Where Has Mummy Gone?

by Cathy Glass

  Amanda took one and so did Melody.

  As they ate I took the opportunity to look around the room. The wall-mounted plasma-screen television was turned off, but light classical music was playing softly in the background. It was all women in this room and they were quiet, just the occasional cries of ‘Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch’ could be heard in the distance coming from Mr Wilson’s room. No one took any notice, so I guessed they were used to it.

  There were eight residents in the lounge, plus the female occupational therapist, and the care assistant who’d shown us in. All the residents were dressed smartly in their day clothes, were clean and had their hair brushed and styled. They wore slippers or light indoor shoes. Most of them seemed to be in their seventies, although there was one woman who could have been Amanda’s age. The two women sitting at the table with the occupational therapist were still concentrating hard on their basket making, weaving the raffia in and out of the frames. It was a simple activity, one enjoyed by quite young children, but they needed a lot of help. Other residents were slumped asleep in their chairs as Amanda had been, or sat gazing across the room, some making involuntary and repetitive movements. One was continuously tapping her feet, while another kept rubbing her hands together as if she were cold, although the room was stiflingly hot.

  Melody and Amanda were quickly finishing off the cakes, although Amanda hadn’t said anything – that they were nice or that she was enjoying them. Melody thought to offer me the last one, but of course I refused and she ate it. I was actually thirsty – it was a long time since I’d had a drink and I hadn’t thought to bring a bottle of water with me. A man shuffled in, tall and willowy, with his gaze down. He was making a strange ‘boo-boo’ noise with his lips. Melody looked over while the other residents ignored him. A care assistant appeared behind him, having followed him into the room. She lightly touched his shoulder. ‘Come on, Mr Andrews, this is the ladies’ lounge. The gentlemen’s lounge is this way.’ So I learnt that the men and women had separate lounges.

  He ignored her and, still making the ‘boo-boo’ noise, went right up to one of the women and just stood in front of her, shuffling his feet. Goodness knows what was going through his mind; perhaps he liked her and wanted her company. His care assistant gently turned him around and, once he was pointing in the right direction, he walked out again. She followed him, but a few minutes later he was in again, this time going to a different woman.

  ‘We know how much you like the ladies,’ the care assistant said with a smile, and steered him out. Again I thought how much patience these care assistants needed to do their job compassionately and competently.

  Amanda and Melody had finished the cakes and Melody brushed the crumbs off her mother, as I did sometimes to her. Returning the empty box to the bag, she took out the chocolates. ‘Just a couple,’ I said, ‘and we’ll leave the rest for your mother to have later.’

  Amanda shook her head, signalling she didn’t want a chocolate, so once Melody had eaten two I told her to close the lid and that her mother would enjoy them after we’d gone. She did as I asked and put them in the bag.

  ‘Perhaps your mother would like some grapes?’ I suggested. She didn’t. Amanda was now gazing absently across the room and I wondered if her medication included a sedative. Whenever I’d seen her before at the contact centre she’d been quite nervy and agitated. But if she was on medication it was nothing to do with me; it was a matter between her doctor and social worker.

  ‘Can we see Mummy’s room?’ Melody now asked me.

  ‘I would think so. Ask your mum.’

  ‘Mum,’ she said, tapping Amanda’s arm to get her attention. ‘Can we see your room?’

  ‘If you must, it’s very damp,’ Amanda replied. I guessed she was again remembering the flat where she’d lived before. But she stood, so I picked up the bag of food and my handbag, and Melody and I went with her.

  As we passed the care assistant I thought I should mention where we were going. ‘Amanda is going to show us her room. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Amanda seemed to know her way, so we followed her out of the lounge, down the corridor, then turned right and passed Mr Wilson’s room. ‘Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch,’ he cried.

  ‘No, you haven’t, you silly old bugger!’ Amanda returned, and continued on.

