Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Into the Mist...

Anthony got his mother crying again.

But, as I've mentioned before, it doesn't take much interaction with her to trigger a fountain of tears.

Apparently, mood swings is a symptom of Alzheimer's Disease, which she won't admit to having. But she does. Boy does she ever.

It was the usual thing: she'd got herself into a pile of trouble by "losing" her purse containing her wallet and all her ID and credit cards, and of course, her bank card.

Somehow, she was able to wend her way to the bank, where she cancelled her bank card.

Anthony discovered all this had happened when he randomly called her last week.

He: "So, where did you lose your purse?"

She: "I don't know. I don't remember anything about it."

He: "When did you lose it? Yesterday?"

She: "I TOLD you, I don't remember."

He: "Well, at least you cancelled your bank card. Did you also cancel your credit cards?"

Long pause.

She: "I don't know."
A few days later, he dropped by to see if she'd miraculously "found" the purse. This was entirely possible, as she claims constantly that things are lost, when she's merely deposited them into nooks and crannies about the house, to be discovered accidentally weeks or even months later.

On the other hand, if the purse was well and truly gone, he thought the credit cards better get cancelled.

The purse was not found. In fact, the only thing Anthony found was Doris, in bed, depressed and teary, purse-less and mumbling.

She rambled about a dream she'd had of her daughter Mick, Anthony's sister who died a couple of years ago.

"It's the first time I've dreamed of her," Doris announced through the snot and saline pouring down her face.

Anthony didn't bother to correct her.

She turned up the volume on the crying, proceeding to howl that her grand-daughter, Rita, never came to visit any more.

Nor would I, Anthony thought, if I were an 18-year-old girl.

He eased himself out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into the street, gasping for fresh air. It's positively claustrophobic sometimes. I know.

Anthony's mother and mine both, make me think of a pair of old witches, fading and confused, gradually disappearing into the mists of memory and semi-madness.

They're the Ladies of the Lake, Viviane and Morgan le Fey, and their time is over, or nearly so.

It's very sad.


No comments:

Post a Comment