dementia

waving, and calling

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The outside of the building has kept its elegant facade, and the cool black and white tiles of the hallway, the low-hanging chandelier and the multicoloured blaze of the leaded light window are about as perfect as you’d want for a Regency costume drama – so long as you were careful to keep the burnished steel lift out of shot.

The voice on the intercom was pretty direct.
Come inside, get in the lift, don’t touch the buttons.

I do as I’m told, and wait.
Nothing happens.
Did I hear her right? I can’t understand why I shouldn’t press anything. Maybe she thinks I’ll be confused by the mezzanine floors? Maybe when the place was converted into flats there was some architectural kink, and people are always getting lost. I can’t believe it, though. It all seems straightforward.
I wait some more – for what, I’m not sure.
Eventually the lift shudders and I start moving up.

Mrs Rouncewell is there to meet me.
‘Hello!’ I say, slipping off my shoes and then immediately wondering where to leave them.
‘Oh – you don’t have to do that,’ she says, obviously relieved that I have. I put them down as neatly as I can side-by-side beneath the enormous, floor to ceiling artwork that dominates the hallway. We both look at them a moment, in the confused and slightly disappointed way two people visiting an art gallery might look at something they’re not sure is an exhibit or littering.
‘So… what’s with the buttons?’ I say at last, as she leads me through to the lounge.
Mrs Rouncewell gives me a measured smile that I take to mean she’s explained this a few times before.
‘The lift opens directly out into the flat. You have to use a code to make it work, but that’s too difficult to explain over the intercom, so it’s easier just to say don’t touch the buttons.’
‘That explains it!’
‘It’s a security issue.’
‘Unusual.’
‘Unusual? In what way?’
‘Having a lift that opens directly into a flat. I’d never thought about that before.’
‘Yes. Well.’
She waits to see if there’s anything else, then leads me up a short staircase into a gigantic room that must be the footprint of the house, the furthest wall replaced by a panoramic plate glass window, a section of which stands open, revealing an immaculate rooftop garden, bistro table and chairs, and beyond the filigree railings at the edge, a wide city vista of houses and office blocks, all on a shining blue sky.

Her mother is lying in a riser-recliner chair, a halo of fine white hair ruffled by the breeze from the window. She looks comfortable, but her dementia has left her with a flushed and approximate look. She orientates herself to the change in the room like a newly-hatched chick.
‘Hello’ I say, putting my bag and folder down and offering my hand for her to shake. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
She reaches up and takes my hand – then suddenly cups it with both of hers, so strongly it’s quite a shock, and keeps it there, like she’s scared if I let go she’ll rise up and float off through the window, and see the two of us, her daughter and me, hurrying out onto the patio, waving from the railings as she trails helplessly away across the rooftops.
Calling out, maybe.
Waving, and calling.

cynthia’s view

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Cynthia’s flat is above a laptop repair place on the high street.
‘Shame they don’t do people,’ she says. ‘I could do with some of that.’
It’s about as central as it’s possible to be, though, and handy for the shops, if only Cynthia didn’t have to negotiate a set of stairs so steep they may as well be a ladder.
‘I used to run up and down when I was younger,’ she says. ‘Not any more. Not with these knees. But what can you do? At least they match the rest of me.’
Cynthia has been referred to us for help following a bad chest infection, something she’s prone to after years of respiratory problems. By rights she should probably be in hospital, but she refuses to go.
‘I’m not going in just when Ted’s coming out,’ she says. ‘Who’d look after him?’
They’ve been married sixty years, the last three overshadowed by Ted’s dementia. He was admitted after a fall – ‘the bathroom, not the stairs,’ she says, crossing herself – and other complications. ‘He gets so distressed. That’s the hardest thing. Most of the time when he’s home he’s not too bad. He goes downstairs to have a smoke in the street. I have to keep watch out the window to make sure he doesn’t wander off, but he’s only done it a couple of times, and people know him round here. I get so exhausted the end of the day I hardly know what to do with myself. And I know what everyone thinks, the rest of the family, the doctor and everyone. They all think I should just put him in a home. But I couldn’t do it to him. He went into one a while back, to give me a break, and when I went to see him he was so upset I just said right, I’m fetching you back home with me and that was that. One day he had in there, and that was one day too many.’
I tell her we can have a look at how much help she’s getting at home. There are always things to be done.
‘That’s kind of you but don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’m coping alright at the minute. I mean – he gets up at six! The carers don’t show till nine or half past – and by that time I’ve washed and dressed him myself. So they end up looking around for something to do, and I feel guilty I’m wasting their time.’
I tell her it’s something to bear in mind, though.
‘I went to see him yesterday at the hospital,’ she says. ‘You should’ve seen him. He was sitting on the side of the bed with all his bags packed around him. The nurses said he’d been like that for hours. He keeps telling us he’s got to get home because he’s supposed to be looking after his wife.’
She laughs and shakes her head.
‘Honestly! He’s got no idea. But you know what? I think when he completely loses the plot and doesn’t know me or what’s going on, then I might think about putting him in a home. I don’t think we’re quite there yet, though. I suppose you just have to stay strong and take it a day at a time, don’t you? One day at a time. l mean – nothing lasts forever, does it? Hey?’

