Hello Sunshine!

On my last visit to stay and look after my parents, I shared the responsibilities of looking after them with my sister.

We both have different coping mechanisms when dealing with Al. Mine is to get out at least once a day and go for a walk, have a nap or try to meditate in my room if only for half an hour. My sister writes in her journal or makes cups of tea or rolls her own cigarettes and smokes them outside with our stepfather.

My Mum spends the days looking inanely into the distance looking lost or like she has found something magical in the folds of the newspaper she has been scanning, tearing it to pieces and folding it up as if to keep it safely where she will be able to find it again.

We both ask her how she is intermittently.
"How are you Mum?"
Her eyes glassy, stare off into some weird near distance.
"Good." She says.

My sister has come from Christchurch and I have come from Sydney to give my brother and his wife a break from taking care of my mother and my elderly stepfather.

Ever since we got here my mother looks at us like she has no idea who the hell we are. She doesn't. I thought she did but no.

She doesn't.

The phone rings. It's my Aunty Elsie. My sister picks it up and says loudly but clearly with perfect elocution, "Mum, it's Aunty Elsie, ringing to see how you are."
"Oh." Says Mum vaguely. She looks up as if a light has gone on but it's gone a second later.
"Mum, do you want to talk to Elsie?
My sister gives Mum the headset so that she can hear Elsie better. Elsie's voice booms over the scratchy speaker. Mum holds the handset away from her ear. I can hear Elsie's questions scratching out between the headset and Mum's far away ear.

Mum hold's the handset like some dead thing she's being made to look after and speaks into the earpiece.

"Yes, I am fine thanks. Yes, er my sister, er niece is looking after us. Ay Jim? Jim?..Jim? I don't know where he's gone..."
I can hear Elsie's voice now clearly saying with slight annoyance, "She's not your Sister or your niece Mary, its your daughter Rhonda."
It's news to Mum, she looks around brightly at the lady in the kitchen, "Oh is it. Oh is that you Rhonda?"

"Yes mother. I'm your daughter not your sister."

"Oh Rhonda's here," she tells my Aunty surprised yet proud. "That's nice isn't it."

"I know Mary," Aunty Elsies voice says with resignation.

"And your son Richard," my sister offers.

"Oh," Mum says surprised, "and Richard."

"He's doing the cooking and we're both looking after you," my sister explains which my Mum then explains to Elsie.
The recognition comes then is gone in a flash.

I am making the breakfasts if I don't sleep in, otherwise my sister makes my parents tea and toast. I started my stay actually making them. Until my brother amped up my stress with one of the horror stories.

Jim (my stepfather) gets up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night and because he's either half asleep or he can't be bothered (about anything really-he is nearly 90 after all) he pees all over the seat if its down or on the floor in front of it.

When my mother gets up to go to the toilet she steps in the pee or sees the pee on the seat and gets put off going to the toilet there - so she decides to go find somewhere ELSE to go and consequently goes in the plant, the corner of the room or if we're lucky in the coal skuttle.

After hearing this I was petrified of the possibility of maybe having to clean out the coal skuttle so woke myself up at every tiny noise that emanated from my parents bedroom and bathroom. I got up diligently every time I heard my father shuffle out of the bathroom and mopped it all - the pee - if there was any. Consequently after two nights of this, my body just wouldn't put up with it so I ended up sleeping through my parents initial breakfast time, with my sister having to fill in the gap.

After two days running of constantly cleaning up after my Dad, my niece suggested I tell him off like my Brother did if he kept peeing on the floor. I did. It stopped. My Mum didn't get her feet wet so she went to the toilet in the actual toilet and no accidents occurred during my stay. With can I say enormous amounts of relief on my part.

I've had three days of saying 'Good Morning' and 'Hello' to my Mum with her reaction being one of complete bewilderment. She politely says 'Good Morning' and 'Hello' back. Clueless as to who the hell I am. Her face says it all. Hmmm. I am just going to keep walking past this person who has just said 'Hello', maybe he won't notice me.

I am not her child. Her child doesn't look like me. I must be a distant relative turned up out of nowhere and performing duties in the kitchen.

Mum hobbles around the place, her legs causing her pain. Her knees given out after years of Basketball, Softball, Volleyball, Netball. If it had a ball in it, she played it.

Then there are the times she moves like the wind. Fast, silent. One minute she's on the couch folding the newspaper for the forthieth time and then she's gone. That's truly amazing! It's either one or the other; painful shuffling or a speedy gonzalez shuffle where she's up and into the next room and up the stairs.

