by Cathy Glass
‘I don’t know. No one knows when they are going to die. But Miss May said her father was very well looked after. So that’s good.’
‘She said it was a release. What did she mean?’
‘That he’s at peace now.’
Melody nodded. ‘I told her about Mr Boo-Boo and she said he was there when she went. But she didn’t see anyone pull down their trousers.’
‘Good.’ Any conversation about dementia and dying was going to be difficult, but Miss May, having had the experience of her father being in the care home, was well qualified to answer Melody’s questions and reassure her. I knew she’d have handled Melody’s comments sensitively and appropriately.
‘Lizzie doesn’t know anyone in a care home,’ Melody declared as though she was missing out. ‘So I told her what it was like, but I didn’t laugh about Mr Boo-Boo.’
‘Good girl.’
‘Lizzie did, though.’
‘She doesn’t understand,’ I said. ‘It sounds as though you are good friends with Lizzie so shall we invite her to tea next week?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Great. I’ll speak to her mother in the playground tomorrow and arrange it.’
The week progressed more or less as I’d anticipated, although with four children in the house there was always a minor drama or catastrophe to sort out – often as a result of an item becoming lost due to it not being put away in the first place. On Thursday evening Melody and I made the cupcakes and we all ate two each while they were still warm and the rest I put on a cooling rack for icing later. Melody wrote a large sign (I helped her with the spelling) – KEEP AWAY. MUM’S CAKES – and propped it by the rack.
As we were seeing my parents at the weekend I was planning to take Melody to visit her mother on Friday after school as we had done the previous week – I’d take sandwiches, crisps and a drink to see Melody through to dinner. It was March now; tulips had joined the daffodils in the garden and the days were gradually lengthening. I was looking forward to being able to drive back from the care home in the daylight, although that wouldn’t be for another couple of weeks yet.
On Friday I made dinner before I left, with a note to Adrian, Lucy and Paula telling them the time it needed to be put in the oven and the heat setting. I then checked I had everything we were taking. There were two carrier bags ready in the hall, one of which contained, among other things, a potted plant I thought Amanda might like. I collected Melody from school and drove to the care home. We arrived just before five o’clock, let ourselves in the outer doors, signed the Visitors’ Book and then Melody pressed the bell to be admitted. Within seconds the couple we’d seen the week before appeared on the other side of the door, the man knocking on the glass and the woman, now with her handbag over her arm, pointing to the lock. It was sad but whereas the first time we’d met them Melody had found their behaviour unsettling (as indeed I had), now they were more familiar they didn’t hold the same threat. Melody said simply, ‘They’re here again,’ and then gave them a little wave.
‘I can’t unlock the door,’ I said, and shook my head. It didn’t stop them trying, though, and they continued their fruitless attempts to leave until a care assistant appeared. She moved them aside and quickly let us in.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We’ve come to see Amanda. Is she in the lounge?’
‘I think so, most residents are. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
We left her talking to the couple, trying to persuade them to do something else. ‘Mr and Mrs Bennett, we’re not going out today, it’s too cold.’ So they were married, which seemed bittersweet: lovely that they were together, I thought, but sad that they had both succumbed to dementia and had to live here rather than in their own home.
Melody slipped her hand into mine as we set off along the corridor. ‘I wonder if Mr Aeroplane Man is in his room,’ she whispered, giving him a name as she had Mr Boo-Boo.
Mr Wilson was in his room, and as we approached his slightly open door he called out, ‘Nurse! Come quickly, I have a plane to catch.’
Again, Melody didn’t seem quite so perturbed by this as she had last week. I think giving the patients names helped; it made them seem more like characters in a film and therefore less intimidating.
‘Can we take Mummy straight to her room so we can put her things on her shelves?’ Melody asked.
‘Yes, if she wants to.’
