Ghosts

I stayed at my grandparents the other night for the first time in over fifteen years. It was an intense experience because there are so many memories in the house and, I am sad to say, the bad memories overshadow the good. 

I lived there for a while when my parents were getting divorced, with my mum and brother. I remember nights sitting on the landing listening to upset voices from downstairs. 

I have spoken before about the big parties my grandparents used to host. Christmas, New Year, Hallowe'en. Now I am older I realise I was completely oblivious to the family politics - the unspoken hostility between certain people. How innocent I was. 

At this time my brother and I were the only children and we were content with this. It wasn't until I was ten years old that my family started to grow. And with it, the hostility. 

The family really fell apart thanks to one particular member of the family and the parties ceased. No more Christmas, New Year, Hallowe'en. No more communication.  

My grandmother was diagnosed with dementia. The bad memories really began. 

Back to the other night. The most intense flashback of my life happened when my grandmother asked what happened to the door frame in her bedroom. Thankfully she does not remember her psychotic breaks. The screaming. The struggles . The breaking-down of doors. The police cars and ambulances. The anger and the fear. 

After many of these incidents she was put into a psychiatric hospital. My visits always ended with tears. I would cry so hard I couldn't breathe. That was before I learned to accept myself as a stranger in her eyes. This acceptance makes it easier for both of us. 

A Beautiful Lie

I spent most of this weekend with my grandparents.  Unfortunately I can only spend time with one or other as they cannot be in the same room without an argument and, as my grandmother has dementia it is always the same few arguments, over and over and over.

This weekend was different.  Mum and I had Sunday lunch with my grandfather in the dining room which has not been used in years.  All the Christmases, New Year’s celebrations, Halloween parties and birthday barbeques were whipped up with the dust from the table cloth.  Memories of a sneaky childhood glass of champagne on New Year’s eve, wiped away like a smudge with a napkin.

My grandfather’s hands, once the strong hands of a Navy Captain, shook with ever-worsening Parkinsons.  Should I offer to help? Or will that hurt his pride?  Mum and I pretended not to notice the spilled gravy or the stray carrot falling to the floor.  There was not much conversation, just the three of us seated at one end of the long table.  I think we were all remembering times gone by.  Wonderful, painful memories.

My grandmother spent this time in bed, wrapped in her favourite dressing gown, insisting that no one would want to spend time with a stupid old woman.

When dinner was over, my brother and his two daughters, eight and two years old, joined us.  I spent time sitting on my grandmother’s bed, pleading, bargaining, bribing her to come downstairs to meet them, as she insisted she had never seen them before.  My brother had not seen her in months, and was taken aback when she finally agreed to come downstairs when he saw how frail she was.  And she looked at him with a sense of recognition that she does not have for me.  This made me feel a little hurt, but reassured that there is still some of her old self inside.

My nieces spent the afternoon in the garden, laughing - a garden that has not seen laughter in over ten years. I remember the times my brother and I spent being super-heroes and villains... many, many years ago.

I feel I spent the weekend pretending things were as they used to be when we were children. My grandmother acknowledged me as 'Susannah's (my mother's) daughter, when she usually treats me as a stranger.

I know this experience will be brief and that the next time I see her she probably will not remember me, but it is those brief moments that mean the world.

Speed-Reader

I used to read all the time. More so when I caught the train - that 20 minute journey to work granted me 20 blissful minutes with my nose in a book. I went through a stage of perhaps two books a week!

No longer.

In 2008, at the age of 20 I was diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy (the temporal lobe is responsible for comprehension, verbal memory and other language functions) but the fact that it had gone undiagnosed for so long (ignoring the symptoms) meant the medication actually had more of a negative effect than the condition itself. Memory-loss was a major set-back. And verbal communication became an effort.

One thing that disturbed me was the loss of spelling and grammar. I realise that sounds ridiculous but, for someone to whom words are everything; from having a such a wide vocabulary as a writer, to not knowing how to spell words such as 'ridiculous' was devastating. I felt stupid and this upset me greatly.

I have become a slow reader. I can read entire pages without absorbing any information and I forget things almost immediately. I have read my favourite book, Birdsong at least 3 times but I can't tell you the names of any of the characters. I now also lack concentration. I have started so many books on my extensive bookshelf but I have not had the focus to complete any of them.

It makes life hard sometimes, but I do realise that compared to some people with epilepsy I am so incredibly lucky. I must keep reminding myself!