There was an article in last Sunday’s paper written by David Cameron – our erstwhile prime minister who famously led the country out of Europe and into chaos. (That’s my view. Might not be yours but that’s democracy for you). Aside from being prime minister and all, he also battled daily with the pressures and pain of having a mum who slowly succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Now I don’t have a deal in common with David, but I do have that. And he is a powerful advocate now for those living with this catastrophic disease, those who bodies and brains are mercilessly ravaged and those who sit with them and wait.
The article rang bells with me – not nice tinkly little meditation bells as favoured by Buddhist monks as a call to mindfulness, but humungous clappers like the Great Paul in St Paul’s Cathedral which weighs 16 tons and wakes up London daily.
My mum and I have diverged considerably in our expression of Christian faith. But that’s okay. We still love each other unconditionally. She held me up when I was widowed young, juggling daily the raising of two kids and a stressful job. The kids always had their piano lessons and Derby County season tickets, my mum the did the ironing, I did the cooking and we muddled along together.
But now she can’t do the ironing although she still thinks she can and tells me to take it to her. And I smile and stroke her hair and say I’ll bring it next time. So many lies. We lie all the time for those we love. We lie to the children and tell them a big man dressed in a red suit with a long white beard will bring them their heart’s desire on Christmas Day. We lie to our ancient parent and tell them they will come home with me one day, ‘when the weather gets better.’ It’s all lies but necessary lies if ever there can be such a thing.
And still my heart breaks. These times are precious with my mum as we sit together and pour over photos. People she remembers clearly, people born over a hundred years ago. And people she does not remember at all, born six, ten years ago. She knows that they are part of her, her blood runs in their veins and she looks hungrily for signs of connection, of recognition, of belonging.
And I chat to her companions on the road – the others who live with her, each in their own fragmented world. ‘Did Albert give you the money?’ one asks me anxiously and I say that he hasn’t yet. ‘Did you bring the rhubarb?' asks another and I confess not this time. 'What about the apples?' is the next question.
Another elderly gentleman tells me he’s waiting for the bus. A lady hurrying out of the lounge door says she has to get to Manchester. One tells me that her cat is outside and asks if I can let him in.
Money, apples, rhubarb, Manchester, cat. All ingredients of everyday lives and now they are the things that matter because they are what’s left. And they are sacred, they are sanctified, they are what make that person who they are. And I believe that God is in each of those impulses and needs and intentions. God has to be.
And then the time comes to say ‘goodbye’ when I have to leave and re-enter the world of the ‘normal.’ Of people out shopping and mending their cars and walking the dog. It’s her world too but one she can’t join in any more. And it breaks my heart and I think it breaks hers too. And she cries when I leave because I am her safety, her connection, her constant. And it’s the very hardest thing in the world for both of us.
And I lay my hand on her head and I say the blessing she recognises and which gives us both an enormous, immense comfort. ‘The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you and give you peace.’ And in my head, choirgirl that I am, I sing it to John Rutter’s beautiful tune and I am singing her to sleep, to calm, to contentment away from all the confusion and incomprehension of her everyday life where time is upended and daily routines no longer have the capacity to hold the glue together.
It's the longest goodbye.
I bought your book The Art of Spiritual Writing from Eden the other day. It looks good and is clearly written. I will recommend it to others. Perhaps you might like to read my book on Dementia - Helping Churches Become Dementia-Friendly published by Grove Books? My mother had dementia and I used to be a CPN for older people in Oldham, Manchester. I later was a university lecturer specialising in dementia and did a PhD on it. I am a Mancunian, now exiled in elsewhere an think my memories of Manchester will be amongst those I will have left if the more recent ones are lost.