The circumstances
go something like this.
Recovering
pessimist or born again optimist, whichever way I view myself, it’s
a struggle to keep the optimism afloat. But I have found, over the years, that it does
improve with practice and I am helped and hindered in equal measures by three daughters,
three grand-daughters, two sons-in-law, my friends and a compulsion to write.
Being retired without a partner has been a great source of
angst. But even that I can turn on it’s head. I am aware that being unattached and
not having to go out to work is freedom, with lots of thinking time. ‘How good that
sounds’, say envious friends with queasy relationships and stressful jobs.
 A happy day on my birthday. Elder Daughter took me to the
movies. She drove me in my car as she felt it offered me more comfort than hers. But she
insisted on paying for the tickets and offered me a hot dog which I declined. I have a
problem with being treated, especially by the Daughters. As a mother I am still half stuck
in the mode of being the all-embracing provider, the earth mother nurturing her
fledglings, the wise woman sorting out their problems. But my fledglings flew the nest
long ago and the earth mother idea was pure fantasy. I never had an Aga, would have
employed a nanny if funds had allowed. I relished my empty nest.
Despite their
upbringing Daughters and I have survived and are still talking. They seem happy to
visit their old nest, sometimes bringing their problems with them. But they also bring treats, and I am learning graceful acceptance of them, touched
by their evident pleasure in being able to treat me.
 The film was ‘Iris’, an affectionate and moving
account of Iris Murdoch’s journey into dementia. Beautifully filmed, beautifully
acted, it moved me and scared me. I am confronted by my own memory which goes walkabout
from time to time. I get cranky. I leave the car unlocked. I shout at the boy downstairs.
Am I getting worse or is it imagination? Gloomily,
I think of a relative, once talented and intelligent, now elderly and in dementia.
I decide to
concentrate on getting a new kitchen as a
way of not giving in to Alzheimers. But
that old pessimist in me starts wondering how soon it will be before I’m whisked away
to sit in a circle of high backed plastic chairs that is called a ‘home’.
Younger Daughter says she forgets, loses keys and shouts but doesn’t worry about it.
I point out that she’s young and lost
marbles are a long way over her horizon.
Elder Daughter had
a more sanguine take on the film. She viewed it as an experience she wanted to share,
wanting to relate it to our relative with dementia.
As an actor, she had worked with or knew some of the cast, too. And although she was touched and in tears, for her
it was a just a good film.
‘What are you on about’ she says, amazed at my
fears. ‘Just get on with your new kitchen and enjoy it’.
Is the sub-text ‘while you can’ or am I in
optimism relapse?
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Heather Redmond begins a monthly diary on living alone, dealing with adult
daughters and grandchildren, health, money and all that jazz
