Author Kate Moore doted on her grandmother, but by the time she realised dementia was taking hold of her, she had already slipped away.
Kate Moore
A bereavement without a death
Posted on: Thu 14-Jul-16 17:24:22
(21 comments )
"I wish I knew who Lillian Punter was. For, by the end, not even she did."
I can remember being so excited when my granny moved into the annexe next door. Best of all: she would be walking me and my best friend to and from primary school every day.
My granny, Lillian Punter, was a wonderful woman. She worked as a nurse for over forty years – but family was what always came first. To this day the smell of bacon reminds me of the jolly breakfasts she'd cook up, while she also sewed towelling robes for all us grandkids, our initials stitched into the pockets, and made us bespoke Christmas stockings too. I was the youngest; she called me 'Granny's little treasure'.
When I was eight, she moved into the annexe, and for a while the babysitting worked out brilliantly. My friend and I would come home with her after school and she'd serve us biscuits while we fondled the ears of her Collie dog, Lassie, and watched cartoons.
One day, there were no cookies on the plate. There were just crumbs, as though we were birds she was feeding and not little girls. But Granny didn't know she'd done anything wrong.
My parents tell me now I was very distressed by the plate of crumbs my granny gave us: confused and upset, ashamed and embarrassed. I don't remember that; perhaps I've blocked it out. I do remember, later, my dad rushing out of the house to find Granny when she'd wandered off, wearing only her nightie. I remember Granny dressing for a party that didn't exist. I remember her forgetting who I was – and not just me, but my mother, too: her daughter.
I was too young to do it, but I wish I'd sat down with her and talked, before it was too late, about what my granny thought and dreamed and had experienced.
My granny had Alzheimer's disease.
They call it 'a bereavement without a death'. And that is what it's like, for you lose the person that you loved and in their place is a stranger. Sometimes that stranger is sweet and funny. Sometimes they're scared and befuddled, recognising no one and nothing. It's a disease that makes grandchildren parents to their grannies, having to explain, 'No, that's not right,' or 'This is how you make a cup of tea.' My sister recalls Granny staring in horror at a plate of spaghetti, pointing to all the 'worms'. That was an episode that made us children laugh, but most of them were just very upsetting.
My granny died a few days before I turned fourteen. By then, she was in a home, unable to remember anyone; unable to recall how to eat. I remember how thin she was; I remember going to say goodbye just before the end, but in fact we had lost her long ago. My granny vanished while I was watching cartoons and munching biscuits, and I never even noticed her go.
One of my biggest regrets is how little I know of her. My mum fills in the gaps, but when your relatives have Alzheimer's, so many stories never survive: they're lost in the fog of a brain that is clouding everything, where memories have become elusive as ghosts. I was too young to do it, but I wish I'd sat down with her and talked, before it was too late, about what my granny thought and dreamed and had experienced. I wish I knew who Lillian Punter was. For, by the end, not even she did.
Today, I volunteer for a leading dementia charity. And in this small way, once a month, I remember Granny.
Kate’s new book, The Radium Girls, is published by Simon Schuster and is available now from Amazon.