I wait in the car outside the home, waiting for the Lateral Flow Test result. Part of me wants it to be positive, as an excuse not to go in. I’m unlucky in my wish as I have the all clear. I climb out of the car wearily, taking as much time as possible. My mind and my conscience wrestle. I need to do this, but I don’t want to do it.
It’s more and more difficult every day. My mother’s dementia has taken away the parent I once knew. Her long-term memories come to the fore as her most recent dissolve within seconds. Conversations circle between us. It feels like we are both trapped in a revolving door.
I explain for the fifth time this visit that my name is Dan. I’m her son. She nods her head this time, as if she knows who I am. Then a knock on the door captures her attention.
‘Quick, get into the wardrobe Daniel, my father will kill you if he sees you in my bedroom!’
Her brief moment of lucidity was just that. I am now Daniel, her husband. The nurse, and not her father, who has been dead for fifty years or more, pops her head around the door.
‘Fancy a cuppa, anybody?’
I jump at the chance to speak to somebody else.
‘I’d love a cup. Can I come and help?’
‘No, you just sit there and have a lovely chat with your mum. I’ll be back in a tick.’
My escape route has been blocked. I settle back into the visitor’s chair. I say the first thing that pops into my head. I’ve long ago given up trying to be entertaining. It doesn’t matter anymore if what I say is witty or not. My mother just needs some company during the long daylight hours. I admonish myself for my selfish behaviour, but still eagerly await the nurse’s return.
I wait for the biscuit conversation. I know it off by heart.
‘Shortcake, Mary? I know they are your favourites.’
My mother furiously shakes her head and turns away her head away from the proffered plate.
‘Well, what about a custard cream?’
My mother turns back and snatches the plate off the nurse.
The nurse gives me a knowing smile. I wish I could interact with my mother as her carers do. It’s definitely a vocation rather than a just a job for them.
We had never been a close family. I always feel I like am forcing it when trying to make small talk with my mother, as it was something we just didn’t do. I chastise myself once more as I realise I am watching the clock, waiting for my release from this torture.
Finally, I feel that enough time has passed and that I’ve salved my conscience. I stand up and go over to her chair. I kiss the top of this stranger’s head and say, ‘See you tomorrow, mum.’
