My mum lives alone.
She’s 82, I think. I’ve never been great with birthdays.
She’s lived alone for over half her life. Well, apart from some entertaining, quite embarrassingly teenage-like relationships she had when I was a teenager. But she’s pretty much lived alone ever since my dad took his own life when I was 7 or 8.
OK, I’m really not great with any dates. And I also realise my inability to remember dates might not be the most salient information I've just shared, but still, that’s not what I’ve been thinking about this year.
This year, I’ve been thinking a hell of a lot about my mum. And her Alzheimer’s. And that she’s going through that alone.
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My mum lives alone.
She’s 82, I think. I’ve never been great with birthdays.
She’s lived alone for over half her life. Well, apart from some entertaining, quite embarrassingly teenage-like relationships she had when I was a teenager. But she’s pretty much lived alone ever since my dad took his own life when I was 7 or 8.
OK, I’m really not great with any dates. And I also realise my inability to remember dates might not be the most salient information I've just shared, but still, that’s not what I’ve been thinking about this year.
This year, I’ve been thinking a hell of a lot about my mum. And her Alzheimer’s. And that she’s going through that alone.
As well as being vivacious, she was sharp and strong and courageous. She’d had to be, to bring three boys up alone in south London. And Alzheimer's is taking that away. And that's devastating to see.
She was diagnosed a couple of years ago. I’d been worried about her memory for a while and after she’d succumbed to an outrageous banking scam, I’d confronted her. She didn’t react kindly to me airing my concerns but she went for tests. I was amazed she went but it turns out that she was already worried about her memory.
When she was diagnosed, her symptoms were mild and she was still a pretty vivacious character – a great mum to have. But this year, it’s been getting worse. Not really bad, but most definitely worse. I’ve had calls from friends and family who are worried about her.
She only lives a 15-minute bike ride away so I could spend loads of time with her. But I don’t. I’ve thought about why I don't see her as much as I should. Or as much as I think I should. My partner calls her mum – who has a heady double-whammy of Alzheimer's and vascular dementia – every single day.
Why don’t I? What am I avoiding? We used to have an amazing relationship. As well as being vivacious, she was sharp and strong and courageous. She’d had to be, to bring three boys up alone in south London. And Alzheimer's is taking that away. And that's devastating to see. But Alzheimer's brings so many additional frustrations into the mix.
After a very charming and then increasingly forceful phone call, Mum was persuaded to urgently return her supposedly compromised cards to “the bank” and, as instructed, obediently left them in an envelope under her front doormat so they could be picked up by a “secure courier”.
Just one example? My repeated messages about not giving out her card details don't land. And I definitely hadn't thought I'd need to tell her not to hand over her actual bank cards to someone just because they asked for them. But, apparently I did. After a very charming and then increasingly forceful phone call, Mum was persuaded to urgently return her supposedly compromised cards to “the bank” and, as instructed, obediently left them in an envelope under her front doormat so they could be picked up by a “secure courier” (an unsuspecting cabby according to the police).
I shouldn’t expect my advice to stick really. The fallout is me spending a lot of time with her bank’s customer service and fraud departments. Who – to be fair to them – have been amazing.
I've even (horribly guiltily) thought that, sometimes, I prefer spending time with them than with her. We have a proper laugh about the entertaining frauds that have managed to get through. My favourite haul amongst all the sophisticated and high-spend scams: an Uber ride either side of a £5.20 transaction at Greggs – which, I worked out, is the cost of a four-pack of their sausage rolls and a cuppa.
My favourite haul amongst all the sophisticated and high-spend scams: an Uber ride either side of a £5.20 transaction at Greggs – which, I worked out, is the cost of a four-pack of their sausage rolls and a cuppa.
I wish my mum could be funnier. That, just maybe, she could joke a little more about the situation she’s in. But, oh boy, that’s so on me. I often try to make light of dark situations. Perhaps that’s one of the hangovers from what happened to my father?
But Alzheimer's is quite serious. No, it’s not just “quite serious”. It must be absolutely fucking terrifying. Especially if you’re living alone. And even more so if you're living alone and you vaguely recall that you gave some shitty fraudsters your address.
I’m scared of getting Alzheimer's too.
A couple of weeks ago as I was leaving her house after helping with something rather tricky, Mum thanked me for my support. And she quickly followed up with, "I hope you don't get this”, while pointing to her head.
I replied, rather too quickly, rather too blithely, “It’s ok, I’ve got plans to spend the next few years collecting entertainingly strong drugs so that, if it comes to it, I can go out on a high.”
Classic me; trying to make light of the situation. But how completely fucked up is saying something like that to a woman who’s husband took his own life?
It’s OK, though. She probably won’t remember.
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Published tomorrow!