'Who are You?'

Who are You?

By Diane Bunce

‘Alice’s story’                                                            Those three words spoken by the one person whom I had known my whole life and it saddened me beyond everything else. Mum had been diagnosed with dementia six months ago and since then I had to try to keep it all together and it was killing me inside. On a good day she laughed and joined in and no-body would ever have guessed that she was slowly being taken, bit by bit. I had been so full of rage when I first found out, the cruelness of it all was beyond any understanding which my brain could comprehend. I had gone outside one night when I thought that the world was asleep and I screamed so loudly at the dark sky above. When I finished, I had just sunk down in a heap and cried till my tears dried up and I was spent. Exhausted I had crept back into bed and spent the last few hours of the night trying to reason with myself on how best to deal with this situation that scared me. I was losing my Mum bit by bit, each day a little more. I needed to stop wallowing in my sadness and concentrate on Mum, after all she was the important one here not me. The next morning, I went into Mum, who sat up rubbed her eyes and smiled.

“Do you know what Alex, I heard a wolf howling last night.”

“It’s Alice Mum, I don’t think that there are any wolves in Berkshire.” I smiled remembering last night and how Mum must have heard me.

“Well, it sounded like one. Are you sure there are none?”

“Well, I am sure there are none around here Mum. Maybe it was a cat mating, or a fox.”

Mum smiled again, and that was the point that I just knew that I would look after this great, special lady and try to make life as happy as she deserved.

“Anyway Mum, enough of wolves and cats and foxes, it is your Birthday next week and I  thought that we would have a family gathering with some of your friends. Would you like that?”

Mum smiled adding, “Will there be cake and little jellies? I do like jelly Alex.”

I smiled, “Its Alice Mum, and you may have whatever you want. Actually, how would you like to come out shopping with me Mum? we could look for a new dress for your party.” 

With this little statement she noticed the excitement that had risen in her own voice. She would make this a birthday to remember for her Mum. For a brief second she wondered if her Mum would even remember the party the next day. Sadness started to envelope her thoughts and quickly she brushed them aside as her Mum’s voice brought her back into the moment.

“Ok, but I do have dresses in my wardrobe.”

“Yes, I know, but I would like to treat you. Is that ok?” Mum nods.

 Rummaging on the carpet for her slippers I add, “we still have Dad’s wheelchair, so we can use that so you don’t have to walk. What do you think?”

“Won’t your dad need it?

“Not this time Mum.” I say with a sadness as I realise that Mum has forgotten that Dad died over five years ago.

“Where is he anyway? He must have got up early today.”

As hard as it was, I had to try and dodge the question, last time Mum had asked about Dad and I had told her the truth she had just stared at me and asked why I should say such an awful thing. She never spoke to me for the whole day. Carefully changing the subject, I went on to talk about who we should invite to her party. Thankfully although she had stared at me blankly for a while she just said, “Are you sure that Dad won’t mind? he’s not good with a lot of noise you know.”  

“He will be fine Mum,” was all I could think of to say.

  Today had actually turned out to be a good day, we went shopping and found a lovely lilac dress for Mum with a matching cardigan. Her smile lit up the room which was all I needed to lift my spirits and put my own selfish sadness away into a box in the furthest corner of my mind. There would be a time for sadness in the not-too-distant future but, today was not going to be that day, nor was it going to be tomorrow or the next. In fact, I was not going to let it consume me and spoil any time that we shared now in the present.  

When I had tucked Mum into bed for the night I sat down with a steaming cup of tea. In the silence that followed I did what I usually do and reached for my pen and my sacred journal where I would put down my thoughts. It helped me to deal with the sadness. Sometimes I just scribbled, other times I dabbled in poetry. This was emotionally draining, but I needed to release inner thoughts in whichever form took me on any particular day. Tonight, I knew would be a poetry night! I began to unload my emotionally charged mind.

What happens when we lose our way?

When the world looks different day by day.

Alone with thoughts that make you smile,

When chasing a memory for a while. 

A time when you were happy inside,

When you didn’t want to run and hide.

Faces that come back from the past,

But nothing ever seems to last.

A mind that’s been a thousand times born,

Has slowed and bears a look so forlorn.

Eyes that once shone bright,

Struggle now to see the light.

On a good day, you get up and dress,

On a bad one, you just look a mess.

Getting old is inevitable you see,

It’s just the way it sometimes turns out to be!

Tears prick my eyes as I come to a stop with my pen. I aptly title my piece of poetry, ‘LOST IN THOUGHT,’ then close my journal placing my pen into its holder.

‘Beatrice’s story’

For Beatrice Malone, life had dealt her the blow that was pushing her slowly over the edge. As she sat staring into her mirror, a face she hardly recognised reflected back at her. She pushed back wispy silver strands of hair that had escaped from the bun she so expertly still managed to do. Deep creased wrinkles which spoilt her once pretty face had now taken charge of carving out its fleshy vessel. Eyes that could once have shared a thousand tales and more had suddenly decided to dis-engage from her brain, stealing precious memories along its path. Every now and then a life once lived came back, and for a moment she would smile. Then in a flash it was gone!

Sleep would not come easy tonight though, as the summer storm that insisted on being so persistent was not about to let up just because she had turned in for the night. Pulling herself up from her pillow, tonight she knew would be one of turning this way and that, drifting in and out of sleep. So many nights were like this lately, staring into the darkness willing the morning to come.

