Chapter 7
7
POPPY
I’d been awake for a couple of hours when my alarm sounded at half seven on Sunday morning. What a restless night. Damon’s odd behaviour yesterday had unnerved me – especially him turning up at The Larks like that – and it had taken me way longer than usual to switch off. Once sleep finally came, it brought disturbing dreams. I was trying to visit Dad at The Larks but Marnie wouldn’t let me in because his ‘son’ was already with him. When I finally managed to push past her and run to his room, Dad was lying in bed with Damon standing over him, a pillow in his hands. You’re mine, Poppy. No more distractions for you. Marnie and her team had caught up with me and held me back as Damon lowered the pillow over Dad’s face. I woke up screaming, heart pounding, tangled up in the duvet and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.
Even though I knew Dad wasn’t in any danger, it didn’t take a genius to work out that my feelings of discomfort around Damon had been projected into that dream.
Hearing a vehicle stopping outside, I peeled back the duvet and crept to the window. Stomach churning, I pulled one of the curtains aside and parted the blinds, relief flowing through me that it was just Wilf’s daughter dropping off a box of fresh eggs from her hens like she usually did on a Sunday morning.
I showered, dressed and made myself a coffee. I usually started the day with breakfast, but my stomach still felt in knots after my unsettled night. Every noise outside had me drawn to the windows, checking to make sure Damon wasn’t there. I hated that he could make me feel this way.
Settling down at my desk for a morning of work, I checked my emails and responded to a couple of straightforward client queries about business expenses. Another client had a more complicated query about buying or renting office premises, but the figures he’d provided didn’t ring true so I clicked onto a property website to do a bit of research which made me think again about moving. Before I knew it, I’d gone down a rabbit hole of recent sales prices on similar properties in Winchcote and the neighbouring villages as well as looking at houses for sale nearer The Larks. There were a couple of newbuild estates advertising two- and three-bedroom houses with a garage and small garden, but I closed the site down, shaking my head. If I did move, I didn’t want to be surrounded by other houses. I wanted an edge-of-the-village location like Dove Cottage or even somewhere remote. I loved the peace and quiet at Saltersbeck Farm – a place I could relax, think, breathe. A place where I could just be.
I needed to focus back on my work so I made another coffee, closed all distracting tabs on my computer and cracked on with my tasks, only allowing myself a short break to heat up some soup for lunch.
Dad’s birthday party was planned for 3p.m. so I applied some light make-up and changed into a dress and boots. My naturally wavy dark hair had air-dried into soft waves, so all it needed was a quick comb and I was ready.
I cautiously opened the front door a little later but there was no sign of Damon. Maybe he’d got the message and I was building this up into something bigger than it was but, as I left the village, my stomach tightened. Damon knew it was Dad’s birthday today. Might he turn up, despite my insistence that he didn’t?
When I arrived at The Larks, I did a complete loop of the car park to make sure Damon’s van wasn’t there, relief flowing through me when it wasn’t. I hated that I’d felt the need to do that because of him.
I grabbed the gift bag from the passenger footwell and hastened to the entrance. A teddy bear and a box of Dad’s favourite childhood sweets – Jelly Babies – felt inadequate for such a milestone birthday but he didn’t need anything and an extravagant gift from someone he didn’t recognise would only cause upset and confusion.
Dad was at the far end of the residents’ lounge wearing a pointed blue party hat and a large badge. There were blue and silver balloon bouquets either side of him and several gifts on a table. To the left side of the room beneath some Happy Birthday banners was a buffet of scones and cakes either side of a birthday cake. I paused, taking in Dad’s name and one fat candle. Marnie had told me that, while they made a fuss of birthdays, they never showcased the age due to time-shifting. I understood and supported it, but choosing a generic card this year without the word ‘Dad’ on it and not even being able to replace that with an age one had hit hard. Much to the bewilderment of the sales assistant, I’d burst out crying at the till.
‘Noting the lack of candles?’ Marnie said, joining me. It was meant to be her weekend off but she’d told me she wouldn’t miss Dad’s birthday celebration for the world, which I’d found touching.
I turned and smiled weakly at her. ‘I know it’s what’s needed, but…’
‘It doesn’t sit right,’ she filled in for me when I didn’t finish the sentence.