I'll be making a cup of tea and my mother will hobble in looking like, for all intents and purposes, Zeus's elderly grandmother, older than time. She will wander around like every part of her body is creaking with stiffness, like she's in pain, then it'll take her ten minutes to slowly slump into the chair backing into it like Kenworth truck backing into a tight spot - my mind fills in the 'toot toot toot toot toot' of the silent warning emanating from her backside, and then cuffllumph! She's made it.
I will turn around to get the milk out of the fridge and the sugar from the cupboard and when I turn back there she is right in front of me. Looking at me like she's never seen me before.
In fact I've been here a week and still she has not recognized me or my sister. She looks at both of us with equanimity, has no idea who we are but in her traditional manner would never let on that she doesn't know, just smiles vaguely doing her best 'Mona Lisa'.

The week ends and I'm packing my bag in the small room adjacent to my parents small room. I leave for Sydney in a couple of hours so I am collecting my things and placing what I intend to wear on the plane on the bed next to my suitcase.
I hear a soft stilted shuffle in the hall outside on the wooden floor.
My mother pops her head into the room. "Oh", she says. "Where are you off to?"
"I'm going back to Sydney, Mum." I sigh.
"Oh." She says then disappears out into the living room again.
Half an hour later I am changed, everything is packed and I am ready to go. Mum sits on the couch staring at the newspaper page she tore from the main part of the paper this morning.
"Ok Mum. It's time for me to go." I bend down to kiss her on the forehead.
Suddenly like a beacon she lights up; recognition, love, pride, joy on her face.
"Oh. Hello Sunshine." She says cheerily. "When did you get here?"
"Honey, I've been here a week."
My sister chimes in, "your son has been cooking you breakfast lunch and dinner for the last week, Mum."
"Oh." She says.
"Where you going?"

I can see the cogs creaking as they turn behind her eyes.

Now she looks upset that I'm leaving. So soon. She's only just seen me.

I kiss her goodbye and give her a hug. She hugs me back lovingly and I am devastated that I hadn't hugged her sooner. I've been treating her with kid gloves, like a delicate china doll that shouldn't be touched.

She looks up at me grinning.

"Hello Sunshine."

I'm kissing her goodbye and I take her hand and give her another hug.

Her hand, like a vice, grips hold of mine. She doesn't want me to go.

"Where are you going?" She says.

"I've got to go home, Mum." I say still hugging her to me.

"Oh, why don't you stay?"

"Oh love, I would if I could but I've already been here a week. I love you." My heart is breaking.

She's here and I'm going.

My sister pipes up and is explaining, "Richard's been here a week, Mum. He's got to go back to work again. He's been doing the cooking for us."

"Oh that's very nice of you son," she says.

"I love you," I say heading out the door.

She shuffles to the window to wave me goodbye.

Tears are welling up in my eyes as we reverse out of the driveway; my Mum smiling gently and waving goodbye to me.

"Hello, Sunshine!"

Bye my love.

Bye Mum.

Why don't you...(fabulous tips from the world of Al)

Give the gift that keeps on giving.

Why don't you...

Give your loved one a present EVERY DAY! Make a birthday or Christmas last for a couple of months....

I gained this insight when I went to visit my Mum, who has Alzheimer's and all of my friends convinced me to buy her a gift. Not just any gift but a Pashmina Shawl that cost me a couple a hundred bucks! So I wrap it nicely and when I give it to Mum she carefully opens it and looks at it, kind of lost as to what it's supposed to be. My Aunty saves the day by exclaiming, loudly,"Oh Mary, it's a Pashmina. It goes around your neck...ooh, isn't it a lovely colour..."
A light comes on behind my Mum's eyes as she unfolds it and gingerly places it around her shoulders and neck.
"Ooh, thanks love. It's lovely." Mum says smiling. Ten minutes later, obviously warmer than before, she pulls it away from her neck, irritated. Twenty minutes after that it has disappeared into her handbag along with assorted papers, junk mail, the knife and fork she used for breakfast, a diamante earring, an envelope filled with photos and a rock.
The next day it's draped across the back of the couch like a throw. I gather it up and fold it and put it in her bedroom. The day after that, it's wrapped around her waist like an Obe-I can't work out whether it's more Geisha than Sumo. In the afternoon, I find it stuffed between a couple of cushions.
I pull it out again and fold it neatly, putting it back in her drawer in her bedroom. The next morning I find it wrapped around her pillow. The actual pillow is no where to be seen. The pillow case includes the yellow pages, yesterday's newspaper, a plate, two knives, a fork, three teaspoons and the jumper she wore two days ago and a bra. It all sits there like a great pink rock formation.
The following day the pashmina is nowhere to be seen. In fact it's never to be seen again. Where ever it disappeared to is a complete mystery.


