I watch her slowly drift towards sleep while she sits in the morning sun. The dappled light filtering through the trees dances around her as though animating what I can imagine are her thoughts, a mix of gentle nothings, loose ends moving around one another, nothing ever fixing, always untethered and free. I wonder where she goes inside her mind, what that place looks like… is it black and cavernous or wildly colourful? It used to seem a dark place at times, perhaps when she had more awareness of where her mind was wandering, or waning. But now she appears more calm, like the place inside her head is somewhere she prefers to be. She has only three worries. Where is her purse (her money, and independence), her house (her security and comfortability) and of course, the dog. Has the dog been fed? My grandma lived with her dog, (the one before this one but we don’t tell her that of course), for many years alone. An only child growing up she enjoyed her solitude. She was the ultimate introvert and always exclaimed she didn’t like people so much, animals were her preferred companions. She raised five beautiful and strong-headed daughters mostly on her own - my grandfather was often away for business reasons, a chronic workaholic, making money was his primary goal in life. A social expectation of the time although he says he regrets some of these choices now. My grandma took this all in her stride. Her life was her family. So when her daughters grew and moved away to have their own families, and her marriage met a painful end, she certainly preferred the company of her dogs. Her door was always open to her clan and we visited regularly, especially while us grandkids were young. But time passed and the visits became less frequent as distances between homes grew and lives became more busy. We all feel guilty now, thinking about this time that slipped between our fingers. I know my mum does especially. We lived three hours from grandma and she had myself and my two brothers to manage. It was so easy for my mum to not see her own mother slowly drift into this land she now lives in, alone.
I find it morbidly ironic that now my grandma is getting the most time she ever has had with her daughters. She rotates between their homes, each daughter sharing the responsibility of her care which is 24/7 attention - including night shifts. She can’t be left alone for more than a minute or so, requiring constant reassurance of where she is, and why. All of this time together, only now she is somewhere else, somewhere inside herself. Her goldfish memory can be upsetting. I watch her as a thought bubbles to the surface and she tries to put this into words. Sometimes her thoughts are clear, usually, “What happened to MY house” or “When am I going home?”. In other words, I want my independence again. Other times the words come jumbled or stuttered and are incomprehensible. Then she gives up and retreats back inside herself again. Goes to that unknown place you can’t follow her into.
I think the only one who can follow her there is the dog. The large soft eyes of the little caramel chihuahua crossbreed, Honey, seem knowing as it sits dutifully on her lap or at her feet. Honey curls into a ball within the curve of her hip or lies herself across her legs. A comfort blanket for my grandma whose body remembers this feeling of safety and companionship most. A reminder of the power of physical memory. I’ve taken to placing my hand across her shoulder while we sit together, giving her a gentle rub across her back, or giving her hand a squeeze when I speak with her so that her eyes meet mine and she knows we’re friendly even though she can’t recognise me. I’ll always give her a kiss on the forehead to greet her in the morning or evening at dinner to which she always replies with a warm smile and sweet “thank-you” which melts my heart every time, without fail. She enjoys getting her nails painted and her hair brushed and blow-dried and these acts of kindness, of ultimate role reversals for mother and daughter, are met with bittersweet emotions. My mum who still works full time, now cares for her mother on her sparse time off. This time in her life post-motherhood that’s supposed to be about reclamation of self and independence has been reverted into care-land again. I can see the emotional toll it has taken on her, although she won’t give it much voice. The strain it has placed on her whole family and the deepening complexity of their relationships. Look, it’s tough.
I admire their persistence to care for their mother on their own, and resist putting her in an aged care home where they know the introvert will not be comfortable. Distressed and at risk of being forgotten. This is the reality for many families, maybe those who simply cannot cope with the full-time care requirements, who still have young families or not enough family around to help out. How do we care for our elderly, who seemed to have slipped through the cracks of our fast-paced, productivity-mad society? I can’t help but ask myself this with a sense of despair yet hope that things will change inevitably.
I sit with my grandma in the afternoon sun, in silence. I’ve stopped trying to engage her in conversation these days. She just gets distressed. Instead we share the sunshine together as I rub small circles across her shoulders. I feel myself settling, my energy dropping down a notch towards hers. Honey takes a big yawn and stretches out before us. We listen to the birds together and watch the light dance around us freely. She stirs beside me and I turn my focus towards her eyes. She says, “Where’s MY house. When am I going home?” I reply, “This is your home now, you live here with us, don’t worry we’re looking after you because we love you very much.” She looks at me with that melting smile, “Thank-you”.
