Fractured Relationship?

Dementia is such a cruel and debilitating illness. It destroys lives, not just the unfortunate person who suffers from its unwanted advances- but also has implications for the wider family. I pondered this thought, as I glanced up from my copy of Take A Break (I might add, I do not make a habit of reading womens’ magazines- the only other alternative was the Farmer’s weekly, and I’ve never taken a particular interest in agriculture) and saw Mrs Morris; my grandparents’ next door neighbour, with her arm in a sling. I remember my grandfather telling me solemnly once; how Mrs Morris is a shell of the person she once was. Apparently, in the 50’s, my grandfather and Mrs Morris, had a brief dalliance; ‘what a woman’ my grandfather recalled- this was before he met my grandmother.

  Mrs Morris was vivacious, intelligent, sophisticated and eccentric- he once reflected, but sitting just across the overflowing fracture clinic, I saw a woman who was confused, just staring ahead with a blank look on her face. It was such a sad sight. Mrs Morris’ husband Norman- died three years ago due to bowel cancer. My grandmother often says that she can hear Mrs Morris regularly calling Norman’s name.

  Accompanying Mrs Morris to the fracture clinic was her son Paul- a lovely chap, though my grandmother hasn’t spoken to him since 2010- when in her words he ‘swindled her out of £200.’ I keep pestering her, to stop playing poker.

 Currently my grandmother isn’t speaking to me. This non verbal stand-off is so futile, the truth is both of us are too stubborn, to be the first to patch things up. It all started during the fifteen minute car journey to the fracture clinic. Before we left the house, grandmother was writhing in agony- fearing she may have broken her leg, after tumbling down the stairs. However, within a minute of entering my car, she led a tireless campaign for me to switch Capital Radio over to Radio 4. When I refused she began to rant ‘oh you never visit me anymore, since you met that girl, never visit your poor old grandmother, you don’t care about me.’ Then she began remonstrating how Lauren my sister, was now her favourite grandchild. The same Lauren who couldn’t take grandmother to the hospital because she had a nail appointment!

    I should be at University. Today’s’ lecture was focussing on the stigmatisation of homosexuals in the Islam culture! I’ve spent the last twenty minutes, writing notes, occasionally biting the top of the Bic pen, searching for inspiration. It’s so hard to concentrate, with the racket going on in the fracture clinic; children are the worst offenders. Some kids in this place have a gob the size of the Mersey Tunnel; you wouldn’t think that such a small mite could reach an infinite number of decibels. I feel sympathy for the parents. A mother sitting adjacent to me, has just won the battle of wits though; albeit she had to bribe her daughter with a McDonalds and a scooter; but needs must when the devil drives.

  Paul’s just nipped over to say hi, my grandmother was rather hostile to begin with; but now they are chatting as if nothing ever happened. She’s still not speaking to me though, occasionally giving me scornful looks, she’s angry because apparently John Humphreys was holding a debate about the cost of energy prices; and I had denied her the knowledge of her consumer rights.

   I glance at my watch, we have been here for four painstaking hours. If my grandmother hasn’t actually broken her leg, well, what a waste of time this would have been. Mrs Morris has left, broken her arm in three places Paul said; tripped over the dog and crashed into the Kitchen unit. I didn’t even realise Mrs Morris had a dog.

 The furore in the fracture clinic has died down; the receptionist looks like she’s had twelve rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson, and my grandmother has fallen asleep. My phone has vibrated in my pocket at least twelve times, I can’t answer it because the sign located directly above my head urges me not to use it. I’ve had a go at the crossword, read the Take a Break; I’ve even resorted to colouring in the pictures that the hospital provides for the young children; such is the severity of my boredom.

  My grandmother’s woken in the last fifteen minutes, and she’s started speaking to me; I’ve agreed that she can listen to Radio 4’s Inside Science on the way home, and a bunch of other requests, which after a while I just kept repeating ‘yeah,’ so I have no idea what else I’ve agreed to.

  When we are finally called in to establish my grandmother’s injury, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. She hobbles in on her sticks, before turning back and replying ‘oh I forgot to tell you, I called your father whilst I was in the loo about a couple of hours ago, he told me to ring him when I’m done, so you can go now.’