 |
| Find buy links to Tricia McGill's books here |
My dear sister was in a nursing
home for the last nine months of her life, and so through regular visits I came
to meet a lot of people, male and female, who suffered some form of dementia.
One lady in particular, a sweet old soul, asked me every time I went in, “Where
am I?” and “Why am I here?” So I explained each time where she was and why she
was there. The reason being that her only son could not care for her any more
as he had to go out to work each day. Strangely she never forgot her name. Most
of us have been touched by this illness, be it a family member or just someone
you know.
I wrote this short story a long
time ago when I knew nothing about Alzheimer’s or the effects it has on the
loved ones of the sufferers. One of my other sisters had dementia before she
passed away 19 years ago. We had little idea at the time and merely thought she
was becoming forgetful and having hallucinations, and only found out from her
doctor after she passed. She died at home so was saved having to go into care. It’s
those closest to the dementia patients who suffer the most torment as they feel
they would rather have their loved one with them. But mostly it becomes unsafe
for the patient to be left alone as they tend to wander off and forget whether
they are coming or going. Thank God that every day our amazing scientists and
researchers move closer to finding a cure.
So, here is my little story called
“Who Am I?”
Why
am I in this hospital bed? I know it's a hospital so why don't I know who I am.
I'm a woman, and when I looked in the mirror I had quite a pleasant surprise
because I'm not bad to look at. The doctor who keeps checking up on me and
asking strange questions is not a bad looker either. He gets that certain look
in his eye when he examines me; I know he finds me attractive.
I look as if I've been around for a
while, but I feel like a child. This is most annoying, this not knowing. I seem
to recall I came from a nice place, at least I had decent underwear on when
they brought me in here. My dress was a ruin, but it was a nice colour, sort of
green and . . . I can't quite remember what other colour.
I
didn't have any shoes on, which seems strange. I somehow feel that I don't like
walking about barefoot. The doctor said they've put my picture in the paper so
surely someone who knows me will come forward soon to claim me. Perhaps I hit
my head and that’s why I can’t remember my name.
The
doctor has just walked into the room, his clip-board in his hands, as usual.
What nice hands he has, so well-manicured. My hands are nicely shaped too, and
apart from the two broken nails are in pretty good shape. They certainly don't
look as if they have to do the washing up often. Perhaps I'm a film star. Or a
society queen. Could I be a television star? It's most annoying.
'Here's
a visitor, Mrs Jacobs,' he is saying, but I don't think he can know what he's
talking about, because that's not my name. At least I'm sure it's not. And I'm
sure they must have got the rooms mixed up, because I've never met this man who
is standing over the bed. He can let go of my hand too, the old fool. I don't
know him. How dare he touch me?
'Hallo
Maisie old girl,' he's saying. Who does he think he is?
'Go
away,' I tell him, but he just looks very sad and keeps hanging onto me tightly
so that I can't get my hand away, no matter how much I try.
'We're
going home,' he is telling me. I have no wish to go anywhere with a complete
stranger. I shall scream and then that nice doctor will take pity on me and
tell this strange man to leave me alone.
'Perhaps
you'd better come back later Mr Jacobs,' the doctor is advising him and I have
to have a little chuckle. I've got my way again - I think.
I wonder what we'll have for tea
today. Is it Wednesday or…what comes after Wednesday? Oh dear. I wish I could
remember what I was just going to do.
'Your
wife is probably better off in a nursing home, Mr Jacobs,' the doctor is now saying
to the stranger. Wife? How dare they talk about me as if I'm not here? I feel
like shouting at them, but I haven't got the energy. Why am I so tired?
'She
must have walked a long way, for she was found in Brighton near the beach. When
they reach this stage it's better for them to be cared for by well trained
staff. She's not safe to be left alone, and you can't have your eyes on her
every five minutes of the day.'
The
stranger looks as if he's crying. I don't know why he's so unhappy. It's a lovely
day. Look the sun is shining.
The subject
was handled very sympathetically in these movies:
Help and information
is one click away on the internet or one phone call away.
 |
| Tricia McGill's Web Page |