So, Why don't you give them the present on day one!

"Oh lovely, it's a ........." they say.
" Yes, you put it on your (around your) (in your) ....." you say.
"Oh thank you, I'll put it on, around,in my ....", they say.

Day two just a repeat of day one really.

Day three - same as day one and day two - you get the picture.... you could go on for weeks if you have the stamina.

That Girl

I was stressed and nervous even though I had done this all before and the meal I was preparing was incredibly basic. I couldn't believe that my heart was pounding and I was worried about getting perfect timing for the toast and the baked beans. For God's sake it was baked beans!
Yeah but...
I took a deep breath and calmed myself as I stirred the pot.

My father sat in his chair puffing on the tiny cigarette that he had rolled earlier with some degree of difficulty; he was now increasingly frail and found it hard to do the things that had come so easily to him in the past. I thought he was watching the TV intently but then realised he wasn't focussing on it, he was just staring vaguely in that direction. Besides, he had never been into 'Neighbours' ever. Name an Australian soap and he'd have watched that but 'Neighbours'? No. I was too distracted to wonder what he was watching, or thinking.

My mother half lying, half sitting, sat on the beige sofa diligently reading the section of newspaper that she had been reading and then folding, then reading and folding almost all afternoon. It was like she was living in some sort of 'Far Side' cartoon - give her some pencils and she could amuse herself for hours. She would get the newspaper and for all intents and purposes she would look like she was deeply interested in the story. One day I overheard her reading out loud to herself as if trying not to miss a bit of information. It was only a whisper but I heard her read the same headline over and over; nothing was sticking. Nothing would stick.
One of her favourite things to do was to make her bed with every sheet and blanket in the linen cupboard or with sheets of newspaper, or alternatively, stuffing her pillows with whatever she thought was precious and needed looking after; jewellery, clothing..... the yellow pages.

I was buttering toast madly, panicking about the possibility of every thing going cold and the table not being set. Once I finished the toast, I hurriedly set the table the way my sister had set it the night before.

The table looked plain with the same barren quality the rest of this house had. I felt uncomfortable here with its lightly stained wooden panelling and the sheets of fabric on the windows trying desperately to be curtains but merely achieving sad. It was nothing like the home I had grown up in with its clutter, its photos covering the walls, its glass cabinets full of china, glass and knick knacks, its warmth, its memories.

My brothers had done the best they could; trying to keep things to a minimum with every thing easy to clean and nothing to dust. It was warmer than the little cottage they had been living in but the house had the kind of soullessness of a really cheap hotel.
The only visual stimulation in the place was the TV in the corner.

I kept it on to keep my parents and my self occupied. Morning TV with its infomercials, its chat segments with the vaguely interesting hawking their latest book, movie, album; ancient game shows or documentaries - it all distracted me enough to keep it together.
It kept my focus on the outside world instead of the sadness of the situation my family now found ourselves in. Our once vivacious mother, aunty, sister, friend fading away before our very eyes. The loss of a great friendship I had built up over years with her through strife, disaggreements and eventual unconditional love and respect.
Every time I thought of it, I was quietly devastated...Who's Charlotte got on today?... Oh look at how quickly that thing dices and slices, you could make a whole coleslaw in five minutes - Amazing!.... I can't believe what she is wearing....devastated.

“Come on Mum, Jim! Dinner’s ready guys!” I had two plates of steaming baked beans on toast that I was placing on the Indonesian placemats that sat at each end of the otherwise bare, mahogany Victorian table. An oblong carved wooden Cava bowl from Samoa sat in the middle of the table with three scraggy looking feijoa’s sitting forlornly at one end.

My mother was slowly getting up and was saying, “Come on Jim, dinners ready!” My father, though frail and much older than my mum was almost nimble in the way he got out of the beige chair that matched the sofa. My mum struggled on and sitting up started reading something she had just spotted.
“Come on Mary, your dinner’s getting cold,” my dad whined grumpily.
“Oh lovely,” she said, “What are we having?” She struggled up out of the seat.
She started folding the newspaper up into smaller and smaller pieces. She looked up at me as if asking me a question with her forehead then said almost surreptitiously, "We should ask her?" She nodded vaguely toward the corner.

