The Little Girl in the Radiator: Mum Alzheimer's & Me (9 page)

‘Will you stay though, please?’ asked Tracy.

I nodded, and sat down in my former seat.
The magazine I had been reading was still open where I had left it. I picked it
up again. Mum continued to beguile the girls with tales of kidnapping and
torture, only now they didn’t seem to have the same effect on the little
salon’s staff as before; they were coming to the end of their first lesson in
how to handle dementia patients.

I thought about how much I had been enjoying
my beer when all this excitement had occurred, and I suddenly remembered that I
had left half a pint on the table across the road. I stood up and looked over
at the pub. My companion was still sitting there, and next to him was my glass.
I watched as he stood up, folded his newspaper carefully, and placed it under
his arm. Then he looked furtively up and down the road before, very casually,
picking up my pint, raising it to his lips, and draining the lot. Wiping his
lips with the back of his hand and issuing a satisfied belch, he wandered off.

Mum was still chattering away in the
background to the girls in the salon, about murder and mayhem at home, but I
wasn’t listening, I was more interested in the bloke across the road and my
precious, stolen pint.

Eventually Tracy completed her work.
Considering the difficulties, she had done a lovely job. Mum looked great.

‘I’m going to give you a tip, Barbara,’ she
said to Tracy, as she put on her coat.

‘Oh, thank you, Rose,’ said Tracy, smiling.

I don’t suppose Tracy made much money as a
hairdresser, and tips were always welcome.

Mum opened her purse, thought about
something for a moment, then leaned closer to Tracy. The hair stylist, sensing
mum was going to say something confidential to her, leaned closer to mum as
well. Their faces were almost touching.

‘I want you to be careful with blackheads,’
said mum.

Tracy
stopped
smiling.

‘I see you have a big one on the side of
your nose there,’ whispered mum. ‘Don’t squeeze it or it will leave a mark.’

Mum nodded confidentially to Tracy, and shut her purse with a snap. She was often very helpful like that with total
strangers.

LIKE A GREAT MANY Alzheimer’s patients,
mum had fixed and recurring ideas. Once one of these random thoughts insinuated
itself into her head, you couldn’t shift it with dynamite; now ingrained into
her consciousness, it would keep popping up at inconvenient moments.
Eventually, it would fade away – until the next time.

I used to imagine these ideas as being like
a person swimming underwater. The surface of the water represented mum’s
consciousness. Every so often, the swimmer had to come up for air. As soon as
the swimmer broke the surface, the idea appeared in mum’s mind and she would
express it to the people around her, or perform some function or action
associated with it. When the swimmer dived back below the surface, the idea was
hidden away again. The time between ‘breaths’ could be weeks, days, hours, or
minutes.

One of mum’s most persistent notions was
that of the little girl in the radiator. Mum didn’t seem to think the little
girl was in there all the time; she could go for days without referring to the
radiator at all. Then, suddenly and without warning, the little girl would be
there, and mum would engage with her until the episode played out, before going
back to ignoring the radiator for a while.

I didn’t know where she got the whole idea
from, but I could cope with it so it didn’t bother me too much. There was
another such notion which was far more inconvenient for me, and it was that she
would feel, from time to time, that someone was breaking in to the house. This
only manifested itself when the sun was going down, and only then for a few
days in a row before it disappeared until the next time. Unfortunately, while
it was there it led her to shut every window and door in the house – even the
internal doors – and lock those that she could. Worst of all, she would press
down the little button – the ‘snip’ – on the internal Yale lock on the front
door, so that the door could not be opened, even with the right key. This
locked me out of the house. During one particular week, I returned from work to
find myself locked out every evening.

The first time this occurred, it was pouring
with rain.

‘Mum!’ I shouted through the letterbox.
‘It’s raining, open the door!’

‘There’s no-one here,’ came the reply.

Only an Alzheimer’s patient would shout
that.

‘
You’re
there!’ I shouted back
through the letterbox. ‘I just heard you speak!’

It all went very quiet.

‘Mum open the door, it’s tipping down!’

I could see her moving about in the hallway
through the frosted glass in the front door, but she was making no attempt to
let me in.

‘Mum!’ I shouted through the letterbox
again, as the rainwater ran down my neck. ‘Open the door! Please!’

