I’ve shared my feelings about caring for my mother with Alzheimer’s. I’ve explained the effects this devastating disease has had on both her and her family but yesterday I got a glimpse into the mental torture dementia can have on a spouse.
There was no carer available to accompany my Mum and I on our weekly visit to the tea room. This happens quite regularly so I have had to think of ways to make my visits fun and memorable while sitting in her room or in the main sitting area. I give her manicures, we page through her photograph albums, we dance to ABBA and I try to jog her memory with past experiences we both shared. These visits aren’t spontaneous as Mum has minimal memory, not even able to recall anything from her past, so conversation is stilted and I find it hard to keep her interest.
But yesterday afternoon I caught a glimpse of a husband’s torment as he sat watching his wife struggling through this living hell. I noticed a new resident on Wednesday morning when my friend and I gave the exercise class. A lady sat quietly in the corner of the room, her eyes blank, not paying any attention to her surroundings. I tried to get her to open and close her hands as my friend began her ‘warm up’. There was no response.
My Mum was standing up in the sitting room when I arrived, watching the television with the words to the tune ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ showing at the bottom of the screen. Mum loves dancing and music and fortunately this love has remained with her throughout this debilitating illness. I looked around the sitting room and spotted the new lady sitting next to an elderly gentlemen and a younger woman who sat opposite. The elderly gentleman was holding the hand of the new resident and staring at her, patting her hand gently in time to the beat of the music. He began to sing quietly, his eyes filled with tears as he looked at his wife, her eyes blank and unresponsive. He didn’t waver, patting her hand gently, and singing quietly.
I felt as if I was intruding on this family and their pain so tried to persuade my Mum to come with me to her room. I had bought her some sweets and used these as a bribe. She wouldn’t move until the song ended! My eyes were drawn once more to the family in the corner. I watched as the new resident slowly began to mouth the words to the song. Her husband was still patting her hand gently, his eyes fixed on her face. Gradually, staring ahead, eyes still blank, more words came tumbling out. It was then that I looked at her husband. Tears were pouring down his cheeks as he stopped gently patting her hand, instead squeezing it tightly with both of his.
The song finished and I took my Mum’s hand and steered her gently to her room. I couldn’t banish the picture of that poor man’s face and thanked God that my father wasn’t alive to see his wife in this awful predicament. It would have broken his heart. He idolised her. My mother had nursed him through his dementia and now she is having to battle through her own in a care home.
My guilt surreptitiously began to surface. I looked at Mum munching contentedly through a packet of smarties. Pulling myself together I found some music on my phone and we danced around her room. Mum has thankfully reached the stage where she has found some contentment, of which I am very grateful.
Driving home I couldn’t stop crying, this time for the poor man. They were also tears of gratitude that life had spared my father this torment. But Mum has her caring family for support and the care home are very good to her. We can’t change the situation we are in so just have to knuckle down and make the most of where we are and what we have! Life goes on and so must we! 👠
Jenny Burrell 