The strange case of the green suit…

There are two things that stand out for me about this week. One is, I suppose, a milestone and the other… well, it’s just hilarious.

Anyone who has seen earlier posts will know that my Mum has Alzheimers and that we take turns in looking after her in her own home. My day on duty was always Sunday but now I have her Friday evenings too. The problem is that she still associates my presence with Sunday and she associates Sunday with a particular green suit.

Unlike my sisters, being a male my Mum insists that I’m out of the room when she gets ready. That has led to a difficulty. No matter what I lay out on the bed for her each Saturday morning, she ends up in her green ‘Sunday’ suit because of her ‘Declan/Sunday’ association. This was the week that I finally came up with an ingenious solution.

With the necessary approval from my fashion-conscious Mum, I got a nice blue print skirt, blue blouse and blue cardigan ready. Then, instead of laying them out on the bed, I took the clothes out of the room with me. I’d prepared warm, soapy water and a towel in the ensuite and I got her to throw out the night clothes she’d taken off to be washed so that I could be sure she was in her birthday suit. Moments later I could hear her splashing about quite happily. Then I heard her call out.

“I’m washed now. Where are my clothes?”

“I’ve got them here. I’ll give them to you one by one so you can get dressed. Okay?”


So far so good. I was delighted. I opened the door a crack and handed in her underwear. Then I waited a minute or two.

“Have you got your underwear on?”


I repeated the procedure with the blue blouse.

“Have you got it on.”

“Nearly. I’m just trying to get the buttons done up.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“No… There. I’ve got it.”

“Okay. Here’s your skirt.”

I handed it in through the gap.

“Thank you.”

She had no difficulty with that.

“Okay. Is that it?”

“No Mum, I have your lovely cardigan here.”

I passed it around the door. A few moments passed.

“What shoes will I wear?”

“I can come in now and help you chose them if you want.”


I opened the door and my mouth dropped. There she was in her green suit. Of the blue clothes there was no sign.

The other thing that stood out this week happened when I had an unexpected free class in college. I went to a coffee shop and ordered an Americano. Then I sat down, took out my laptop and wrote the first passage of my new book “Sticks and Stones”. I’d been carrying the story of the Pins and Needles sequel around for weeks but had been afraid that, for some reason, it wouldn’t translate to the written word. After an hour I was done and I’d written something I was very happy with. There’s another 89,000 words to go but I’ve laid the foundation. I had a thought. There was a copy of Pins and Needles in my bag. I took it out and wrote on the inside cover something like: “Here in this cafe on whatever day it was I’ve started Sticks and Stones.” Then I signed and dated it and, when nobody was looking stuck it between a bunch of other books on a bookshelf for someone to find some day. Maybe it’ll just sit there and nobody will care but there’s always the chance that my next book will be great and that book will make a fortune on ebay…


Alzheimers and the moral dilemmas


(approximate transcript of my video post:

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.

Mother launches acting career at 81…

If those suited people in glass offices are having trouble ‘thinking outside the box’ all they need to do is spend a while with my Mum. I awoke, this morning, at her house where I was taking a turn in looking after her (my siblings and I do 24 hour shifts) to find that the e-Book version of ‘Pins and Needles’ had been launched and, already, pre-orders had been electronically zapped to waiting Kindle devices. As I helped Mum get ready for her Alzheimers day club, half my mind was on the productive morning I’d put in arranging some local press attention before picking her up in the afternoon.

“Just a minute,” Mum said at the front door as we were leaving. She disappeared upstairs and returned, a few minutes later, with a handful of books.

“I’ll bring these,” she said.

We were half way through the 20 minute drive when she gave a little, somewhat contrived cough.

“You’ll go in, won’t you?” she said.

“Of course.”

I was unperturbed. Last week Mum had insisted that I brought a copy of my book to give to the staff and she had asked me to come inside with her to present it in person.

We pulled up on the tarmac outside the club. Mum produced another little cough.

“Now, you bring them in,” she said, offering me the books she’d brought.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ve got a cough. Tell them I can’t go.”

As we headed to the shops the cough was forgotten.

“What do you do at the club?” I asked.

“Nothing. Everybody sits around and stares at a fish tank, counting the fish.”

She paused a moment before adding: “… and  some of them are a bit…”

She tapped her head.

“… not all there.”