05/02/2020
The services I write do not dwell on the end, rather the journey made to get there. Often, people begin to fade away long before they disappear from our lives altogether. And sometimes we are gifted with moments of who they used to be when we are least expecting it.
My mum, Marjorie, suffers from Alzheimer’s.
Apparently the PC term is ‘living’ with Alzheimer’s but I’m here to tell you there is much suffering involved and not just by the person ‘living’ with this voracious disease.
But that’s not the point I want to get over in this post.
One of the first subtle signs, way back in the early days, was that mum would hold onto a vase of flowers long after it had lost its fragrant lushness.
She would insist that ‘there’s plenty of life in them yet’ and continue to top them up with fresh water. Even when only skeletal stalks remained and any resilient petals were brown and putrid, mum still saw the beauty in them.
Their drooping backs graced the window sill like a floral extra in The Walking Dead.
Fast forward 3 years or so to the present day, when mum can no longer work out how to cut the ends off a bunch of flowers, but still has a deep appreciation (as we all do) of the fantastic bouquets that Aldi sell for a mere £7.99.
Top tip- they last for AGES.
Which pleases mum no end as she checks the vase water levels regularly, leaning her china doll self precariously over into the hearth where they stand, to do so.
But even these blossoms of longevity have a shelf life and last week mum was back to insisting we could eke out at least another few days from them.
Those who care for a loved one with Alzheimer’s know that life eventually becomes a battle of wills, one the non-affected can never win.
In fact there is no battle as we’ve found the only option open to us is to acquiesce, to accept mum’s reality- sometimes reluctantly- but mainly without protest.
So, when mum insisted on pouring more water in the vase of brown and crispy roses, insisting that it would perk them up, I may have whispered under my breath (because sometimes it helps to make me feel better) that there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of that happening. Or words to that effect. It had been a very long day.
Then whad’ya know?
Two hours later I happened to glance at the previously mummified roses in the hearth. And there, raising its head in a final hurrah (because, to be fair, it was more of a reprieve than a reincarnation) was a cluster of pink velvet blush.
Mum was right. As, before all this dementia nonsense, she always was.
Because you see, like a rose that is not yet ready to fall, nestled amongst the furls of tragic redundancy, my beautiful mother still blooms.
