This short story is one I loved writing and went on to be shortlisted in a writing competition back in 2023. It focuses on a woman and her experience supporting her mother with dementia. I worked in dementia care for a while, and I have many memories from that time I will hold with me forever.
Memory is a Funny Old Thing
The day my mother poured bleach into her tea was the day I knew I couldn’t do this on my own anymore. I had turned my back for a few seconds to chop a bloody apple and my mother nearly killed herself, thinking that the bleach was milk.
My mother, Jane, was diagnosed three years ago. It came on slowly, with her memory loss being slight and put down to “Oh she’s just got a lot on” or “It’s her menopause playing games”. She was only 54 when she started repeating questions and forgetting birthdays. When she forgot where she lived, walking past her own front door coming home from Aldi, I knew there was a problem.
I convinced her to see the GP, and a week later it was confirmed. Early-onset dementia. Since then, the decline has been slow but steady. Soon she couldn’t work the microwave without giving herself food poisoning, or read one of her Marian Keyes novels without spending half an hour scanning over the same sentence, before giving up.
About six months ago I became a stranger. Yet another choice made by my mother’s illness. I had been living with my mother for about a year at this point, as the anxiety of knowing she was alone would keep me awake all night. But sleeping in the room across the landing from her had cured my insomnia.
I woke up one morning and popped my head around her door to check on her. She was snoring so loud that it sounded like someone was mowing the lawn of tiny hairs in her lungs. I crept to the kitchen and set about making a pot of tea and a round of toast. When she appeared in the doorway seemingly out of nowhere, she made me jump so violently that the slice of toast I was buttering flew into the air and hit the ceiling. It left a patch of grease that to this day still taunts me from above. She smiled politely and asked how long I’d been here.
‘Oh, only about a year.’ I told her with a smile, used to her asking this question every other day.
She laughed shyly with a look of confusion in her eyes, and sat down at the table. I put a pot of tea in front of her and a small jug of milk, and told her to help herself.
‘Thanks dear,’ she said as she poured herself a cup. I watched her slowly stir the milk in, and caught her glancing at me with a questioning look on her face. ‘What’s your name, then?’
I felt the skin on the back of my neck run cold, as I joined her at the table with freshly prepared toast.
‘It’s Jenny.’ I scanned her face for a glimpse of recognition. None came.
‘Well, it’ll be nice to have you around. I’ve never had a housekeeper, but since my husband died I really could do with the help.’
I nodded and excused myself to the bathroom, where I cried into bunched-up toilet paper for the next ten minutes.
She’s spoken to me like an employee ever since. Any time I’ve tried to correct her, she forgets twenty minutes later so I’ve long given up trying.
When I turned around and saw her placing the red lid back on the bleach bottle, and making her way to the fridge, I intercepted her cup and tipped it into the sink. She stared at me in shock, a look of disgust on her face as if she’d caught me throwing away a glass of her favourite chardonnay. I apologised and made her a fresh cup. She spent the rest of the day side-eying me, as if I was out to get her.
After I helped her to bed, I plonked myself on the sofa and set about researching my options. If I hired a live-in carer, I would need a couple to make sure she was supervised at all hours, and I wasn’t sure I could cope with the invasion of strangers in my family home. My heart ached when I started scrolling through the pages of local care homes, but I was shocked to see the price was cheaper than keeping my mother at home. I spent the next few days watching my mother’s every move, while I weighed up my options.
I cried in the car on the way to, and home from, the care home I eventually decided would be best. It was a ten-minute drive from the house, and it had held an outstanding CQC inspection rating for the past 7 years. I felt as though I was letting my mother down, but tried hard to remind myself that I was actually keeping her safe. I couldn’t physically, or mentally, manage on my own anymore. I was losing my temper at a rate I didn’t know was possible, and spending every night staring at the ceiling, listening for movement, wasn’t sustainable.
Two weeks later, I told my mother I was taking her for a long weekend break in the Lakes as I packed two suitcases with most of her clothes, toiletries and her favourite porcelain elephant collection. She smiled out of the window for the short drive, and sighed as we pulled into the car park of Meadowhill Care Home.
‘Ah, we’re finally here?’ she asked. ‘I was wondering how much longer it would be, I’m bursting for the loo.’ She let herself out of the car and walked up the stone steps quicker than I could catch her. I was always surprised by how quick she was on her feet, her dementia had not hindered her physical abilities, which was another reason it was hard to keep an eye on her at all hours. Three times she had been returned home by the police, like a misbehaving teenager found drinking in the park.