She squeezed my hand. ‘None of it’s easy but try to enjoy the happy moments. Look at your dad right now. That hat. That smile. He might be confused about many things but he knows what his birthday means and who doesn’t love a birthday?’
I watched him laughing as he pulled on a second party hat, making him look like he had horns. Seeing him so carefree like that lifted me. Marnie was right about there being happy moments within the sadness. I needed to take them in and remember that, at the end of the day, the man in the two hats was still my amazing dad and the sense of humour I’d always loved so much was still there.
‘Happy birthday, Stanley,’ I said, joining him a few minutes later and placing his gift bag on the table. ‘Are you having a nice day?’
He smiled at me but there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. I sometimes wondered whether the sight of me might have triggered something if I’d been his or Mum’s biological daughter and had inherited my looks from either of them. There might even have been a chance if I’d looked like my biological mother, Evie, but I apparently resembled my biological father and he’d never been in our lives. I didn’t have any photos of him, although I had several of Evie and all I appeared to have inherited from her were my full lips.
‘We’ve been to the zoo,’ Dad said, smiling at me before rattling off a list of birthday presents he’d received including a train set. ‘Mum’s made me a cake.’
‘How lucky are you? I bet it’s really tasty.’
‘Mum’s cakes are delicious.’
I sat back in my chair and watched Dad opening his cards and gifts, my throat tightening with his cry of, ‘My favourites!’ when he unwrapped the box of Jelly Babies, and tears blurring my eyes when he unwrapped the teddy bear and cuddled it against his chest. I’d had it made from Mum’s favourite bright red chenille throw and had sprayed it with her perfume. Dad sniffed it and made a comment that it smelled nice, but the fragrance didn’t appear to trigger any memories. Probably just as well. It had been heartbreaking when he’d kept asking where she was and why she’d left him. Better now that he didn’t remember her at all.
The team from Cuddles every single member of staff cares deeply about all the residents and their families.’
‘It shows.’
‘Thank you. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. Having worked in dementia care for over thirty years and having lost a grandparent to Alzheimer’s, I’ve got a wealth of knowledge about dementia not just from the perspective of the patients, but from the perspective of the families. I’ve seen everything from an angry child or partner practically slinging the patient in through the front door and never returning through to those who’d spend all day and night with their loved one if they could.’
She paused and gave me a gentle smile, as though acknowledging that I was one of the latter.
‘We’re all different and there’s no right or wrong way to deal with the myriad of emotions that come with a dementia diagnosis or when a loved one moves into late-stage dementia. Feelings of grief and loss can kick in at any stage, they can come in waves, and different emotions will be stronger at different times. Do you mind me asking how you’re feeling at the moment?’
The words I’m fine were on the tip of my tongue, but why lie to Marnie? She’d see right through it and I doubted she’d have asked the question if she didn’t already know the answer.
My shoulders sagged. ‘Honestly? I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m spinning plates and I don’t have the energy to keep them all going and, pretty soon, they’re going to fall off and smash.’
‘And what happens to the plate spinner when that happens?’ she asked gently.
‘Broken too.’
She lightly placed her hand on my forearm – a sign of understanding and comfort which brought tears to my eyes.
‘If you didn’t visit your dad every day, what could you do instead?’
I removed a tissue from my bag and dabbed at my tears. ‘I could slow down a bit. Relax. Go out.’ A few more answers popped into my head, but they felt too personal to share. Go on a date. Be a little less lonely.
‘So you’d get your life back? Because I get the impression it’s been on hold since your mum fell ill.’
A sob caught in my throat and tears ran down my cheeks as I slowly nodded. Marnie had completely nailed it. I’d been so focused on my parents and my job that there’d been nothing left for me and now there was a very real danger of me having nothing left to give Dad because I was so weary of it all.
‘You’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted, Poppy,’ Marnie said, her voice gentle, her eyes full of empathy. ‘When was the last time you had a holiday, and I don’t mean the bucket-list trips you did with your mum because they won’t have been relaxing like a regular holiday?’
I wiped my cheeks as I considered it. ‘It’ll have been seven years ago, before Phil and I split up.’
Marnie released a low whistle. ‘That’s a long time without a proper break. So why don’t you take one now? Find yourself a nice little holiday cottage somewhere by the sea or in the countryside and try to relax for a while. Recharge your batteries. Nobody would judge you for it.’
