I'm no longer here. That is, I'm no longer actively involved with the site and this is the first time I've logged in to my account for well over a year.
Mum died in November of 2016. Her death was bestially cruel; after nearly three years of taking care of her in her own home we could do no more and she moved in to a nursing home nearby. Within three weeks she got out of bed one night, fell, and broke her hip and wrist. She never recovered and died in great distress a few weeks later. It wasn't exactly a fitting end to the life of someone so kind, so gentle, so loving.
It would, though, be a lie to say we didn't all breathe a huge sigh of relief when her misery was over. Only an idiot would think otherwise, and as we always said, had she understood what was going on she'd have insisted that we knock her over the head with her spade. For a few weeks after her death I stayed in her house and relished the peace and calm; such a contrast to the nights of frustration and exhaustion being her main carer entailed. All of us wound down, we all slowly got our own lives back, we started to forget the horror and began to remember her as she really was. Her funeral was in December, a little later we collected the box with her ashes in. I moved it around the house every day or so so she didn't get bored. She spent a lovely day in her garden, and one day she spent in her shed, because we knew it would have amused her.
In the spring of 2017 we spread her ashes among the bluebells in the woods near where she grew up; a promise made to her years ago. Even now, I can remember the deep, deep silence which suddenly just happened after we'd dispersed the ashes. All of us stood in a little semi-circle suddenly, briefly, completely quiet and still, connecting with...well, I don't know what. Everything stopped. Everything, just for a few seconds.
And life carried on. Her house was sold, an end to 80 years of our family being there. That was a wrench. Christmas 2017 the first since sometime in the 1930s that the place hadn't been involved in our Christmas in some way.
It all started to recede; the nasty stuff faded. Sometimes I'll think of her and get upset for a moment, and sometimes, rather to my surprise, I still miss the person I think of as Loony Mum; confused, sometimes angry, sometimes an utter nightmare to be with; and yet, and yet...sometimes I still wish Loony Mum was around because a lot of the time she was still soft and daft and funny and entertaining. I miss her.
The other night, for the first time in 18 months I parked in a particular spot at Sainsbury's; the one where I usually parked if she was with me. I sat and remembered what probably was the last time we went there together. For some reason I made a little film of us, using my phone. Just short, just thirty seconds of us chatting. Her not understanding my jokes, me getting her to put her seatbelt on. Just normal, just us. Just a rather tired middle-aged bloke and his mum with Alzheimer's communicating and being silly. I smiled as I remembered her sat next to me, and how much I used to enjoy wandering around the shop with her. She enjoyed it too.
You never really lose your feelings for someone close. It scared me once that all we'd remember was mum in her last stages; that we'd forget all the good stuff, that our memories would be corrupted; but it's ok. I re-read some of the contributions I'd made here at the height of mum's illness; so much I'd completely forgotten, so many incidents, so many silly little things which had nearly driven me mad at the time. All forgotten, now. I remember her last years and smile. Coming home to her and hugging, laughing, being silly, taking care of her as best I could, getting through the sundowning - another thing I'd completely forgotten about - getting her into bed, saying night night and closing her bedroom door, fingers crossed for a relatively peaceful night.
Talking Point was a great help to me, and thank you to the Alzheimer's Organisation for it. The site was a great comfort in the more difficult times.
And with regard to the difficult times - and there were very many - they are long gone from my memories. I know - my God, believe me, I know - how hard it is to care for a victim of this horror. I was no saint when mum was alive; very often I'd get angry, very often I'd choose to turn a deaf ear if I thought I could get away with it. Those still doing everything they can have my unending respect and my sympathy. And to everyone here, understand this; the pain ends. But what doesn't end are the smiles and the memories of those we love.
Mum died in November of 2016. Her death was bestially cruel; after nearly three years of taking care of her in her own home we could do no more and she moved in to a nursing home nearby. Within three weeks she got out of bed one night, fell, and broke her hip and wrist. She never recovered and died in great distress a few weeks later. It wasn't exactly a fitting end to the life of someone so kind, so gentle, so loving.
It would, though, be a lie to say we didn't all breathe a huge sigh of relief when her misery was over. Only an idiot would think otherwise, and as we always said, had she understood what was going on she'd have insisted that we knock her over the head with her spade. For a few weeks after her death I stayed in her house and relished the peace and calm; such a contrast to the nights of frustration and exhaustion being her main carer entailed. All of us wound down, we all slowly got our own lives back, we started to forget the horror and began to remember her as she really was. Her funeral was in December, a little later we collected the box with her ashes in. I moved it around the house every day or so so she didn't get bored. She spent a lovely day in her garden, and one day she spent in her shed, because we knew it would have amused her.
In the spring of 2017 we spread her ashes among the bluebells in the woods near where she grew up; a promise made to her years ago. Even now, I can remember the deep, deep silence which suddenly just happened after we'd dispersed the ashes. All of us stood in a little semi-circle suddenly, briefly, completely quiet and still, connecting with...well, I don't know what. Everything stopped. Everything, just for a few seconds.
And life carried on. Her house was sold, an end to 80 years of our family being there. That was a wrench. Christmas 2017 the first since sometime in the 1930s that the place hadn't been involved in our Christmas in some way.
It all started to recede; the nasty stuff faded. Sometimes I'll think of her and get upset for a moment, and sometimes, rather to my surprise, I still miss the person I think of as Loony Mum; confused, sometimes angry, sometimes an utter nightmare to be with; and yet, and yet...sometimes I still wish Loony Mum was around because a lot of the time she was still soft and daft and funny and entertaining. I miss her.
The other night, for the first time in 18 months I parked in a particular spot at Sainsbury's; the one where I usually parked if she was with me. I sat and remembered what probably was the last time we went there together. For some reason I made a little film of us, using my phone. Just short, just thirty seconds of us chatting. Her not understanding my jokes, me getting her to put her seatbelt on. Just normal, just us. Just a rather tired middle-aged bloke and his mum with Alzheimer's communicating and being silly. I smiled as I remembered her sat next to me, and how much I used to enjoy wandering around the shop with her. She enjoyed it too.
You never really lose your feelings for someone close. It scared me once that all we'd remember was mum in her last stages; that we'd forget all the good stuff, that our memories would be corrupted; but it's ok. I re-read some of the contributions I'd made here at the height of mum's illness; so much I'd completely forgotten, so many incidents, so many silly little things which had nearly driven me mad at the time. All forgotten, now. I remember her last years and smile. Coming home to her and hugging, laughing, being silly, taking care of her as best I could, getting through the sundowning - another thing I'd completely forgotten about - getting her into bed, saying night night and closing her bedroom door, fingers crossed for a relatively peaceful night.
Talking Point was a great help to me, and thank you to the Alzheimer's Organisation for it. The site was a great comfort in the more difficult times.
And with regard to the difficult times - and there were very many - they are long gone from my memories. I know - my God, believe me, I know - how hard it is to care for a victim of this horror. I was no saint when mum was alive; very often I'd get angry, very often I'd choose to turn a deaf ear if I thought I could get away with it. Those still doing everything they can have my unending respect and my sympathy. And to everyone here, understand this; the pain ends. But what doesn't end are the smiles and the memories of those we love.
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