The lounge was fuller than on our last visit and most of the chairs were occupied. Not only were there more residents in there, but there were three visitors, including the granddaughter we’d seen the week before, and two care assistants. The table in the centre where the occupational therapist had been was empty. I saw Amanda on the far side of the room, curled into a chair. With her legs drawn up under her she seemed even smaller in the high-backed chair, child-like and vulnerable. ‘Over there,’ I said to Melody. Amanda was gazing at the television on the wall that was switched on but with the sound off. As we approached her gaze shifted to us.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ Melody said, and kissed her cheek.
Amanda looked at her daughter, but her expression remained blank as if she could have been anyone.
‘Hello, Amanda,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
She looked at me, but again without any sign of recognition.
Melody and I stood as the seats either side were occupied, then I squatted a little so I was at eye level. ‘Melody’s had a good week at school,’ I said. ‘Her TA wanted you to know.’
‘Good,’ Amanda said.
‘I’ve made you some more cakes,’ Melody said. ‘And I’ve bought ornaments for your room. Can we go to your room now?’
Amanda must have understood, for, unfolding her legs, she stood and made her way across the lounge. We followed, and as we left the lounge Mr Andrews shuffled in on his regular route to visit the ladies, and making his ‘boo-boo’ noise. I saw a smile cross Melody’s face, but to her credit she didn’t laugh, although his behaviour was bizarre. A care assistant had followed him in and now said, ‘Come on, Mr Andrews, you’ve seen the ladies, let’s go to the men’s lounge now.’
Amanda didn’t give him a second glance, apparently seeing nothing unusual in his behaviour, but as we passed Mr Wilson’s room and he called out that he had a plane to catch she responded with, ‘Be quiet, you daft bugger!’ She’d said similar the week before and these flashes of apparent lucidity struck me as odd. What was in her mind that allowed her these glimpses, when she didn’t immediately recognize her daughter? A lot of research has been done into the workings of the brain with dementia, but it has raised more questions than it’s answered. I suppose eventually we’ll understand more and find a cure, although sadly that is still a long way off.
Amanda led us straight to her room without any hesitation and opened the door. I saw that the card Melody had made the week before was still on her bedside cabinet. Melody saw it too.
‘You’ve kept my card!’ she exclaimed, delighted. ‘I’ve got lots more things for you.’ She began unpacking the carrier bag.
I watched Amanda’s face as she stood looking at her daughter, who took the ornaments from the bag one at a time and, carefully removing the tissue paper, placed them on the shelves.
‘Very nice,’ I said encouragingly as Amanda continued to watch, her face blank.
With the ornaments neatly arranged on the shelves, Melody took out some drawings she’d done especially for her mother and I helped her pin them on the cork board. ‘Those look good,’ I said.
Amanda’s face remained expressionless, although when Melody took out the box of cakes she exclaimed, ‘My cakes!’ and snatched the box from Melody like a child who’d yet to learn good manners.
Melody looked taken aback, but I could hardly tell Amanda not to snatch at her age. Ripping off the box lid, she began eating the cakes without offering one to Melody.
‘They were for us to share,’ Melody said, hurt. ‘Like we did last time.’
A
manda didn’t reply.
‘We’ll make some more,’ I reassured Melody. But when Amanda had gobbled down three and had taken another one, I thought she’d had enough for now and gently eased the box from her hand. I gave one cake to Melody, put the lid on the box and left it on her bedside cabinet for later. Amanda didn’t protest. ‘Do you like this plant?’ I asked, taking the potted orchid I’d bought her from the carrier bag. ‘Where shall I put it?’
‘Up your bum,’ she said.
‘Mum!’ Melody exclaimed. ‘You can’t say that, it’s rude.’ I had to smile. Melody said to me, ‘Mum said that to the bus driver and people who wouldn’t give us things for free. She thinks you want money for it.’
‘Amanda, I’m giving you the plant,’ I said. ‘I saw it in a shop and I thought it would look nice in your room. I bought it for you. I don’t want paying. It’s a gift.’
She took the plant from my hands and stood it on the floor, which wasn’t the best place for it. ‘Mum’s never had a plant before,’ Melody said.
