ‘I wrote it for you.’
Yet despite incidents like this Amanda still had flashes of lucidity and recognition. With the letter in her pocket for safekeeping, she took the photograph album from her bedside cabinet and, sitting on the bed, began looking through it, associating this act with Melody. Melody joined her, and as Amanda turned the pages Melody talked about each photograph as they had many times before. I thought it would make a nice picture – the two of them together – and I took my camera from my bag.
Melody, always happy to have her picture taken, smiled at the camera, but Amanda just looked blank.
‘Smile,’ I encouraged as I looked through the viewfinder. ‘Smile, Amanda.’ But no smile came. I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time and I knew that smiling was lost in patients with advanced dementia. I tried again without success and then took a picture. Although it wasn’t full face, it was nice and showed the two of them sitting close and looking at the album.
We stayed for an hour; it was long enough. When I said it was time to go Melody didn’t protest. ‘See you next week, Mum,’ she said. Then realized her mistake. ‘No. See you in two weeks.’ Neither of which meant anything to Amanda, for she’d long lost any sense of time.
She came out of the room with us and as we passed Mr Wilson’s room it remained quiet. Intrigued, Melody stopped and retraced her footsteps, stamping a little to see if she’d get a response. I knew then I’d have to tell her, but Amanda beat me to it. Having hardly said a word all visit, she suddenly said very clearly, ‘He’s dead.’ Then continued along the corridor to the main door.
Melody caught up with her. ‘What did you say, Mum?’ she asked.
Amanda looked at her nonplussed and didn’t repeat it.
‘I’ll explain once we’re outside,’ I told Melody.
Mr and Mrs Bennett appeared by the door and I saw Amanda looking at them with hostility for reasons I didn’t understand. Then, before the care assistant arrived to let us out, Amanda left and walked down the corridor in the direction of her room.
‘Bye, Mum!’ Melody called after her, but there was no reply.
As soon as we were outside Melody asked, ‘What did Mummy mean about Mr Aeroplane Man?’
I took her hand. ‘I’m afraid he’s died, love,’ I said gently as we walked. ‘He was very ill.’
‘Oh. My mummy is very ill. Will she die soon?’ Melody had asked me similar before and I always tried to be honest. ‘I don’t think your mummy will die yet,’ I said, ‘but you’re right, she is very ill.’ Melody accepted this, but again I wondered how much of her mother’s decline she should witness. It was impossible to predict how quickly the disease would progress, but from what I knew I thought it was likely that Amanda had many years before it proved fatal, by which time Melody would be older and hopefully able to understand and cope with what was happening. She’d also be in a better position to decide how often she wanted to see her.
On Saturday the weather was very warm for the end of May and while Adrian continued studying in his room, the girls and I went for a long walk in the woods – a local beauty spot not far away. On Sunday we went to see my parents, again leaving Adrian behind to study. He only had a couple more exams to do the following week and then he was finished, so it was worth making