  I stifled a smile. A care assistant who’d heard this exchange walked on without comment – I supposed the staff were used to it – but it struck me as funny and bizarre. Despite her dementia, Amanda had known that Mr Wilson couldn’t possibly have a plane to catch and had retorted with a witty, if not polite, remark.

  The bedroom doors had the residents’ names printed on a small colourful card with their photograph beneath it, which would help them identify their room. Amanda knew where her room was without a problem and led us straight to it. It was large, comfortable and well furnished with a single bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, a small table and two dining chairs in the recess. An armchair was by the bed and an oblong mirror was mounted on the wall. Floral curtains matched the duvet cover and some scatter cushions, and an en-suite bathroom was through a door on our left. Yet despite the room being light, airy and comfortable, it had none of Amanda’s personal belongings in it as the rooms of other residents we’d passed had. The bookshelves and surfaces were empty, without the usual clutter you’d expect to find in a bed/sitting room – ornaments, books, magazines, CDs and so forth. The cork pinboard on the wall had one photograph on it and that was of Amanda – a copy of the one on the door – which I guessed had been taken when she’d first arrived.

  Melody was looking around the room, then began opening and closing the drawers and doors, exploring. ‘Those aren’t Mum’s clothes,’ she said, looking in the wardrobe.

  ‘Perhaps the home has given them to her,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask Neave where her own clothes are.’

  Melody opened the bathroom door and went in. ‘This is nice.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. Scrupulously clean, tiled from ceiling to floor, and with a gleaming white porcelain bathroom suite, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a decent hotel.

  ‘Her room is much nicer than the flats we lived in,’ Melody said, coming out of the bathroom. Then to her mother, ‘It’s not damp, Mum.’

  ‘That’s because I scrubbed all the mould off before you came,’ Amanda replied.

  ‘I think your mum is getting confused with some of the flats you lived in,’ I said, for Melody might have believed it was true.

  ‘She often gets confused,’ Melody said, then, ‘I need to use the bathroom. Can I use this one?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t see why not,’ I replied.

  She went in and closed the door.

  Amanda was standing in the centre of the room and I went up to her. ‘Amanda, I’ll put your grapes in the bowl here, shall I?’ There was an empty wooden bowl on the table. I took the grapes from the bag – I’d washed them before we’d come – and set them in the bowl. Melody had also put a banana, apple and tangerine in the bag and I set those in the bowl too. Amanda was watching me, but her face was expressionless. She could always take them out if she didn’t want them there. ‘I’ll put your box of chocolates and packet of biscuits here,’ I said, and placed them on the table beside the fruit bowl. Then I took out the card Melody had so carefully made and, opening it, set it on her bedside cabinet.

  ‘Melody made the card for you,’ I told her.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Cathy, Melody’s foster carer.’ I smiled. What a frightening place dementia must be, not being able to retain information. ‘Melody is staying with me for now,’ I added.

  Amanda gave no indication she’d understood but was looking at the card. ‘You’ll be able to see it at night before you go to sleep and first thing in the morning. Melody made it for you,’ I repeated. ‘Next time we visit I’ll bring in some photographs of Melody and we can put those on your pinboard.
’

  Her gaze went to the pinboard, so I thought she’d understood at least some of what I’d said. Melody came out of the bathroom and I showed her where I’d put the items – the food on the table and her card by the bed.

  ‘Do you like the card I made for you?’ she asked her mother.

  ‘Yes,’ Amanda said blankly without any emotion, and she headed out of the room.

  ‘Can’t we stay here, Mum?’ Melody called after her, but she’d gone.

  ‘I think we should go with your mother,’ I said. It didn’t feel right staying in her room without her.

  Amanda was waiting for us in the corridor and we followed her in the direction of the lounge. There were always plenty of care assistants around and I guessed homes like this one must need a very high staff–patient ratio to look after so many vulnerable patients. As we approached Mr Wilson’s room it was quiet, but as soon as he heard our footsteps outside he called, ‘Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch.’ We couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see us, so I guessed his calling out was triggered by hearing someone pass his room. What had led to this was impossible to know; perhaps he’d missed a plane in the past and it was playing on his mind. I didn’t know if he was in bed or sitting in his armchair – his door, like many others, seemed to be left ajar, but it didn’t allow you to see that far into the room.

