....no, she's not dead.
My mum has always been a force of fucking nature. This woman started out as a nurse in the 1960s. Ever meet a nurse from the 1960s? You do not fuck with them. She worked her ass off for years, only to step aside and spend 20 odd years raising kids- and having been one of those kids I can safely say that she never got an easy day. Eventually she didn't need to hit us with the wooden spoon when we were little shits, just threaten us with a glance at the drawer in which it was kept. We knew. Then when we grew brave enough to challenge her further, the dreaded muscle flex. She was one strong bloody woman. One time my childhood dickishness led to me sprinting to the garden at the sight of her bicep, only for her to give chase and pull the garden swing out of the damn ground as I sought to shield myself behind it. There was no escape from her justice.
Hell, when she wasn't busy looking after us, she had her hands full taking care of my often sick father. Find an obscure, life-threatening illness and that man would find a way to pick it up. Nice work, Deirdre.
So what does she do once her kids are all getting old enough to look after themselves (in principle at least, cos I'm still struggling here)? She goes back to nursing. Force of fucking nature.
The first time I brought a girl home to meet my parents was in 2005, I was petrified. I was sure that my dad would say something inappropriate and create one hell of an uneasy atmosphere (Irish man of a certain age). He didn't disappoint. Casual racism within 30 odd seconds of meeting the girl. No such fears about my mum though. She was out celebrating winning a regional badminton title or some such thing. When she got home a bit later, she stormed in to meet this girl in her house.
"Hello. I've got new boots. Do you like my new boots? I'm not drunk."
And then she was gone. A whimsical tornado had ripped through the room and left us confused and laughing. She knew how to break tension.
The second time I brought a girl home was earlier this year. I was petrified. This time I knew without a doubt my dad would say something inappropriate. Of course he did. Called her that first girl's name. Nice one dad.
That wasn't why I was scared. My dad's deadly.
All the fears were about my mum.
There's a story arc in Buffy the Vampire Slayer (it was formative viewing, OK?) where a military initiative decide to build a supersoldier. They get the best parts of a variety of beasts and men, mix 'em all up in a pot and create Adam. Well, the universe took a look at my mother, decided she was already a supersoldier and sought to Frankenstein something else together instead.
"Parkinsons? Nah, we need something worse. Dementia? Brilliant! Let's combine them!"
My mum suffers from Lewy Body Dementia. It's basically Parkinsons and Dementia combined like a really shitty Transformer. Hey, Universe- Fuck. You.
Things started to go wrong about 5 or 6 years ago, as far as we noticed. Still, the specialists would continue to tell us it was just Parkinsons. Any lapses in memory, were just signs of confusion, temporary spells brought on by her medication. Nothing to worry about.
"Her next appointment is in nine months. If you need me before then just call and we will arrange something."
Nine months would go by with countless phone calls unreturned. Messages were taken by assistants, but no calls came back. Appointment time rolls around and again we're told that it's just Parkinsons. No, she hasn't had a stroke, and no there's nothing wrong with her mind. One night, she had no idea where she was, or who the fuck we were. Two weeks in hospital later and "oh, maybe she does have something else."
You fucking think so!?
I spent a couple of years, still living at home, dealing with the late night rambling, irritability and confusion of my mother before I couldn't deal with it anymore. I live in Scotland now. It wasn't the sole reason, but it did play a part. She still waits for me to come for dinner from my job at the bank sometimes. Other times she asks me where her long dead mother is. It's grim.
My dad has looked after her every day. I can't describe how great that man is. My dad is the best. My sister, her husband and even their three little kids are so heavily involved in looking after this formerly wonderful woman. Not just them, but still my dad has to face more than anyone and he keeps going. It's so hard, but he keeps going.
He rang me on Wednesday night.
"Your mum's been taken to hospital. Well, technically she's been arrested and taken to hospital."
So, apparently my mum woke up on Wednesday and had no fucking clue who these people in her house were. She was probably terrified. She punched, she kicked, and she fought for all she was worth until my family had to have her sectioned. I don't know when she might be able to come home.
I'm not asking Argentina for its tears.
She met my girlfriend again a couple of weeks ago. She made a few jokes. I don't think I stopped smiling for days. She was my mum. Maybe only for an hour or so. But she was there. I'd forgotten what that felt like.