“Come on Mum, come and sit down, it’s going to get cold,” my tone was a little clipped.
She looked at the baked beans as she sat down and said hungrily, ”Mmmm, looks delicious. Should we ask that girl if she wants something to eat?”
I was busy buttering my toast and was too distracted to notice the question fully.
“Where are you sitting love?” My mum asked. “Are you going to sit down with us?”
My father and I answered at the same time.
“Yes Mary.” "Yes Mum."
"I'll wait for you then," she said shooting an irritated look at my father who had picked up his fork.
Mum mumbled something that sounded like, ".. should ask that girl if she wants... thing to eat you know....years..", but it sounded too weird to register.
“I am just buttering my toast, you guys go ahead and eat.”
As I said it I remembered my sister’s instructions that Mum liked it when my brother said Grace.
“I’m just coming,” I said spooning the last of the baked beans on to my toast.
I plonked the plate down in front of me with a bang as I sat down. My mouth surprisingly started to water at the sight of what sat in front of me.
“Do you want to say grace, mum?”
“No you say it,” she looked nervously at my father, “You say it Jim”; he looked hungry and irritable.
“No Mary,” he whined.
“I’ll say it, “I jumped in. ‘We’ll never get to bloody eat otherwise’ I thought to myself.
“May god make us truly thankful for the food that we’re about to eat.” I didn't think it was long enough but it would have to do. “Amen”. I finished. Whew!

It didn’t matter to my Mum and Dad, they were off and eating.
My stressing about dinner had made me really hungry and I tucked into my own meal with the same gusto as my parents.
The TV was all that could be heard as we all ate.
My mother stopped eating and looked at me sheepishly.
“You know I feel so guilty eating in front that girl. We should have asked her to have something to eat with us.”
“Which girl, Mum?” I asked feeling perplexed.
“You know, that girl. We’ve known her for years.”
I hadn’t a clue who she was talking about. I thought she might be talking about a neighbour that visited every now and again who’s name Mum kept forgetting.
“You know that girl,” she said smiling. "She comes over all the time and we never ask her to eat."
“Nup, can’t think who you mean, luv,” and dismissed her as if she was rambling. I cut another baked bean covered triangle from my toast and shoved it in my mouth.
Mum mumbled, "Not even a cup of tea..." and carried on eating.

My dad had his head down and ate steadily. He saw me look at him and smiled his gummy smile at me saying, “Good dinner mate!” A stray baked bean slipped from his fork as he put it in his mouth and slid down his chin, leaving a red trail as it fell back onto his plate. He put his fork down and riffled about in his trouser pocket for his hanky, sniffing loudly as he leaned back from the table. Hanky retrieved, he folded it roughly into quarters and rubbed at his chin, looking to me to get confirmation that the sauce was gone.
“Down a bit, babe,” I said as he cleaned it up with one last wipe.
“Gone?” he said reminding me of my nephew when he was two.
“Gone.” I said and he pushed the hanky back into his pocket.

My mum ate quietly but looked as if she were intensely thinking about something. She finished her baked beans and pushed the plate away from her.
“I’m full. How was your dinner James?”
“Very nice thank you.” His mouth was still full but he looked to me and did the thumbs up.
“Lovely dinner son! Delicious!” Mum said emphatically. She sat back as my dad picked up the empty plates and flicked her nails as if she were cleaning them. She looked embarrassed as she said, “You know I still feel really guilty about not asking that girl whether she wanted something to eat.”
“What girl, mum? Who are you talking about, love?"
I felt full yet vacant at the same time like my brain had stopped working or I was about to fall off to sleep.
“That girl, you know she’s always here around tea time."
Nup, no idea.
"I’ve known her for years and I’ve never even asked her if she wants something to eat or even a cup of tea..... I feel so guilty eating in front of her.”
I didn't have a clue as to who she was talking about. My mind was running through all the possibilities without any luck.
“But what’s her name, Mum?"
"You know her."
"She's been coming to our place for years..." She gave me the 'Gosh, what a bloody idiot' look.
"I still don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“That girl!” she said annoyed now and slightly flabbergasted at my stupidity.
Finally she sighed her most frustrated sigh, “That girl!”
She pointed.
She was pointing at ‘Judy Bailey’.
The TV One Newsreader.
That girl we have known for years...
"Oh, love. That girl." That girl who's here every night at six.