The birthday party today had wiped her out. Faces that smiled, some she knew and enjoyed the company of, whilst others were vaguely familiar from a time somewhere in the past. One lady had cried, she did not know why and this had disturbed her very much. Today had been her birthday. There had been a cake which had said ‘80’ so this was an indication that she must have reached this age.

She was deep in thought trying so hard to recognise faces that kept on appearing. Her eyes now drawn to the bookcase which seemed to house many books. It wasn’t a book she was after, although she did wonder if she had read any of them. An old shoe box was what she had her eyes on. She carefully pulled it off the bottom shelf and dusted it off. On the top in bold coloured letters, it spelled out, ‘MEMORY BOX.’ There was something quite scary about opening that lid, but with shaking hands she did. Inside revealed many, many photos and she started to sift through. There had to be something here that could help her troubled mind. She started to put aside photos or things she recognised, and things she did not went into another pile for maybe another day, who knows. There was definitely more put back than what she had in her hand right now.

An old photo instantly recognised was of herself as a young girl with her mother by her side. In her hand she had a stick pointing out. Why did she have a stick? Closing her eyes, she willed that memory to come forward, and it did with ease. It took her right back to that day, right there on the sea front. She had just been to see an orchestra with her mum. They had, had ice cream after and she had spilt some all down her top. As she looked at that photo, she could still make out the stain and she smiled. For a few seconds she was back there with the music which had seemed so loud, but so graceful all at the same time. She started to hum that tune although what it was called, she did not know. She felt happy being there in that moment, so hanging onto that memory and clutching that photo she allowed herself the time to reflect before it disappeared, maybe forever.

The rain continued to pelt down hard on the roof. The tree above dropping a heavy load from its branches added to the water that swished down the side. It disturbed her thoughts away from a happier time. A bizarre thought crept into her head listening to the ping-pong of the droplets as they fell. In her searching mind she could see one of those metal ball objects that she had seen somewhere on someone’s desk. Fingers released the last silver ball causing it to hit against neighbouring balls. Sole concentration now transfixed on the other balls as they ping ponged on their journey swaying back and forth. 

An ear already tuned into the night hears the water as it gushes down the drainpipe and spits its load into the waiting water butt. Plop, plop. Soon she fears that it will overflow back into the ground. As the wind picks up to accompany the storm, bamboo leaves rustle and whisper together. If she was stood upon that roof top now, she imagined herself orchestrating the different sounds as she waved her little stick. Tree branches shake, ping-pong, drainpipe plop, leaves whisper, rain thudding hard on the ground. Even the shed door banging shut could have a place in the music of the night that she was orchestrating. The crescendo would come as thunder clouds rolled and crashed into each other, and the lightening, oh the lightening, well that would flash and light up the whole sky. There would be no stars tonight though, which would be a shame as she would have used them as symbols leading up to this wonderous piece. Bam, bam, bam, cha ching, ching ching.

The storm continued to rage on. Thunder clapped right above causing her to jump.

“Anyone for hot tea?” came a voice from her side.

A lady stood there holding a tray full of the steaming brew. Why so many cups though? She could see eight, nine, maybe ten. Feeling a chill, she reached for a cup that would warm her for sure. It wasn’t there; the tray was gone. The lady was fading into the background, into the darkest corner. She couldn’t see her anymore. A slight recognition recalled this lady at her party today. Yes, she was the one who was crying. Elsie, Elsie Cooke. Although re-calling her name, she could not think who she was.

“Elsie, where are you?”

The rain now heavier felt like it would surely bring the roof down. Fixing her mind back to her orchestral manoeuvres of the night she wondered how she would incorporate the now pounding of the rain. It would drown out the other sounds for sure. She was confused now. The gentler sounds had been quite rhythmic, but now the pounding of the rain and the roaring of the thunder was getting all too noisy to be able to do anything with.

Pulling her cardigan around her shoulders she shivered. Her feet were cold. Where were her slippers?

“Mum, are you in here?” Came a voice from the door that had suddenly opened. A familiar voice she thought.

“Hello, who’s there?”

“Mum, its me Alice. What are you doing, it is the middle of the night. You ‘ll catch a cold for sure if not worse.”

“Alice?”

“Yes Mum, Alice, you remember, your daughter Alice.”

“Oh Alice, why didn’t you say? Come on in, you can sit next to me, Elsie won’t mind she has gone off somewhere. It’s safe in here you know.”

“Ok Mum I will sit with you for a bit. What are you doing anyway?”

“Trying to remember Alex, now come and sit here.”

“It’s Alice Mum. Oh, never mind.”

She was aware that this familiar person who now sat beside her was someone special, someone to be trusted. Perhaps it was the way that slender hand cradled her own, or perhaps it was the look that stared back at her. A flickering thought went through her mind. All too briefly it was gone and all she saw was the back of a little girl skipping into school, satchel hanging from her side. Hair that was as black as black could be, just like the person holding her hand now.

“Alice!”

“Yes Mum.”

“Was school good today?”

“School was fine Mum.”

She felt the cradled hand squeeze hers and she looked up and smiled.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Alice, Mum. Your daughter.”

“Are you sure, cos Alice is small and you are big?”

“I’m sure Mum.”

“Alice, who is Elsie Cooke, and why was she crying today? Did I upset her?”

Holding up a photo from the pile of recognised things that were lying on the bed she said, “Mum, this is Elsie Cooke, she was your best friend.”

“Isn’t she my friend anymore?”

“Mum, Elsie died six years ago?”

“Well, I saw her just now, she was going to give me a cup of tea.”

“Shall I go and get you a cup of tea Mum?”

“No thank you, Elsie will probably come back and then I’ll have two, won’t I?”