I sighed and nodded. ‘A friend said pretty much the same thing to me on Friday.’
‘And do you trust that person’s opinion?’
‘Very much. But if I did go away, what about Dad?’
‘My team will look after him, he’ll talk to the other residents, our volunteers will engage with him – all the things we do every day, whether a resident has a visitor or not. I know it hurts and I know it sounds harsh, but Stanley has no idea who you are anymore, he doesn’t look forward to your visits, and he doesn’t remember you from one visit to the next. He’d be none the wiser if you visited every other day, once a week, once a fortnight, or if you never visited again.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’
Marnie smiled. ‘I know you couldn’t, but it is an option and some do take it because visiting becomes too harrowing.’
I sipped on my drink, battling with my guilt. I wanted to get away. I needed to. But would I spend the whole time feeling guilty that I wasn’t with Dad?
‘I can see it written all over your face,’ Marnie said. ‘Guilt.’
‘How did you…?’
‘I’ve seen it countless times and I’ve felt it myself. Believe me when I say you’ve absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. I can say that to you a million times, but you’re the only one who can give yourself permission to let go of the guilt. You’re also the only one who can give yourself permission to take a break, but I really urge you to do it, and sooner rather than later, because this is gruelling and it’s only going to get worse.’
I thought about Sharon’s friend’s holiday cottage in East Yorkshire. It sounded idyllic. ‘I’m tempted. But what if?—’
‘If there’s a significant change in Stanley’s condition, I’d let you know.’
I noted the emphasis on the word significant and knew what that meant. Dad was deteriorating each day and she wouldn’t want to call me back with each change.
‘I’d like to sleep on it,’ I said, ‘but I’m thinking I probably will go.’
‘That would be a good decision.’
I needed to work when I got home but I felt so drained that every task seemed to take twice as long as it should. My conversation with Marnie had moved on to the subject of burnout. I’d claimed that I might be shattered, but I was way off hitting burnout. She’d searched on her phone for a definition and signs of it – physical, emotional and/or mental exhaustion as a result of feeling swamped, lacking motivation, reduced performance, feeling listless, anxiety, negative thoughts about self and others … The list had gone on and, when she finished, she fixed a meaningful gaze on me. I had to concede that I’d either hit burnout or I was very close.
Marnie was right to have challenged me about the need to visit Dad every day. Sharon and Ian had done the same on several occasions. I hadn’t wanted to worry them so had repeatedly assured them I was coping when, deep down, I knew I wasn’t. Marnie had also been right to challenge me about feeling guilty for not visiting. My logical brain knew it was a natural reaction when facing grief and loss but, for me, the guilt cut so much deeper. My parents had sacrificed everything to raise a child in need when they’d never wanted to be parents in the first place. What sort of person would I be if I threw that back in their faces and abandoned them when they needed me? I’d cared for Mum until the end, and I’d do the same for Dad.
That evening, I went into Mum and Dad’s bedroom to close the curtains. I was usually straight in and out but I found myself pausing and looking around. My eyes rested on a rose-gold photo frame on Mum’s dressing table and I took it over to the bed, flicking on the bedside lamp as I sat down and read the embroidered words of Mum’s favourite quote – Do one thing every day that scares you.
‘To give us strength for what’s coming,’ she’d said, smiling at me as she passed her needle through the Aida stretched across an embroidery frame.
It had been a struggle but she’d been adamant she wanted to do it herself, even adding in flowers and bees to frame the words. When Mum was diagnosed with MND, our little family had faced things every day that scared us and I genuinely believe that the positivity that mindset brought – aided by that colourful embroidery sitting by her bed – had helped Mum face the end with strength and dignity. And now with Dad’s Alzheimer’s, every single visit scared me, but every moment I was away from him gave me the fear too. Fear of that phone call. Fear of the end. Fear of who I was when I had no family left. What if I did go away and that phone call came? But what if I didn’t go and I made myself so ill that I couldn’t be by his side at the end?
I switched the light off and took Mum’s embroidery into my room, placing it by my bed. Going away on my own scared me, but burning out scared me even more. I’d make the phone call tomorrow, take that break, and come back with the energy and strength I was going to need to do for Dad what I’d done for Mum.