 Martin Péchy Our guest contributor Sally-Ann writes movingly about her mother and dementia:
My mum is very dear to me. She was an amazing lady, always well dressed and maybe a little bit of a "snob" in an endearing way. When she became unwell it was initially hard to separate her desire to be "proper" from the signs of the illness. Mum would never give her birth date, as it was "private". She said "I'd rather be a loony than tell them how old I am." For the memory testing, Mum had to remember 3 words. After she passed, I found them written inside cupboards, her purse, handbag, the larder, the bedroom drawer. Every time I find another, I cry at how worried she must have been at that time. It wasn’t until we were asked about it that we realised just how long she had been struggling with confusion. We spent an afternoon in the lounge mainly in silence, just being in each other's company. I cried buckets as realisation of her illness dawned on both of us. After that I wrote my first poem, ‘My Mother’. In the chair, sits my Mother I know her like I know no other Sense of humour, air of grace Secret smile upon her face All appears as it should be As my Mum looks back at me In her hands a twisted tissue Indicates an inner issue Her manner hunts of slight confusion Is it real or an illusion Nothing concrete can I see As my Mum looks back at me Then she speaks, not quite her voice The words are not her usual choice Volume raised, slight tinge of fear Agitated, not quite clear Something’s not as it should be As my Mum looks back at me I concentrate upon her face And feel my pulses start to race Focus lost, what is she saying Inside I am busy praying It slips away, serenity, As my Mum looks back at me. After that time came the Angry Period: a time of sudden mood changes and ridiculous laughter at nothing in particular. She would swing from being in a temper to normal in seconds, leaving us open-mouthed at her behaviour. This period provided some humorous memories when she had passed. As she became more confused at life in general, her pleasure in hand holding and one to one contact increased. As I mourned the loss of my pre-dementia mum, it was my dementia mum that comforted me, with smiles, nods and contentment in my company. After this came the sadness of the Acceptance stage. Her beautiful eyes became empty, as did her mind. You could see the loss on her face and hear it in her voice. She kept her eyes shut for long periods and stopped speaking. Almost as if "not looking" took the hurt away. I remember writing a short verse: "I have not forgotten, like the pathways of your mind. My heart still holds the memories that your heart seeks to find. I miss you." And that was what hurt the most at that stage. I wanted to give her some of my memories to take away the look of loss in her eyes, but I couldn't. I just held her hand and cried, while she smiled and patted mine. We bonded in those silent days, when touch became so important to her. Her room became my place of safety, my crying, laughing, thinking and being place. I missed it when she passed. Talking about mum is an emotional release for me. It helps me to cry and let out some of the sadness. The thoughts get tangled in my head and putting them on paper and reading them back gives them clarity. It's helpful.
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