At first it seems like a routine sign of old age. You can't remember where you left things, when to take medicines, people's names. You slow down considerably, you need assistance. And then at some point, we can't place when exactly, was the final slip from 'forgetfulness' into what seems like full-blown Alzheimer's, a form of dementia.
It's hard on care givers to reconcile the image of the person before (in this case a well-dressed, supremely efficient, articulate journalist) with the bewildered, guarded old person of now; hitting out at children and grandchildren and dogged by a sense of persecution. The medication to calm the anger has now inadvertently, but inevitably, dulled the senses and slowed down all physical processes.
She is tired with strangers, shutting her eyes and pretending to be asleep when children pop their heads in, once or twice a day. It must be wearisome to be dragged through the enthusiastic charade of checking senility: children's careful questioning as if to a small child, “H-o-w are you, A-m-m-a?” “A-r-e you h-u-n-g-r-y?” and so on, slowly, painstakingly attempting to eke out the frailest response which they will clutch on to. See, she's so clear today! Every whimper, every sniffle will be conveniently interpreted to reassure themselves that the fair, grey-eyed, shining nightie'ed lady shrivelled up on the bed is the person who once capably handled all their lives.
Today is her 88th birthday. She cannot talk, but she responds slowly to the lavish attention showered on her. Everyday her hands are warmed by younger, pinker hands, her shining white hair stroked gently, her long cheeks kissed. And today, everything a little extra. “Happy birthday!” they say to her, many times today. She cannot talk (does she understand?) and she looks slowly from face to face around the tiny dining table, lit by a low, hanging lamp. “It's your birthday!” they tell her. Calm grey eyes focus unknowingly on the bent-forward faces across from her.
After lunch, the cake is produced. A long knife is placed in her hand and the singing begins, softly at first and then rising in volume as the notes escalate. Feebly she makes an incision, splicing the chocolate coating, which gently ruptures along the knife's edges. “Read the cake, read the cake,” they urge.
And then, encouraged by all the concerted attention and the obvious enormity of her place in the unfolding (unfathomable) events, she rises to the occasion. “Ha. App. Py. Birth. Un. Dun. Dun. Day. Amma. ” Happy Birthundundunday Amma.
The first coherent sentence in well over a year.