I’m guessing Cynthia is sitting in the same seat she uses to keep an eye on Ted when he’s down on the pavement, smoking. She stares out of the window now. It’s a bright, busy weekday lunchtime, and the street is pretty crowded – shoppers, school kids, office workers striding so purposefully their lanyards swing from side to side as they head for the fast food places.
‘Busy,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But it quietens down at night.’

the name of the fox

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Ray answers the door. I know from the referral he’s eighty something, but if you snatched a look on a foggy night after falling out of the pub you could be persuaded he was twenty-four. His skin has a deep leathery tan, hair dyed black, swept up in what would have been a substantial quiff in the late fifties; his teeth suspiciously even, cardboard white, his flowery shirt unbuttoned to the navel, revealing a slew of chains of differing lengths and thickness, pendants of silver and gold, crosses, St Christophers, a US dog tag, an Egyptian ankh.
‘Hi!’ he says. ‘Come in!’
‘Just a flying visit, Mr Clarke. The nurse asked me to drop by with a couple of things for Daphne.’
‘Daphne?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘Another lovely person to see you.’
‘Oh fantastic! Wowee!’ says a thin voice from the room straight ahead.
‘Go through’ says Ray.
‘Thanks.’

The lounge is a shrine to Elvis. Images of The King on everything, from mirrors and paintings and gold records and film posters, to ceramic statues, a throw over the back of the sofa, even the clock over the mantelpiece – Elvis in his Las Vegas incarnation, legs apart, arms windmilling the minutes and hours.
‘Hello, Daphne! Lovely to meet you. I’m Jim, from the hospital.’
‘Lovely to meet you, too!’ she says, holding on to my hand, squeezing it, gradually pulling me in. ‘Aren’t you handsome?’
‘You’re making me blush,’ I say.
‘Now, now,’ says Ray.
She laughs and releases my hand..
‘I’ve just dropped round to bring you this special cushion to sit on. To protect your bottom. And some cream for the carers to put on in the morning.’
‘Now – you hear a lot about the NHS,’ says Ray, taking the things off me. ‘But I have to say, we’ve had nothing but the very best treatment.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I say.

Daphne is beaming up at me from the armchair. I’m guessing Ray does her make up, because there’s something doll-like in the way the lipstick and rouge has been applied. She’s immaculate, though, as perfect as the figurine of Elvis, circa sixty-eight special, in a glass bell jar on the coffee table. She’s cuddling two soft toys, a fox in a waistcoat under her left arm, a scruffy looking teddy bear under her right.
‘And who are these two gentlemen?’ I say, patting the bear on the head. ‘They look amazing.’
‘Guess their names!’ she says.
‘Well – this one here, I’m going to start low and say … Ted!’
‘Yes!’ she says. ‘Now – what about this one?’
‘Mr Fox? Hmm. That’s a bit more tricky. But I’m going to take a wild guess, and I’m going to say… Elvis!’
‘No. It’s Montgomery. How do you do?’ and she offers up his paw for me to shake.