The Songaminute Man

by Simon McDermott

  The crunch point came when their old friends, Alan and Gloria, invited us all to a bar further along the beach – their daughter was over from London and they’d heard good things about this new place and the entertainment they put on. We ate in the caravan and set off around 7 p.m. to walk to the bar, but I could already sense that Dad was starting to turn. He was moaning the whole way along the beach until we arrived.

  ‘So, what act is on tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s an Elvis impersonator,’ Gloria said.

  I looked at Mum and we both knew this was going to be a HUGE mistake. Firstly, Dad hates Elvis impersonators, and with the mood he was in, we just knew this wouldn’t end well – he was used to the stage being his. He had low tolerance at the best of times for people who didn’t deserve the spotlight, but this was going to be carnage.

  ‘Oh God,’ I thought.

  A backing track started and out came ‘Elvis’ from the back of the stage.

  ‘Schönen guten Abend’

  It was an Elvis impersonator – but in German.

  Elvis was prancing and japing around and the German crowd were falling off their chairs in hysterics. They were loving it. Meanwhile, over on our table Dad was sitting with a furious face on him, like he was about to explode.

  ‘Amateurs,’ he kept muttering. ‘Fucking twat!’ he’d add. Then eventually, ‘Nope, I’m going. This isn’t entertainment.’ Actually, in hindsight, it probably wasn’t. It was a nightmare and we ended up having to leave the show early, making a huge fuss as we pushed through all the tables. Dad was practically kicking the chairs out of the way by the end of it.

  By the time we got back to the caravan, Dad was hurling abuse at us. It was pure hatred. ‘I know what you two are up to,’ he shouted.

  ‘Dad, come on. Calm down.’

  It was about 11 p.m. and he was raging on at us at full volume. Everyone in the other caravans could hear.

  Mum started sobbing. ‘I can’t keep doing this.’

  ‘It’s OK – we’ll sort it out tomorrow,’ I said.

  I made up the bed for myself in the lounge area while Mum slept in my bedroom, but I could hear Dad pacing and muttering to himself in his bedroom. I had no idea what he was getting up to but it seemed as though he was opening and closing cupboards, looking for something. I was terrified – I’d never seen him like this before.

  I could hardly sleep, but just as I was drifting off, the door to his bedroom swung open, banging against the wall. It was around 3 a.m. and by now I was petrified. Although it was my dad, I was scared for our safety. As I pretended to be asleep, I could hear him shuffling around the lounge, still muttering to himself.

  ‘Fucking swines! Soon as I catch them I’ll break every bone in their body. Fucking tea leaves! They think I don’t know what’s going on.’

  I felt like a kid waking up in the middle of the night, thinking there’s a monster in the room, and I tried not to breathe or move for fear of making it worse. I heard him opening cupboards and drawers then slamming them shut, and I became terrified he would get hold of a knife and stab us all. Suddenly the shuffling and muttering stopped and there was complete silence. He was standing right over me.

  I was sure he was going to stab or at least punch me yet I was completely frozen. You would think that I’d have opened my eyes and tried to reason with him but I just couldn’t. This was my dad who I knew loved me and I knew wouldn’t do anything to hurt me – but that was the old Ted, the man who had been my dad before this illness. I didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening – as if I kept my eyes closed, I could pretend he wasn’t there. I no longer felt like a man, more a terrified child.

  Then it started.

  ‘You fucking toe rag!’ he growled. ‘I know what you’ve been doing. Fucking thieving, stealing toe rag!’

  His face was right next to mine.

  ‘I’ll. Break. Every. Fucking. Bone. In. Your. Fucking. Body,’ he snarled.

  Dad rarely, if ever, said ‘fuck’, so to hear it said with such vengeance directed at me scared the life out of me. It was as if he had become possessed by the Devil. The insults went on for about ten minutes or so and then he slowly shuffled back into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. And everything went silent.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ I thought. My heart was pounding and I lay there staring at the wall of the caravan right in front of me, still not daring to move. I didn’t sleep that night at all. Around eightish I heard Mum wake up, so I went in to have a quick chat, telling her what had happened. She started to cry.

  ‘I wish we’d never come on this holiday,’ she sobbed.

  I made them the usual tea and toast for breakfast, hoping Dad would wake up in a different mood. When he sat down he was a lot calmer, but he still wasn’t his normal self. He refused to use anything that Mum touched, and wouldn’t sit next to her at the table. He hardly said a thing. In fact, no one spoke apart from a passing comment about the weather. I thought back to breakfast time on holiday when I was small – all the whistling and singing and fun. Here we were, with things so bad that we were daren’t even speak. What was happening to us?

  This same routine went on for the rest of the holiday. We had days on the beach, a nice lunch and Dad would be in a good mood, but by the evening, things would change.

  We all wanted to go home but I had no idea how on earth we would get Dad back to England at this rate. The day before I was supposed to leave, I called up Uncle Colin for advice.

  ‘You alright, kid?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s France?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s OK… It’s just…’ my voice faltered, ‘Dad’. I started to cry.

  ‘You OK, Sime?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK.’

  ‘You don’t sound OK.’