A stern-looking woman opened the door and said a pleasant hello to my mother, before calling to me as I ascended the stairs.
‘Jane Atkins, is it?’
I nodded and smiled, trying to ignore the pain in my chest as the weight of what I was doing took over my body.
I tried to grab my mother’s hand, but she shook me off and strode proudly ahead. We walked in silence through locked doors and long corridors, before being led into an empty room that smelt like the very bleach that brought us here. My mother hadn’t said a word the whole way, and her need for the toilet seemed to have slipped her mind. I silently hoped that she hadn’t forgotten how to control her bladder between the entrance and her new bedroom.
The woman who had led us here was Sharon, the head nurse of the dementia ward. She was actually much friendlier than her stern look had led me to believe, and she promised to keep my mother company while I retrieved her belongings from the boot of my car.
I took my time when I got back outside. Leaning against the dusty boot of my tiny Ford Ka, I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
And out.
I looked around me to check I was alone, before allowing the tears to fall. By the time I pulled the cases out of the boot, I had composed myself.
When I walked back into the barren room in which I had left my mother, she introduced me immediately to Sharon.
‘Ah, this is my housekeeper Jenny. I think she’s here to say goodbye, now I won’t be needing her services anymore.’ Then she turned to me. ‘I wish you well Jenny. I hope you will be able to find work elsewhere soon, as-’ she waved in Sharon’s direction as she paused brieflf. ‘As this kind lady has assured me that all housekeeping is already included in the rent.’ She was blunt, and it sent a chill through my body, ruining my composure. I rushed over to my mother and wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tight. Her arms stayed clasped in her lap, as I felt her twitch beneath me. She must have thought I was a lunatic, but I tried not to take it personally as I released her from my hold.
I left the room quietly, looking back before I pulled the door shut, and watched as my mother turned the TV on and laughed at the mere sight of Philip Schofield and Holly Willoughby.
In the corridor, Sharon ushered me wordlessly to an office a few doors down, and handed me a box of tissues as I sat down. I took one.
‘I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but she’s in the best place to keep her safe.’
‘I know, I know. I just wish she saw me as more than just a replaceable housekeeper.’ I wiped my nose and looked down at my lap, ripping the now damp tissue into tiny shreds. ‘How often can I visit her?’
‘Visiting time is two until four, as we don’t like to interrupt meal times. Routine is important in our care of dementia patients, but if for any reason this isn’t suitable we can arrange for altered visiting hours at the weekend.’ She spoke like she was reading an invisible piece of paper, obviously used to this question from tense relatives leaving their loved ones in her care.
I told her this would be fine. I had been working from home as a freelance content writer since I moved in with my mother, so I was lucky enough to be able to choose my own working hours. On my way out, Sharon handed me a leaflet explaining the routine of the care home, and explained that the entertainment on Wednesdays was always a good one for relatives to come along to, and I agreed that I would be there.
Three days later, standing by my word, I pressed the buzzer and waited to be let into the care home. I wasn’t hopeful about the idea of entertainment, imagining a dodgy magician or bingo caller akin to the likes found at Butlins. But when I made my way to the living room and sat down next to my mother, I was pleasantly surprised to see a beautiful woman looking like a modern-day Dusty Springfield.
After a few minutes sitting in silence, while my mother ignored me in favour of watching a squirrel run up a tree in the courtyard on the other side of the streaky window, a loud static noise broke out from a speaker. A chorus of oohs from the residents, visitors and staff alike brought all attention to the entertainer. She thanked everyone for coming, as if the residents had bought tickets and made time out of their busy schedules to come and see her.
I watched as she hit the spacebar on a nearby laptop, and felt goosebumps spread across my body as the first notes of Downtown by Petula Clark echoed around the room. This song was my grandmother’s favourite, and, in turn, my mother’s. I looked at her for a glimpse of recognition.
As the entertainer began singing the classic song, my mother grabbed my hand and squeezed it in hers. She sang along for a moment, her eyes closed as she absorbed the tune. Then, she looked up, tears glistening in her eyes, and whispered to me.
‘Oh Jenny, I’ve missed you. I’m so glad you’re here for this.’
She looked back to the entertainer and continued to sing along while stroking my hand with her soft fingers.
In that moment, I felt a rush of relief, knowing I had made the right decision putting my mother into a care home. As if by magic, her memory had been unlocked by her mother’s favourite song. It was as though she was herself again, and even if for only a moment, we had each other back.
Memory is a funny old thing.