  Amanda led us back into the lounge and we returned to the chairs we’d been in before. A male care assistant was now sitting in the chair next to me and he smiled and said, ‘Hello, you’ve come to visit Amanda?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve brought her daughter.’

  ‘That’s nice. Amanda doesn’t have many visitors. Are you a relative?’

  ‘No. Foster carer. Her daughter is staying with me.’

  He nodded. ‘It must be difficult for her.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  He was very pleasant, softly spoken, slightly built, with a kind and caring nature, and seemed genuinely interested in his patients’ welfare. Amanda was staring blankly across the room, while Melody was looking longingly at the basket-weaving going on at the table. The occupational therapist saw her looking.

  ‘Would you like to make a basket?’ she asked Melody.

  Melody was immediately on her feet. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Bring Amanda with you and you can make one together.’

  ‘Mum, come on, we’re going to make a basket,’ Melody said, tugging at her mother’s arm. Amanda didn’t appear very interested but eventually succumbed to her daughter’s insistence and went with her to join the other two ladies at the table. The occupational therapist gave them a basket frame and raffia and explained what to do. Amanda held the frame while Melody began weaving the raffia in and out.

  ‘Being a foster carer must be a difficult job,’ the male care assistant sitting next to me said, making conversation.

  ‘Not as difficult as yours,’ I replied.

  He smiled. ‘I like my job. Some of my family and friends don’t understand why I would want to do it.’

  ‘I think I can.’

  As Melody and her mother wove their basket, we continued talking and I learnt that he’d been a nurse in the Philippines before coming to England five years ago. He was married, with a six-month-old baby. ‘Some of my patients are like babies,’ he said, but in the nicest possible way. I asked him when the residents had dinner, for it was about the time we usually had our dinner. He said they had their main meal at lunchtime, then a light meal around four o’clock, as it was better for their digestion and they went to bed early. While we talked he was continually looking around the room to see if any of the residents needed anything, when he would immediately go to them to give them a drink, raise or lower their footstool, or adjust a cushion so they were more comfortable. I saw that many of the patients had dementia far worse then Amanda and it was affecting their motor skills, as I assumed it would Amanda’s eventually. It’s a cruel disease that can’t be cured at present, so all the carers could do was to make their patients as comfortable as possible while they deteriorated – unlike my role as a foster carer, where I saw the children I looked after grow and flourish.

  On one of the male carer’s trips to fetch a cup of water for a resident I asked if it would be possible for me to have one too. ‘Of course, and Melody,’ he said, and brought us both a cup of water. ‘Any time you want a drink just ask at the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sat beside me again. It was dark outside now and through the glass patio doors blue and white fairy lights could be seen strung across the courtyard, giving it a magical feel – quite a contrast to the grim reality inside. I took the opportunity to ask him about the residents’ belongings. ‘When Amanda showed us her room I noticed there was nothing of hers in there. No personal items.’

  ‘Some patients don’t have much from home, while others have a lot and their rooms are crammed full,’ he said. ‘It relies on the next of kin bringing in their belongings.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Amanda’s social worker,’ I said. ‘There are clothes in her wardrobe, but her daughter doesn’t think they’re her mother’s.’

  ‘If patients don’t bring clothes from home then we provide what they need from clothing donated by relatives when a person passes.’ I nodded. It was a sad but practical solution. ‘We also give them toiletries, toothbrushes – in fact, whatever they need,’ he added. He then had to leave to take a patient to the bathroom.

  A young woman in her twenties came in and sat beside one of the elderly residents. I heard her say, ‘Hello, Gran, how are you?’ The old lady muttered something unintelligible and dribbled. Her granddaughter wiped the saliva away with a cotton handkerchief kept on the woman’s lap, and then began talking to her in an upbeat voice, telling her about her day. I thought how sad it must be for her to see her beloved gran like this. I greatly admired her courage to see through the old lady’s dementia to the person she once knew and cherished.