  There was a pause. I desperately wanted to tell him what was going on, but again I felt I’d be betraying Dad.

  ‘It’s just Dad. He’s getting aggressive again and I don’t know what to do…’ And then I lost it, crying into the phone.

  This wasn’t what I wanted to do. I just wanted some advice, I didn’t want them to think that I couldn’t handle this.

  It all came out. Everything that had happened that holiday, I told him.

  ‘Sime, whatever you think you need to do, we’ll support you all the way. If you need to get him taken away, we’ll support you. Don’t worry,’ he said.

  Just the thought of Dad being taken away in a van to a psychiatric hospital set me off crying. I sat in the Port Grimaud Caravan Park with the tears streaming down my face. The fact that I didn’t know what to do didn’t worry me: it was the fact that no one else seemed to know either.

  That night was the same routine and by the next morning I was utterly exhausted. Dad was exactly the same as he’d been at breakfast for the past few days. That morning I cooked some eggs for us, but he again refused to eat them and finally I just let go.

  ‘Dad, what’s a matter with you? It’s my last day today and you’re still acting like this.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s your last day?’

  ‘I’m going back to London tonight. I have to leave at lunchtime to drive to the airport.’

  ‘What? You’re going back? Why?’

  ‘Because I have to go and work.’

  ‘Oh, in that case we’d better have a good day then.’

  It was like he had suddenly come back in the room and the darkness lifted. I don’t know whether it was because he realized I was Simon, but whatever was going through his mind seemed to settle him. Maybe it was because I was leaving! Whatever it was, I felt relieved that we might pass my final day in peace. While Mum and Dad sat outside, I cleaned the inside of the caravan, sweeping up all the sand that we’d brought in from the beach, and I felt so incredibly sad. It had become clearer that Dad was slowly disappearing, and I didn’t know what to do, or what would come next.

  Chapter 16

  Alzheimer’s is a thief – it takes away
all the light in family life and robs you of normality. Even the shape of the word looks like it’s going to attack you. It strips you of precious moments and possible memories. As we grapple with this hideous disease, it is as if Dad, Ted McDermott, has lived two lives and is two different people. Night used to be the time that Ted the performer came alive, but now it’s the time that we dread the most. I also realize that Mum and I struggled alone for a long time – looking back, perhaps we were in denial and clinging to the old Ted. When he had a good day, it was like being thrown a scrap and it allowed us to pretend that the good outweighed the bad.

  It was partially about control, I suppose, and the fear of letting go, because it meant finally admitting that Dad wasn’t himself any more. We’d always been a big and loving family and we sorted out our own problems, but even though Dad’s brothers and sisters did rally round, his care fell to me and Mum. After the loss of Hilda and Maurice, it was hard for Dad’s siblings to see their brother standing in front of them but not to recognize him as the Ted they grew up with. He wasn’t the brother who protected them and was prepared to put food in his pockets so they could share in his good fortune. At times he couldn’t even remember their names. I also ended up trying to protect them from the worst of Dad’s behaviour and, as time went on, the whole situation dragged me down. Friends would listen to me go on and on and on about the madness up in Blackburn, but I’m not sure they realized the extent of the aggression we were dealing with. I just wanted someone to tell me what to do and then I would do it. John thought that it was time for Dad to go into a home, but I knew deep down that it wouldn’t be right for him. He was still there – some part of Dad was still there – and I could only think of the utter terror he would feel if he realized he was being taken away. I couldn’t bear that because, despite him still being so abusive, there were also moments of kindness that lulled us into a false sense of security. The uncertainty brought out a whole number of issues in me that I wasn’t sure how to process.

  It got so bad at home that, when I went up to stay, I would often put my suitcase against the door in the spare room – just in case he came into the room during the night. Dad’s behaviour was so erratic that I was terrified. Sometimes he would burst in and start calling me a toe rag, while other times he’d be there but quiet, and I’d wake up startled and we’d both frighten the life out of each other.

  ‘Bloody hell, Sime! I thought you were someone else.’

  It got to a point where we really couldn’t cope with the aggression and abuse any longer, so I called the social services helpline. Unfortunately there was no one around to come to visit us until the Monday, so we were advised to try and keep Dad calm until then, or call the police – which may have meant he would be taken away for our safety. On the Monday I called work, explaining that I would have to take more time off because of what was going on at home. I was so worried about Mum – I didn’t want to leave her in the house alone with Dad.

  The doctor had arranged to come to the house with the social worker. I wrote a detailed list of things I needed to talk to them about when they arrived. It was a rainy Monday and Dad was sitting in the back room fuming about something and I waited in the front room until I could see them walking down the road. I dashed out and pulled them to the side behind a bush, as I was worried Dad would see that I was talking to them. We talked about his condition and what had gone on that weekend. I started going through the list of what was happening at home and by the time I got to the third point, I realized how utterly terrible things were. My lip began to quiver and I started to cry. I couldn’t understand how we had got to this point. In the end, I simply handed over the list, as each time I tried to read out another point I broke down.

  ‘Whatever you do, please don’t ask him anything about his memory,’ I begged. ‘It will just upset him and we’ll have to deal with the consequences of that all day.’