I picked it up, removed its cellophane cover and placed it on the table in the bay window. ‘It looks nice there and will thrive in the light,’ I told Amanda. She hadn’t had the experience of receiving a plant before dementia, so there was no chance of her relating to it now, I supposed. Often in fostering I have to remind myself that the child I look after and their family haven’t had the same life experiences as I have.
Although Amanda didn’t take any notice of the plant, she left it where it was and watched us carefully as Melody and I continued to unpack the bags. I put the fruit we’d brought in the bowl and Melody put the biscuits in the drawer in her bedside cabinet. I then took out the photograph album I’d made for her. ‘Why don’t you sit on the bed with your mum and show her the album?’ I suggested to Melody. I’d previously shown her the album and she’d been delighted. As far as she knew her mother had never owned a photograph album, or if she had it had been lost a long time ago in all the moves. When you think of all the photographs parents usually collect, yet Amanda had five children but not a single photograph of any of them. It was as though their history had been wiped out, even more so now Amanda had dementia, so it was important I took plenty of photographs and kept Melody’s Life Story Book going.
‘Come and sit next to me, Mum,’ Melody said, patting the bed beside her. ‘This is for you.’ She held up the album. ‘It’s got lots of photos of me.’
Amanda hesitated, then went over and sat beside her daughter but with no sense of expectation or delight. Melody positioned the album between them so they could both see it and opened the first page. ‘There’s me outside Cathy’s house,’ she said, and allowed her mother time to look at the photo before moving to the next. ‘That’s my bedroom … that’s the garden … that’s me on a swing in the park.’ And so on. There were some posed photographs of Melody and I’d put three of those (including a head-and-shoulders shot) into the frames I’d bought. But the pictures in the album mostly showed Melody involved in some activity or on an outing, which would hopefully give Amanda a sense of Melody’s life with me and reassure her she was happy and doing well.
As Melody continued talking her mother through the album I took the framed photos from my bag and set them on the shelves. Amanda took no notice but kept her attention on the album. She hadn’t said anything about the photos, but halfway through it was as though the door into her memory suddenly opened again and she realized she was looking at photos of her daughter, who was sitting beside her. ‘Melody!’ she cried, looking at her. She slipped her arm around her daughter’s waist and rested her head on her shoulder. ‘My Melody, my darling daughter.’ Amanda’s face crumpled and her voice shook. ‘I’m so sorry, love, for being a shit mother, really I am.’
My eyes filled.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ Melody said. ‘I don’t blame you.’
‘You should,’ Amanda said, and she began to cry.
I went over and, taking a tissue from the box, passed it to her to wipe her eyes. ‘Amanda, it’s Cathy, Melody’s foster carer. You mustn’t worry. Melody is fine, she’s living with me and I’m taking good care of her.’
‘Are you?’ she asked, meeting my gaze.
‘Yes, honestly. She has everything she needs and her social worker visits us regularly. I promise you, Melody is happy.’
‘That’s good.’ Her eyes went blank again, but I knew that for those brief moments I had made contact with the real Amanda, the mother, before drugs and dementia had taken it all away. It was all so very sad.
Chapter Seventeen
Not Thursday
The following week on Thursday Melody’s friend Lizzie came to tea. Melody had chosen Thursday so they could make the cupcakes for her mother together. Lizzie was a lovely child, gentle and polite, who had two younger brothers. After dinner – sausage and mash, which was what Melody and Lizzie had wanted – I helped them make and ice the fairy cakes, with extra so that Lizzie could take some home for her family. The girls played together nicely – before and after dinner – and when I took Lizzie home at seven o’clock her mother thanked me and asked if Melody would like to go there for tea.
‘Yes!’ Melody screeched at the top of her voice, then added solemnly, ‘But not on Thursday. I make Mum’s cakes then.’ It had become something of a ritual.
‘I know.’ Lizzie’s mother smiled. ‘Lizzie told me. What about Wednesday then?’
‘Yes!’ Melody cried again.
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘that would be great.’ I’d see her in the playground nearer the time to confirm the arrangements.