  It was now 6.30 p.m.; we’d stayed longer than I’d anticipated. I waited until Melody and her mother had finished their basket-weaving, and then said to Melody we needed to leave now.

  ‘She can take her basket home with her,’ the occupational therapist said. ‘Amanda can always make another one.’

  I thanked her and then told Melody to say goodbye to her mother. I was wondering if she’d resist, wanting to stay longer, but with the basket in one hand, she gave her mother a hug with the other and kissed her cheek. ‘Bye, Mummy. See you soon.’

  ‘Bye,’ Amanda said spontaneously, then her expression changed and she looked very anxious. ‘Before you go you need to help me clear up. That social worker will be here soon and the place is a mess.’ Clearly she’d reverted again to another time and place.

  ‘Everything is fine, Amanda,’ the occupational therapist reassured her.

  ‘Everything is fine,’ Amanda repeated.

  Melody kissed her mother’s cheek again. I said goodbye and we left the lounge. We walked down the corridor, and passed a man trying to take his trousers off; a care assistant rushed to stop him and Melody giggled. Then we approached Mr Wilson’s room. ‘Nurse! Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch.’

  Neither of us commented; we were already getting used to it.

  At the main door I signed us out in the Visitors’ Book, then pressed the bell for a care assistant. There was a swipe-card entry system and a notice above it asked visitors to ring for assistance. Almost as soon as I’d rung the bell, the couple who’d been at the door when we arrived appeared. Pushing in front of us, they began knocking on the door again, wanting to be let out, although there was no one on the other side. Melody looked worried. I took her hand and whispered, ‘Don’t worry.’ A few moments later a care assistant arrived, gently moved the couple away from the door and then swiped her card in the reader. I thanked her and we left quickly before the couple could follow us. As soon as the door closed they were on the other side, knocking on the glass. I glanced back.
Clearly they needed secure residential care, but never before had I been so aware of how precious our freedom is. Freedom of mind and thought, freedom of movement – to come and go as we want. Like many, I took my freedom for granted, but I wouldn’t again. It was a chilling thought that possibly one day I might be behind that door, in need of full-time care but desperate to get out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Staying Positive

  Outside the night air had chilled and the rural setting that had seemed so pleasant and tranquil on the way in now felt isolated and eerily quiet. The street lamps glimmered in the distance, but the gardens at the front of the care home weren’t illuminated as the central courtyard had been. The shrubs, chairs and benches loomed now as menacing shadows and the dark hills beyond blended in with the skyline. As our solitary footsteps echoed down the path Melody held my arm and neither of us spoke until we were in the car.

  ‘Why can’t the people who live here get out?’ Melody asked as I closed my car door.

  I turned in my seat to look at her. ‘Because everyone living here needs to be protected. You remember how worried you used to be when your mummy got lost? Well, I think most of the residents here would get lost too.’

  ‘Some of them are very odd and a bit scary.’

  ‘I know, love, but they can’t help it. It’s part of their illness. It can seem strange, but they won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I forgot to tell Mummy what Miss May said about me doing well at school,’ Melody said sadly.

  ‘We will tell her next time.’

  ‘And I didn’t watch my television programme,’ she lamented.

  ‘No, but you made a basket instead.’ She was holding it on her lap. ‘I’ll get us home now and we can have another chat later.’ It was getting late and I expected Melody would have plenty of questions about her mother and the care home.

  It was a relief to be driving through the housing estate again – a welcome return to normality – then into the bright lights of the town. Every so often I glanced in the rear-view mirror at Melody, who was gazing through her side window deep in thought. It was a lot for a child to process: not only seeing her mother’s worsening dementia, but the behaviour of the other residents. While they weren’t responsible for their behaviour – as I’d told Melody – it was still quite an experience to see so many people together exhibiting erratic and sometimes bizarre behaviour.