‘I can’t!’ shouted back mum. ‘It isn’t
safe!’

‘Yes it is! It’s
me
!’ I shouted. ‘Of
course it’s safe!’

It was no good. The idea that she shouldn’t
open the door had become fixed in her mind, and no amount of persuasion from me
was going to get her to see things any differently.

‘Is everything all right?’ I heard Mary’s
voice call from behind me.

I stood up and turned around. She was
sitting in her wheelchair in the hallway of her bungalow – she’d obviously
heard the shouting.

‘Mum’s locked me out, Mary,’ I said, ‘and
she’s put the snip on the door.’

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Mary. ‘Shall I phone her?’

‘If you would, that would be great, thanks.’

Mary picked up the telephone in her hall,
and rang mum’s number. Our telephone started to ring, I could hear it outside.
I was getting soaked.

I saw mum’s shadowy figure move across the
frosted glass in the front door, and pick up the receiver.

‘Hello,’ said mum.

‘Rose, it’s Mary, next door.’

‘Oh, hello Mary,’ said mum. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine thanks, Rose. Can you come to the
front door, please?’

‘Okay, Mary,’ agreed mum.

She put down the telephone and walked to her
front door, then just stood there.

I waited in the rain motionless, and Mary
sat in her hallway with the telephone receiver halfway between its cradle and
her ear. No-one moved; the seconds ticked painfully away. The water was running
down my neck.

‘Rose…’ said Mary again, but mum wasn’t near
the telephone now.

‘Mum,’ I called through the letterbox again.

‘Yes!’ shouted mum.

I looked through the letterbox: mum’s eyes
were staring out at me from the other side.

‘Mum, open the door!’ I said.

‘I can’t, it isn’t safe,’ replied mum.

‘Mum, go back to the telephone, Mary wants
to tell you something that’s important.’

‘Okay,’ said mum.

Mum went back to the telephone and picked up
the receiver again.

‘Hello.’

‘Rose, it’s Mary,’ said my patient
neighbour, still sitting in her hallway. She was now getting wet too, as the
wind drove the rain in through her doorway.

‘Oh, hello Mary, how are you?’ asked mum
again.

‘Rose, I’m fine. Rose would you like to come
over for a cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely,’ said mum. ‘When
shall I come over?’

‘Come right now,’ replied Mary.

‘Okay,’ said mum, and she put the telephone
down.

I heard the snip on the Yale lock click
upwards, and the handle turn. The front door slowly opened. I stepped quickly
into the hall.

‘I’m bloody soaked!’ I said.

‘You should have an umbrella with you on a
day like this,’ replied mum. ‘I’m just going over to Mary’s for a cup of tea. I
won’t be long.’

She wandered down the drive, and into Mary’s
house.

I smiled at Mary, and she smiled back.

‘Come on in, Rose,’ I heard her say. ‘I’ll
put the kettle on.’

I went into our house to dry off.

* * * * *

The following evening the same thing
happened.

‘Mum let me in!’ I shouted through the
letterbox.

It wasn’t raining this time, but my sheer
frustration at having to repeat this scene again made it seem even worse. The
déjà
vu
of living with an Alzheimer’s patient drives you mad. You absolutely
know
something silly is going to occur, because a particular situation has happened
before, and history starts to slowly repeat itself. You are caught in the
middle of the drama, you know the way the scene ends, but you are quite
powerless to change the outcome.

‘There’s no-one here!’ shouted mum. I felt
like trying to smash the front door down with my head.

‘
You’re
in there!’ I shouted, again through the letterbox, remembering my line.

I say ‘line’, because it is like being an
actor in a play. The Alzheimer’s patient leads and directs the drama, and
everyone else plays their parts, reading from an unchanging script. You end up
thinking you’re living in some fifth dimension; it’s like the
Twilight Zone
, and it’s
always
a repeat.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Mary, right
on cue.

I looked at her and forced a neighbourly
smile.

‘She’s locked me out again, Mary.’

‘Shall I phone her again? That worked last
night.’

Mary, playing her part.

‘Thanks very much, Mary,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry
about all this.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘At least it’s
not raining tonight!’

I could hear the telephone ringing inside
our bungalow.

