November 20, 2008: lost for words

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Carer Diary

November 20, 2008: lost for words

The language is still there, but all meaning has disappeared for Marianne Talbot's mother, as her Alzheimer's progresses

Visiting mum I always glance at the notice-board. The notices about music therapy, visiting chiropodists and outings keep me up with mum’s world.

Yesterday there was a different sort of notice. It announced the death of a resident. Not recognising her surname I checked. It was the lady I had in mind.

This means that her husband, a sad-faced man in his mid-eighties, will be grieving. I’d often see him holding her hand. There wasn’t much else he could do because she communicated only in a strange rhythmic grunt. Perhaps this wasn’t even a communication but a tic.

But it was her eyes that always struck me. They had a look of quiet desperation. It was as if she wanted something, but knew she could do nothing about it.

Sometimes mum’s eyes have the same look. I hate it. It makes me feel helpless.

Writing that made me feel selfish. It should be mum’s quiet desperation I worry about, not my feeling of helplessness. But there is no point in worrying about mum’s quiet desperation, if indeed that’s what it is: there is nothing I can do about it.

Once I have checked she is comfortable, not in pain, hungry or thirsty there’s little else I can do. Thinking she might be bored I try to read or sing with her, but she’ll have none of it. Nor does she want to go for a walk or ride in her wheelchair.

I imagine the parents of a child who constantly cries feel the same. Loving someone who cannot tell you what they want is extremely frustrating.

Mum can speak. But she can’t communicate. Her utterances are mostly unintelligible. I suppose they have meaning because she seems to speak intentionally. I can see for example, that she is asking a question. It might even be possible to guess what the question is about. But no way is it possible to guess what the question is.

Sometimes this doesn’t matter. Mum is obviously just chatting. All I have to do is I respond arbitrarily, matching my tone to hers. “When will the cup reach forever?” she asks. “Oh, not for ages yet.” I reply. “Good!” says mum.

A conversational triumph!

Other times mum obviously wants to communicate, but can’t. Sometimes this frustrates her. Other times she seems sadly resigned.

Could a Fairy Godmother reveal mum’s thoughts? This assumes mum has thoughts to reveal. Does she? Or are her thoughts as scrambled as her expression of them? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.

Yesterday however we sang about twenty repeats of ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor?’ (first verse only because I couldn’t remember the rest). Mum seemed fine!

Saga and caring

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