Alzheimers and the moral dilemmas

 

(approximate transcript of my video post: https://youtu.be/s7oOJA7_nrw)

My gorgeous and charismatic Aunt Theresa was laid to rest in the past few days. Two of my sisters travelled to England to represent the family while we held the fort looking after Mum. It’s been such a poignant time. Mam’s the last one left of her siblings now, yet, because of her Alzheimers she’s lost in her own particular world where she’s no longer sure of who’s alive and who’s gone.

Her earliest memories are of standing in a World War II air raid shelter and watching a woman push her baby into the waiting arms of an air raid warden as a piece of shapnel decapitated her before just as she reached the door. And, shortly after that, sitting on a train with her mum who told her to wait because she was just slipping out to the toilet. As the train started to pull out she started screaming for someone to stop it because they were forgetting her mum. A nun in the carriage slapped her legs and told her to be quiet. That was the last time she saw her mother for several years. She’d been evacuated to the countryside where she has horrible memories of abuse by the people who were obviously getting some sort of allowance to take her in because they certainly weren’t doing it for love!

Her life wasn’t easy. Dad adored her but he was self employed and worked long hours while she was left at home with an ever growing number of kids and, because they’d moved her from England, no real friends or family support.

We grew up to the sound of mum complaining constantly to Dad who never argued back but would disappear climbing mountains. That frustrated her even more than any arguing he might have done.

It was only when dad was forced to retire through illness that we watched them fall in love all over again. They were like a teenage couple. Inseparable. That’s what made it even more heartbreaking to see her lose him. They’d been together for over 50 years but had only really found each other in those last ones.

So now she’s alone at the head of the family in age but as dependent on our love as if she was a child. And I guess we’re trying to give her the childhood now, that she never had then. So we won’t tell her that her sister has gone on. We’ll shout at the TV when ireland play, watch Nanny McPhee or The Quiet Man for the umpteenth time and listen to the same memories of her youth that seem a lot clearer to he than what happened an hour ago. And, every now and then, amid the repeated anecdotes that we no longer can verify as accurate, she says something profound or insightful. And we know that we’ve not lost her yet.

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