Clutching the pink plastic mobile-phone in the palm of her right hand, giving it the occasional shake in an attempt to elicit some kind of sound, she was oblivious to anything and everything around her. "Hullo! hullo!" she kept saying into the phone, plainly irritated when receiving no response. Her daughter, NA, who had been looking on, stepped forward to relieve her of the 'phone', telling her that the battery had run out. She then took hold of a hair-roller and tried several times to place it on her head - in vain - only to draw out another series of disgruntled moans. She then took a face towel and draped it round the roller, much like how you would hang an item on a clothes-line. Then, she took a comb and gently ran it through her grey-peppered hair. I hugged her; she sat still - without the slightest hint of response, much less a recognition.
The last time I visited, some months ago, she was gripping a rubber duckie and squeezing it hard incessantly, somewhat enthralled by the sound that resulted. When that had exhausted its fascination, she put it aside and rummaged through the bag of toys for something else. First, a plastic mobile phone, then a rubber tennis ball. Silently, intently, she examined the object in her hand - like someone trying to figure out a piece of the puzzle. Most times, she would just stare into space, or at the TV - her face devoid of any emotion, her hand stroking her thighs.
At other times, NA said, she would look out the window pointing her finger at something, and insist that someone was trying to get into the house. Or that there was something going on across the road when it was in fact deserted and as quiet as can be. Out of the blue, she would call out the name of her sisters or brothers and asked that they be served something or other. As if they were visiting her at home. Why doesn't so-and-so call - she would ask in dismay. Only, how do you make her understand that they are all deceased?
Which is worse? That she has no inkling of the world she is in - much less of who she is - or that she is unreachable to us? We have all become strangers to her; even her two daughters who tend to her 24/7. She is in a world of her own, unfathomable to us, as ours is to her, I think. Though in her 80s, she exists in a time somewhere between adolescence and her early years of marriage, and keeps recalling those times, giving you snippets of her younger days.
It is impossible to hold a conversation with her; instead, you let her talk and then humour her, and indulge her every whim. Even if it is way past midnight, or in the wee hours of dawn when she cannot sleep. The funny thing is, she gets angry when you don't. When she doesn't get what she wants (because most times you can't make out what it is), she becomes irritated, and throws a tantrum - like a child. In a lot of ways, she has become a child, dependent on outside help for all her physical needs.
From her bed, she does things that bear a semblance, though remotely, of the things she used to do - like teaching adults in a KEMAS class in the late 60s. She refuses to leave her bed, and has to be cajoled and carried to the bathroom. She is overweight, and her daughters need an extra hand to get her to the bathroom, or anywhere. At times when she becomes unmanageable, they resort to medication to calm her down. On her good days - few and far between - she seems to be in the present, if only for a split second.
Such is the toll of Alzheimer's disease on my aunt who was once active, independent and dependable. Her husband died when her second daughter was still an infant. I'm sure raising her two daughters on her own was no walk in the park for her. Nor can it be for them, now that the role is reversed. It is preordained, isn't it - that they have remained single, and are able to devote their life now to whatever remains of their mother's. It can't be easy for either of them - trying to make sense of an incomprehensible existence, knowing that no amount of tender loving care can ever bring her back.
As I took my leave, I hugged her again and clasped her hand in mine. Still, all I got back was a cold, empty look. Which would be the same - when I visit again.
The last time I visited, some months ago, she was gripping a rubber duckie and squeezing it hard incessantly, somewhat enthralled by the sound that resulted. When that had exhausted its fascination, she put it aside and rummaged through the bag of toys for something else. First, a plastic mobile phone, then a rubber tennis ball. Silently, intently, she examined the object in her hand - like someone trying to figure out a piece of the puzzle. Most times, she would just stare into space, or at the TV - her face devoid of any emotion, her hand stroking her thighs.
At other times, NA said, she would look out the window pointing her finger at something, and insist that someone was trying to get into the house. Or that there was something going on across the road when it was in fact deserted and as quiet as can be. Out of the blue, she would call out the name of her sisters or brothers and asked that they be served something or other. As if they were visiting her at home. Why doesn't so-and-so call - she would ask in dismay. Only, how do you make her understand that they are all deceased?
Which is worse? That she has no inkling of the world she is in - much less of who she is - or that she is unreachable to us? We have all become strangers to her; even her two daughters who tend to her 24/7. She is in a world of her own, unfathomable to us, as ours is to her, I think. Though in her 80s, she exists in a time somewhere between adolescence and her early years of marriage, and keeps recalling those times, giving you snippets of her younger days.
It is impossible to hold a conversation with her; instead, you let her talk and then humour her, and indulge her every whim. Even if it is way past midnight, or in the wee hours of dawn when she cannot sleep. The funny thing is, she gets angry when you don't. When she doesn't get what she wants (because most times you can't make out what it is), she becomes irritated, and throws a tantrum - like a child. In a lot of ways, she has become a child, dependent on outside help for all her physical needs.
From her bed, she does things that bear a semblance, though remotely, of the things she used to do - like teaching adults in a KEMAS class in the late 60s. She refuses to leave her bed, and has to be cajoled and carried to the bathroom. She is overweight, and her daughters need an extra hand to get her to the bathroom, or anywhere. At times when she becomes unmanageable, they resort to medication to calm her down. On her good days - few and far between - she seems to be in the present, if only for a split second.
Such is the toll of Alzheimer's disease on my aunt who was once active, independent and dependable. Her husband died when her second daughter was still an infant. I'm sure raising her two daughters on her own was no walk in the park for her. Nor can it be for them, now that the role is reversed. It is preordained, isn't it - that they have remained single, and are able to devote their life now to whatever remains of their mother's. It can't be easy for either of them - trying to make sense of an incomprehensible existence, knowing that no amount of tender loving care can ever bring her back.
As I took my leave, I hugged her again and clasped her hand in mine. Still, all I got back was a cold, empty look. Which would be the same - when I visit again.
Atom Feed (xml)
No comments:
Post a Comment