October #4
‘I can wait,’ I said, looking him in the eye.
I hadn’t realised it, but he must have been holding his breath, because he let out a sigh. He leant forward to hug me, and I repeated that I was sweaty.
He told me he didn’t care.
As we embraced, I asked myself if I was lying, to him and to me, but I decided it wasn’t lying if it was what we both wanted.
Finally, the date of my mother’s appointment with the specialist arrived.
I took the train to Norfolk and, as she had done with each of Edna’s appointments, Peggy drove us to the research centre.
It was starker than the surgery, a white cube with a flat roof.
The car park was too big for the number of cars that would surely be present at any given time, lending it an air of unpopularity.
After all my tests and scans, and with my mother’s assessment process, I was getting used to spending time in waiting rooms. My senses had grown accustomed to the sights, sounds, smells.
But when the automatic glass doors to the centre opened, everything seemed unfamiliar.
I wondered if my mother felt the same way, and I slipped my hand into hers.
The consultant stood up and introduced himself as we walked into his office, then gestured to the seats opposite.
Peggy and I sat either side, with my mother in the middle, the filling in our hastily put-together sandwich.
I was so distracted by the display of framed medical achievements on the wall that I didn’t catch his name.
When I finally tore my eyes away from a certificate hanging wonkily on one end, and resisted reaching over and straightening it, I decided it was too late to ask him if he would mind repeating it.
‘So, I’m going to examine your case in more detail,’ he said, looking at my mother with eyes as glossy as marbles. ‘I’ll test your memory and other cognitive processes, and then I would like to do a scan.’
‘And what do you hope to get from that?’ asked my mother, brusquely, folding her arms across her chest.
It was out of character for her to be so irritable, and if we’d been with Edna, I might have quietly reminded her that all of this was designed to help. As it happened, I smiled, glad to hear the life in her.
Unperturbed, he told us the scan would highlight any changes in brain activity and rule out other causes for her symptoms. ‘Do you have any more questions, Janey?’
Though he said it kindly, my mother must have mistakenly detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice, because she merely huffed.
This time, I mouthed an apology to him.
As he announced, ‘OK then, let’s get going,’ the twinkle in his eye told me he’d had worse.
After he’d compiled all the information, including the results of the scan and the memory tests, Doctor Samuel, which I eventually gathered was his name, was ready to make the diagnosis.
The night before we were due to receive it, I asked my mother over dinner if she would prefer not to know.
‘I’m happy to go to the appointment alone if you would rather. ’
‘Of course not,’ she told me, her forehead bent into a frown. After a few seconds, though, her expression softened. ‘Thank you, darling.’
I put down my cutlery and reached across the table for her hand, and I told her I thought it was the right decision. That, and I’d be there beside her.
The next morning, as we piled into the car, Peggy asked if we’d like to listen to some classical music.
She’d played in an orchestra as a girl and been fond of it ever since.
I looked at my mother, who was wearing oddly clashing colours.
She said it was fine with her, and we spent the hour-long drive listening to piano pieces so sparse they made me think of blank canvases.
In Doctor Samuel’s office, we sat in the same three seats, I suppose out of habit. I glanced at the certificates on his wall and felt my fingers itch when I saw the same one was still wonky.
After a few pleasantries, he leant his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together.
My mother jumped at the slight clapping sound.
‘So, Janey, as we suspected, you’re experiencing what we call the early stages of dementia,’ he said. ‘The cause, which is common, is Alzheimer’s disease.’ He paused to pass each of us a folded leaflet.
I heard Peggy turning hers over in her hands as I pressed mine down onto my fretful knees.
I glanced at my mother, who was staring straight ahead, as if she didn’t dare look at it, worrying her lower lip.
I’d researched the various eventualities of her tests and I knew the treatment options, but still I asked the question.
‘And the treatment?’ I asked, forcing a smile in the hope that it might affect his answer.
‘Yes, there’s certainly medication we can prescribe to temporarily alleviate the symptoms,’ he said, his dark eyes skipping between us, possibly trying to gauge if we understood what he meant by ‘temporarily’. ‘I’ve written to your GP, Doctor Talbot—’
‘Edna,’ my mother corrected.
‘Edna,’ he continued, ‘and I’ve included a list of several local support services, as well as a recommended care plan.’
Like a needle, the word ‘care’ pierced my stomach lining.
‘Do you live nearby?’
‘Me?’
He nodded.
‘I live in London.’
‘And Janey lives alone?’
I felt the heat rising up my neck. ‘Well, yes, although recently either Peggy or I have been staying with her.’ I turned to my mother, still uncomfortable talking about her as if she wasn’t sitting there beside me. ‘Isn’t that right, Mum?’
She flashed her amber eyes as she said, ‘Oh yes, it’s like one long sleepover.’
Peggy laughed and so did I.
‘Well,’ said Doctor Samuel, smiling but not laughing, ‘just bear in mind that you might need to put some plans in place for when things progress.’
‘You mean when things get worse,’ said my mother, taking all three of us by surprise.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How long?’ she asked, fixing her shining eyes on her fingers, knotted together in her lap like fishing rope.
‘The speed of the progression depends on the individual, but we’ll keep a close eye on things. Doctor Talbot – Edna – will be in touch about future appointments.’
She reached for her handbag.
Back when I was eleven, on the morning after my mother and I reported the washed-up sperm whale, I got up early, before either of my parents, and returned to the beach.
It was quiet out, the only sounds coming from birds nesting on the marshes.
I saw one or two dog walkers, their shoulders hunched up by their ears as they walked into the wind.
I hadn’t noticed the cold until then, and when I did, I pulled my coat tighter around my middle.
I don’t know what I’d expected to find, but when I clambered over the dunes and looked down at the sand and the sea, I saw nothing.
The whale was gone, disappeared. I walked up to the water and along the shore a little further in case I’d misjudged where it had been.
But there was no trace – it was like someone had taken a giant brush and painted over the scene.
I scoured the sand, though for what, I’m not sure. Blood, maybe.
Dumbstruck, I sat down in the middle of the empty beach. I don’t know long I’d been sitting there by the time my mother arrived, but I do remember that I could barely feel my fingers.
‘Cathy, thank God.’ She was out of breath, her cheeks pink. When she spoke again, she sounded angry. ‘You mustn’t ever leave the house like that, not without telling us.’
I felt a drop in my stomach, like there had been a mistake, something was wrong. ‘It’s as if it was never here.’
‘What are you …’ She followed my gaze, and as she did, she let out a sigh. She sat down beside me and wrapped her arm around my shoulders, then she said, her voice softer now, ‘It doesn’t matter, Cathy.’
I pulled the kind of face I was prone to pulling whenever I had a bitter taste in my mouth.
‘It doesn’t matter that it’s as if it was never here. This was the end of its life, just the very tip.’ She told me not to think of it stranded on the beach. ‘Think of it somewhere out there, gliding through the sea.’
I looked out at the still and glassy water beyond the froth of the waves. ‘Do you think we could have done more?’
‘Honestly, darling, I don’t think we could have.’
She cupped my hands in hers, blew warm air onto them, and the feeling steadily returned to my fingers.