So, a lot of my articles are about the things we remember. And that’s the perfect place to start this one.
Next month is Alzheimer’s Awareness Month, and I think that’s important to remember.
Now, I could spend the next thousand words telling you about Alzheimer’s.
I could tell you how many New Zealanders are living with dementia, how many families it affects and how desperately more research is needed.
All of that matters. But that’s not the story I want to tell.
I want to tell you about my mum because my mum is battling Alzheimer’s.
So I wanted to share some stories about the mum I remember. Not the disease.
But before we go any further, I should probably warn you about something.
As you read this article, you’ll notice that every … and then there’s a word missing. Then a sentence.
…
That’s deliberate.
And as the article goes on, more words and sentences will disappear. Until eventually, there isn’t enough left to remember the story.
And that’s what Alzheimer’s has done to my mum. First the occasional word went missing. Then sentences. Then the faces.
And I saw this the last time I visited Mum.
When I walked into her room, she had lost so many memories that she no longer remembered my face. But I remember the fear in her eyes because she thought a stranger was in her room.
She saw a stranger, not the son she had changed nappies for. The son she had kissed better after grazed knees and sat listening when I was “de-coupling” with my girlfriend (obviously my decision).
And that’s the woman I want you to meet.
Not the woman Alzheimer’s has left behind.
The mum I remember.
So, let me tell you about my mum.
I remember when I was in Form Three. Year Nine in new money.
We’d been told to paint a Hamilton landmark.
Being a bit of a smart arse, I handed in a completely black page and said I’d painted “fog”.
I was told to paint a landmark.
I handed in the same black page again. This time with the title: “Bridge Street Bridge in Fog”.
Apparently, that wasn’t what the teacher meant either.
I could see my sense of humour wasn’t a winner, and it was time to retire from my brief career as an art class stand-up comedian.
So, it was time to grab the paint brushes and paint that Hamilton icon, the Bridge Street Bridge.
Hamilton can never be accused of overcomplicating things.
It’s a bridge on a street – Bridge St Bridge. Job done.
Now, I can be an honest critic here. The perspective was more Salvador Dali than geometry.
The colours would’ve challenged Jackson Pollock. And if you didn’t already know it was a bridge, there was every chance you’d assume it was a cry for help from Gustave Eiffel.
It was less Eiffel, more eye-full.
But I took it home, and as you might have guessed, my mum loved it.
Not because it was any good.
Because I’d painted it.
She then took it and had it professionally framed.
Then she hung it on the wall at our house at 68 Nevada Rd, where every single visitor who walked through the front door was shown my masterpiece.
“This was painted by my son.”
She said it with so much pride you’d think she’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa.
Mum and Dad have moved a few times since leaving Nevada Rd, but every time they’ve moved, the eye-full bridge has gone with them, hanging in hallways and on lounge walls.
The painting is still in their home.
But Mum is now in a care home, and the story has gone silent.
Don’t get me wrong, the story hasn’t disappeared. It’s still hanging there on the wall. It just doesn’t get told any more.
So, I suppose that’s my job now.
Another memory always makes me smile. And I have a feeling mums all over New Zealand will recognise this one.
Now, as most parents of young men will know, boys have a very different definition of being organised.
We’d buy a decent stereo before we’d buy towels or teaspoons.
You know the sort. A component stereo with separate speakers, a graphic equaliser with more sliders than anyone knew what to do with, twin cassette decks and enough flashing lights to run a private dance party.
So, when Mum and Dad came to visit my flat after I’d proudly shown them the 400 preset graphic equaliser settings, I offered to make them a cup of tea.
Then realised I didn’t own a jug.
“No problem,” I thought.
“I’ll boil some water in a pot.”
That was going surprisingly well until I discovered we didn’t have any tea bags either.
Luckily, they had their tea black because the lack of milk would’ve been the next problem.
By the end of the afternoon, Mum had quietly disappeared to Briscoes.
Hopefully there was a sale.
She came back carrying a brand-new jug, and a few other things that suggested she’d completely lost confidence in my ability to survive adulthood – hurtful but also accurate.
I thought that was the end of the story.
But a few weeks later I was visiting Mum and Dad in Tauranga.
The eye-full bridge was hanging in the hall and, once again, I offered to make a cup of tea.
I filled the jug, flicked the switch and noticed water dripping out the bottom.
Even with my fairly basic understanding of electricity, I was pretty sure that wasn’t ideal.
That’s when it hit me.
Luckily, not an electric shock, but the fact they hadn’t replaced their jug.
They’d bought one for me and quietly kept using their old, broken one.
That was Mum. Actually, that was Mum and Dad.
They always put my sister and me ahead of themselves.
I know plenty of Kiwi parents are exactly the same, but every time I make a cup of tea, I’m reminded of that little act of kindness.
It’s strange the little things that we remember.
Now, a reminder of what I said earlier. As this article goes on, the words slowly disappear, just as they have for Mum.
I remember Mum always having jellybeans in … handbag.
If my sister … had been … good, there was one … waiting for us.
And……was…………….to let…………………………………………………………
…
………………………………………made a……………………………………………
…
I remember……………………………………………………………………………..
………………………………………………..photos.
I remember Mum………………………………………………………………………
…
telling……………stories behind…………………………………………………….
……………………………………………I remember………………………………..
And that’s what it’s like watching someone with Alzheimer’s.
Their words disappear. Their memories disappear.
So, let’s remember.
September is Alzheimer’s Awareness Month.