  Dad was still in complete denial. He insisted that it was everyone else who had problems and that he was just fine. We were accused of stealing his money, lying to him, hiding his wallet, talking about him behind his back and even trying to poison him. Everything he said to us was either abuse or a threat about how he was going to either break our legs or throw us into a canal.

  I brought them both in.

  ‘Hello Eddie! We’re just doing a home check on you and Linda to make sure that you’re both looking after each other,’ the social worker said. ‘Can we ask you a few questions?’

  Dad’s face was like thunder. ‘You can do. But I might not answer them.’

  ‘Dad, they’re only here to help make sure you and Mum are healthy,’ I said.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s her who needs her head checking,’ he snapped.

  Dad was sitting in his usual armchair while Mum made some tea for everyone. The doctor pretended to do a body examination on him, checking his knees and pulse.

  ‘So, Mr McDermott, how do you think your memory is?’

  I nearly fell off my chair. It’s only now that I realize that he had to ask that so that he could see Dad’s reaction.

  ‘Top hole,’ Dad snapped. ‘It’s these you should worry about,’ he added, pointing to me and Mum.

  But I could tell from Dad’s eyes that he was petrified about what was going on. It was a mixture of anger, sadness and confusion and it was horrible to watch. As he looked at me I could see the fear in his eyes – but I could also see the anger – as if to say, ‘Why have you done this?’ Dad was at his most fragile, even though I knew he was ready to kill us. After a while the social worker asked if Dad would take her out to see the garden so that Mum could talk directly to the doctor. It was hard for Mum to be honest about how bad things were and she spent a while being diplomatic and skirting around the reality of how hard life had become. I knew she felt like she was betraying Dad, but after some prompting, she opened up.

  One of the main issues was that Dad was refusing to take his medication, so the first thing was to change it to liquid form, which could be given more easily. Then it was arranged that the social worker would come to the house every Wednesday to keep an eye on things, just in case Dad’s behaviour changed dramatically. That lasted two weeks as Mum felt that the social worker coming round was interfering with their routine. This is something that was to become a source of many disagreements between us in the future.

  It was a traumatic time but I had to return to London to get back to work. As I came down the stairs with my bags, Dad turned to me and said ‘Why are you wearing women’s clothes?’

  I couldn’t believe it. Was he joking? Was he confused? Did I dress like a girl? My head was all over the place.

  As I got into the taxi to take me to the railway station, the driver turned to me and said, in a broad Indian accent: ‘Do you like music mate?’

  Before I had the chance to answer he switched on the CD player and played ‘Sugar, Sugar’ by the Archies. It was a total paradox. We drove through Blackburn as he sang along in broken English while I sat there next to him, tears streaming down my face. When we arrived at the station, I grabbed my bags out of the boot and he turned to me and said: ‘Mate, look after yourself. You’ll get through this.’

  I was wiped out and I cannot describe how utterly alone I felt when I returned to my flat. I’d seen the number for the Alzheimer’s Helpline lots of times but never thought about calling it – that was for other people. I wanted to phone my friends Nick or Felipe to talk about what was going on at home, but I didn’t feel I could do it again as they’d heard it a million times. I just wanted it all to end. It sounds horrible to say, but I wanted Dad to disappear and then our lives would be better. We were all in a very, very dark place.

  I picked up the phone, dialled the number, and a woman answered.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘It’s about my dad…’ I started, and I broke down.

  It was exactly the same sort of crying that had happened when Dad said that I was a failure for being gay.
I could hardly talk and each time I tried to get anything out I would start to cry again. I’m not sure how long it lasted, but it seemed to be around ten minutes. This illness had finally beaten me and I felt there was nothing left I could give. I hadn’t got a clue what I was doing or what I was supposed to do. How long was it going to go on for? I felt like I was living in hell. Through broken sobs, I told the woman on the end of the phone what was going on. To say I was depressed would be an understatement.

  ‘I don’t think I can do this any more,’ I said, describing Dad’s aggression. She let me rant on about him, just listening, understanding.

  ‘You can do it and you are doing it,’ she said. ‘Your dad would be proud of you both.’

  The woman continued to listen as I talked through everything that had happened in the last few years. She explained to me what Dad was going through – how all his aggression and anger was just his fear coming out. In all this madness, I’d struggled to think of it from Dad’s point of view before; I’d only seen his behaviour and how it was affecting us. I didn’t for one moment consider what was making him behave like this, what was triggering it, what caused these rages. Dad was frightened and alone and it must have been as terrifying for him as it had been for us. I had to put myself in his shoes and try and see things from his point of view. That conversation changed the world for me. It lifted me up and gave me the courage to carry on. I had no idea what I was doing and I felt alone, but that was nothing to how Dad must have felt. I wasn’t going to give up – Dad was still there inside, there were still good days when he would remember who I was. I couldn’t let him go just yet.

  Later that night I called up Mum to see how things were. She sounded upset and as though she’d been crying.

  She explained that after I’d left, she’d gone upstairs to have a nap. When she woke about an hour later, she went downstairs and into the front room. There she found Dad, sobbing in the dark with a handkerchief covering his face.