I was pleased Melody now had at least one good friend at school and I knew from what she was telling me that she was playing with other children too. One of the targets from her review had been that she should attend an after-school club, but whenever I raised the matter with Melody, suggesting various activities, she said she didn’t want to do any of them, but liked to come straight home. I suggested an evening activity such as ballet or the Girls’ Brigade, but she didn’t want to do those either. I wasn’t going to force her. She’d had a lot of adjustments to make; it wasn’t that long ago she’d been described as feral and uncontrollable and hadn’t been attending school at all. I was pleased with the progress she was making, not only at school, but also generally, and I hoped that in time she might want to join an activity club. If she didn’t then so be it.
We visited Amanda on Saturday afternoon that week as we had a free weekend, which was better as it was less of a rush and the traffic was lighter. As usual, the couple we now knew to be Mr and Mrs Bennett arrived on the other side of the door as soon as Melody pressed the bell. I guessed they must wait just out of sight of the door to appear so quickly. We went through the routine of Mr Bennett knocking on the glass with his wife pointing to the lock, while I shook my head and said, ‘No, I can’t unlock it.’ Melody, far more relaxed about them now, threw them a smile. A care assistant let us in and I said hello to her and Mr and Mrs Bennett. They obviously didn’t know who I was, but it seemed as if we knew them now. Likewise, when Mr Andrews shuffled along the corridor towards us, having been shooed out of the ladies’ lounge, both Melody and I said hello to him and his care assistant as they passed. Oak Lane House was starting to feel like a home from home for us; we were seeing familiar faces and we knew our way around.
Amanda was sitting in the lounge, staring into space. The occupational therapist was at the table with one resident threading beads to make a bracelet. She asked Melody if she’d like to bring her mother over to join in the activity. She said she hadn’t been able to persuade Amanda or any of the others to join in, although to be honest I thought that many of the residents were past the stage of being able to thread beads to make bracelets.
Melody went over to fetch her mother. ‘We didn’t see you last Friday,’ I said to the occupational therapist.
‘No, I’m shared between two care homes on a two-week timetable. I come here on alternate Fridays,’ she explain
ed.
Melody arrived at the table with her mother. I said hello to Amanda and asked her how she was.
‘Fine,’ Amanda said tersely, although I’m pretty sure she didn’t know who I was.
‘How’s school?’ the occupational therapist asked Melody as she and her mother settled at the table.
‘Fine,’ Melody said, just as her mother had. ‘My friend Lizzie came to tea and I’m going to hers next week.’
‘That’s nice. My children like to do that too.’
The occupational therapist cut them both a length of cord and, taking a few beads from the box on the table that held hundreds of different colours, showed them what to do. Melody began threading the beads while the occupational therapist had to help Amanda. Like the basket-weaving, this was an activity a young child could easily master, but it took Amanda numerous attempts to thread one bead onto the cord. It seemed her hand–eye coordination (needed for controlled movement) had deteriorated, which I thought could be part of the disease’s progression.
The care assistant I’d been talking to on our first visit was on duty and while Amanda and Melody threaded their beads I went over and sat in the chair beside him and asked him how he was. He said he’d just finished a week of nights and was pleased to be on the day shift again. I asked after his baby and he said he was teething. I sympathized, as I knew how fractious infants could be when cutting teeth. As we talked he kept a watchful eye on his patients. I mentioned Mr and Mrs Bennett and asked how long they’d been living here. He said nearly a year and that they’d celebrated their golden wedding anniversary last month. ‘We gave them a little party, and decorated their room,’ he said, smiling. ‘We celebrate as much as possible – birthdays, Christmas, a birth in the family. Any excuse.’
‘That’s lovely.’
Inevitably it wasn’t long before Mr Andrews shuffled in making his ‘boo-boo’ noise, followed by a care assistant. I thought she must walk miles in a day keeping an eye on him. The care assistant I was talking to said Mr Andrews had been a qualified accountant before becoming ill, and still liked numbers, often reading them from the doors and the calendar in his room. It was a sobering thought that very likely everyone in the home would at some point have had a career and led an independent life before dementia set in.