‘Hello,’ said mum, picking up the receiver.

‘Hello Rose, it’s Mary.’

‘Oh, hello Mary, how are you…’

I felt like I could scream.

‘I’m fine thanks, Rose. Would you like to
come over for a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, that would be lovely Mary, when shall I
come over?’

‘Come on over right now, Rose. I’ll put the
kettle on.’

‘Okay.’

The front door opened.

‘Hello son,’ said mum, as she passed me in
the doorway. ‘I’m just going around to Mary’s for a minute, I won’t be long.’

I waved conspiratorially to Mary, and she
waved back. I entered the house.

Final curtain falls, and play ends. Take a
sodding bow, Slevin.

I took the next morning off work and waited patiently
for a locksmith to arrive so I could have the Yale taken off the front door,
and replaced with a lock that didn’t have that little snip. That had spiked
mum’s guns: she couldn’t lock me out any more. He was at the house for about 25
minutes and charged me £90, but it was worth every penny.

I arrived home that evening with a spring in
my step. I knew the drama of the previous two evenings could not repeat
themselves. I was feeling very clever and pleased with myself, in a smug sort
of way. Without my guile, the whole business could have gone on and on until
either time ended or my head exploded, whichever came first.

I put my key into the new lock, and… crash!
The door wouldn’t open. Mum had put the chain across and outwitted me. I felt
like running down the road screaming.

‘I can’t get in mum,’ I shouted through the
opening. ‘Let me in!’

‘It isn’t safe!’ shouted back mum.

They say the line between sanity and madness
is a thin piece of string. It is, and I was walking its length like a man on a
circus tightrope.

‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

Mary was skipping her lines, but I was
grateful for it.

‘Thanks, Mary,’ I called back.

It’s hard to explain to someone who has
never experienced it exactly what it’s like to go through this process. It’s a
bit like watching a movie you’ve seen before, only this is much more intense
because you’re actually
in
it, right at the centre of the action, and,
try as you might, there’s not much you can do to change the way the story
unfolds. Sooner or later, this starts to mess with your head, and you begin to
wonder where it’s all going to end. It’s almost as though you lose the right to
self-determination, you no longer have freedom of choice over your actions,
everything is pre-destined; your role has been written, and all you can do is
go along with it until the credits roll. As I think I may have said before,
Alzheimer’s makes everyone crazy.

I was muttering to myself like some sort of
demented madman as I forced my little screwdriver to extract the two screws
holding in the safety chain on mum’s front door. There was a wild determination
about my movements. Just getting into the house after work had become a battle
of wills, and it was a war I was determined to win at all costs. When the
safety chain had been removed, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now there was no
way she could keep me out.

But although the drama repeats, there’s no
law against ad libbing.

* * * * *

The next night I came home with a sense of
renewed vigour. I put my key in the door, no resistance, no chain, and I
smiled. I pushed the front door open, and… crunch!

The door opened about three inches and
stopped abruptly. I couldn’t believe it.

‘Mum, the door’s stuck!’ I shouted through
the letterbox.

No answer.

I flicked up the letterbox lid and looked
inside. I could plainly see the back of one of our kitchen chairs, which had
been propped at an angle against the front door.

You can change the script, but so can the
patient; as you improvise to derail the train, so they improvise to save it.
Measure and counter-measure, tit-for-tat. Mum had made the house safe again, at
least in her own mind, and I was back to square one.

‘Mum, can you hear me?’ I shouted. ‘The
door’s stuck!’

‘There’s no-one here!’

The solution to our little recurring drama
came quite unexpectedly.

Mary called out from behind me. ‘Martin, the
kettle’s on, shall I call her now?’

‘Yes, please Mary,’ I sighed.

‘What’s she doing now?’ asked Mary.

I looked through the letterbox.

‘She’s waiting in the hall for you to ring
her. She’s waiting for the telephone to ring!’

Then something happened between Mary and me.
We both realised at once that the last sentence was very important, and was
somehow the key to the whole mystery.

It began to dawn on me that the roles were
clearly defined in our little play with three parts. Mum was the main
character, I was the villain and Mary was the hero, riding in to save the day.
And just as Mary and I knew our lines, so did mum. In her mind the key elements
of the scene were: