By @maximumwolffe a couple of months ago when we were in Gatehouse.
Tomorrow I’ll be another year older, so today we celebrate still being this young!
Birthdays.
For years I’ve thought that I should be celebrating Mum on my my birthday each year. I just happened along, like some side effect of all the work she’d put into carrying me for 9 months. Plus an extra two weeks. Mum was most unhappy about that extra two weeks, and I’ve known all my life that I was two weeks late – it feels like such a part of my identity, and although I like to be punctual, I know that I have used it as an excuse over the years if ever I have been late for things. And as I type this I realise how utterly mad that sounds. But yes, I was late arriving from the very start.
Of course I don’t remember much about my start in life.
I do remember a sense of always trying to catch up, or else being very grumpy that I couldn’t. I guess this is what happens when you are the youngest of three children, all born within three years.
Mum though, Mum was so very clever at treating us equally – one of her catchphrases which we all use to this day is “It’s not a competition”.
I suspect this innate desire Mum had to make us all feel equal came from her own memories of childhood, before her youngest sister was born, and the three girls were described as: Jennifer, the beautiful one, Joyce the clever one, and Alix the middle one.
In Mum’s eyes we were all three clever and talented and funny and creative and would find our way in the world. And she was right, we have done. And I am forever grateful for the (mostly unspoken) love that she has showed us throughout our lives.
***
Mostly on this blog I write about trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia, which nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
I did some different sewing today, if only so I could dress MaDolly. MaDolly is my early birthday present from The Captain and I absolutely love her!
My sewing project is a bathrobe which I’ll finish tomorrow, and I’ll give you all the details then.
The next picture shows you The Captain’s project – a barrel converted into a table with a fridge! It’s off to a new home though so I’d better not get too fond of it.
Weren’t we productive in those balmy late summer days of 2021?
Occasionally as I write this blog I go back and look at WhatsApp (other platforms are available) messages from the time to remind me what I was talking about, as well as what I was taking pictures of. Those pictures are the curated version of my life. The WhatsApp is more the real me.
I was going to go down to Gatehouse that coming weekend to see Mum, but a member of staff at the home got Covid so the place was in lockdown again and no visitors were allowed. I told my friend, J (who has a difficult relationship with her own mother).
Me: I’m not going to Gatehouse now, as no visiting due to Covid
J: Oh that’s pants
J: I wish I could gift you my Mama time (J had plans to spend time with her mother that week, though was considering cancelling it)
Me: It’s ok. I have mixed emotions about seeing her these days so I’m partly relieved.
Me: I wish I could gift you my relationship with my Mum
J: I wish this too
Me: there’s been enough goodness there to share around
So, there we were – J was going to cancel seeing her mother with whom she had a difficult (and that’s me being generous) relationship. And I wasn’t able to visit my mother with whom I’d had a very close relationship. If only we had been able to share the good bits of each of those situations. I so wish this was possible.
I’d forgotten about the time when I had such mixed feelings about seeing Mum. My brain has chosen to forget that bit, for which I am grateful. But as I think back, I can recall how it felt that each time I left Mum I knew I would come back to a ‘lesser’ version of her next time. I often cried after seeing her. Sometimes only momentarily, sometimes great big oxygen-sucking sobs and gulps. I guess it was good to let it out. And then that anticipation gnawed away at me, like some hungry tapeworm inside of me. And during this period Mum was not only random, which I found remarkably easy to cope with, but also frequently upset and sad. Sometimes this was caused by a UTI, but there also seemed to be times when part of Mum was genuinely struggling with her situation. It was difficult to know, as conversation was already somewhat limited.
To this day Mum has always recognised me, for which I am endlessly grateful (see the wee crumbs that we are thankful for!). But there were certainly times in those first months when Mum didn’t always immediately trust me, in that she seemed not to trust anyone any more. There was a lot of talk of certain people being ‘on the other side’ which may have referred to the war, but not necessarily. We tried not to analyse the content of Mum’s conversations too much – it was more important to get a sense of the essence of her when we visited. And there were, as ever, good days and bad days.
Let’s hope that today is a good day – I find the criteria for good and bad have changed dramatically in the intervening months… I have grown to appreciate a couple of hours of quiet sleeping, with perhaps 5 seconds of waking up and smiling that it is me, her favourite daughter (as I tell her).
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
Blocking is the final stage of making something lovely out of yarn.
And today is a day for blocking on the terrace. This was a delight to knit and will be deliciously warm this winter.
Pattern- Sycamore by @harveyknits Yarn – DK from @newlanarkspinning Colour – copper green. (It’s more goosegogs to me but I love it)
I was nearly there, nearly finished this shawl, which was happily gifted to my big sister.
As a reminder, we’re selling our house. So if you, or anyone you know, wants to live this lifestyle where it can feel like you’re on your holiday every evening, sitting on the Terrace enjoying the sun going down, then take a look here, and get in touch with Fraser.
It’s been quite a big decision to move from here, but in the end it’s not been the most difficult decision to make. We’re both excited about the new life we’ll lead in Galloway, and we’ll always have the happiest of memories of living here.
So, we’re nearly there; once our house is sold we will move to Galloway.
I was in Gatehouse this weekend, which was hosting The Gralloch, which I might write more about another time. The wee town was absolutely buzzing, with around 1,000 cyclists (including an Olympian, a world record holder and a F1 driver) starting and finishing their gruelling 100km gravel race almost outside our door – the town population is only around 1,000 so it all felt quite busy!
Spending time with Mum was mostly peaceful – she again slept through my entire visit on Saturday, so I chatted a bit to her while I knitted, and reminded her how much I love her; I stroked her hair and held her hand as she slept on; I felt grateful that she seems so calm, so untroubled by the world and her inevitable transition out of it. I sense that Mum is nearly there, wherever there is. But the flipside is that she is now only nearly here.
On Sunday she opened her eyes briefly as a carer gently tried to feed her breakfast. It was both beautiful and sad to watch. There is such genuine care being given by the staff, such kindness; and it gives Mum such dignity. But I found myself unspeakably sad afterwards, having seen Mum so frail and hardly able to eat even the softest porridge as it is spooned into her mouth.
I know there will come a time again when I am able to remember Mum as she was, but I seem to have blocked off that memory for now, having found it too impossible to hold both her as she was and as she is now. The contrast is too cruel.
Mum (standing up) with her sister, Joyce
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
This wee dude is nearly done and although I have one more swallow to stitch I’m already thinking about the next design. It’s going to be a cheeky wee quick one. And I’m already excited about it.
It’s been interesting today, just letting my mind wander. I was thinking how creative all my family are, and how I don’t consider myself creative at all. At least not musically or visually… but I know I am with food. Give me some random ingredients and I can create you a tasty meal. Today I made pita bread (there it is, puffing up in the pizza oven) and brought a selection of salads and cold meats and cheese and boiled eggs to the table so we filled our pitas then filled our faces. The pita recipe is from Ripe Figs, the most beautiful celebration of food, migration and a world without borders by Yasmin Khan.
Mum is an artist. She can pick up a pencil, a pen, a brush and draw whatever is in front of her. Well she could. The optician confirmed she has macular degeneration which explains why she’s being saying “I’m blind” for over a year. And I think this combined with her dementia means we will never see her draw again. I hope she doesn’t miss drawing, but I think she maybe she does, when she remembers it was a talent she had.
Mum never did draw again. And these days she sleeps most of the hours of each day, so I know she never will.
Thankfully I don’t think she ever did regret that she could no longer draw; she seemed not to know that she ever had that ability. So, while I feel sad at that loss, Mum never did.
We had hung one of her pen and ink drawings in her room in the care home – it’s a charming picture of her lush green veg boxes, overflowing with abundance, and surrounded by small creatures – swallows, a snail, a wee mouse, a spider.
In late August 2022 I was sitting with Mum as I embroidered – the design was adapted from a pen and ink drawing I had found in one of her sketchbooks, of silver birch trees in the Autumn. I showed Mum and let her know how much I loved stitching her drawings, reminding her what a talented artist she was. She did her funny wee scowl, looking puzzled, and with disbelief asked “Am I?”.
I talked some more about the ease with which she could draw anything in front of her.
She had no recollection of this aspect of her life at all. And what surprised me more, was that she had no curiosity about it, and no disappointment that she could no longer do it. It was as if I was talking to her about someone she really didn’t care for and certainly wasn’t interested in.
She hmmmphed at me, as an indication that she’d like to move on to other topics.
By this time Mum had lost all her curiosity in the world around her. And with that loss of curiosity, comes a loss of interest in almost anything. This was so very different to the Mum I had known for most of my life, who showed interest in everything.
I don’t say this in any critical way at all, or even with sadness, though I’d be lying if I pretended I wasn’t grieving for Mum. It is just a statement of how I perceived Mum, and how our relationship was at that time. In some ways visits with her became easier for me (I know, I know, it shouldn’t be all about me, but my experience is all that I can write about with any confidence). When she was losing her ability to communicate so well, there were visits when she would be distressed but was unable to articulate why. This distress was rare, what was more common was that we struggled after a while to communicate about anything much at all – Mum would tire, and fail to find the words she was looking for. Previously, when I was living with her I could finish every sentence for her when she lost a word – we existed as a team together. After several months in the care home this was not possible. I sometimes could not fathom what she was trying to tell me at all. So, more recently, when she lost the inclination to talk much at all, I took my embroidery or knitting with me and after a short chat I would tell her that I was going to get on with my knitting (or whatever) and that I’d just sit quiet as a mouse beside her. I often told her she looked tired, and she agreed that she was … essentially I gave her permission to snooze.
Perhaps we all need to be given permission to snooze some days.
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
This is fun! I’m sitting in the sun, mindlessly stitching and feeling my whole self begin to relax.
This wee swallow is beginning to take shape but I need to go and make lunch so you’ll see the rest of him later. Yes, since there have been so many days with no updates, I decided you can have double updates some days. Watch this space later.
I have just re-read something else I wrote at this time, illustrating how much I curated my life on social media to suit the world I wanted you to believe I live in.
My friend Juliet had asked me that simple question, “How are you?”
And I don’t sugar the pill with Juliet, I am able to be entirely open and honest with her. I said, “I’m not sure really. I say everything is ok, because it’s not awful. And I’m sitting outside sipping coffee and eating madeleines. And embroidering swallows. So it is ok by most standards.” And, honestly, by most standards it was.
But then I went on to say, “I’m sad. OK but sad”
And when Juliet responded with “I think sad is very acceptable”
I knew this to be true, “It is. Indeed. And I have madeleines”
So Juliet added, “And love”
And because it was on WhatsApp and sometimes you get out of synch, I then replied with, “Orange and cardamom flavoured if you want to know” and “An abundance of it”
I hope that wherever you are and whatever is going on in your life that you, too, have an abundance of love. And also that you have people around you who you can say how it really is when they ask how you are.
***
You might want to dip into other posts, or understand how we got to this point? This series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; as her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.
It’s glorious weather here today. And I’m on holiday from work this week, so after a lazy start and a walk with the dogs I made some madeleines. Oh my good god they are delicious!
And this afternoon I pootled a bit, then had a coffee break on the Terrace and did a bit of stabbing.
I called Mum late afternoon and talked about flowers for a minute or two. That was fine.
Now might be the time to state that I have never read any Proust. And it seems likely that I probably never will if I’m honest (and I like being honest).
But I had a desire to understand about the whole madeleines Proust thing (which is no doubt impossible to fully understand if I resort to Wikipedia instead of actually going to the primary source). Anyway, I now know that in A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, or In Search of Lost Time if you want the English translation, the madeleines are used to demonstrate involuntary memory, and how it differs from the partial memory of voluntary memory.
Basically, when the character in the book tastes a madeleine dipped in tea it brings forth a forgotten memory of his aunt eating madeleines dipped in tea on a Sunday morning. And I guess a whole lot of other associated stuff with that memory.
I get this. I had this involuntary memory experience a couple of years when I saw Mum spooning the froth off the top of her cup of hot chocolate in a café. I realised I do this whenever I get a frothy drink. I also find myself sometimes involuntarily ordering a black coffee with a wee jug of cold milk on the side, because this is exactly what Dad used to order, and sometimes his words just come out before I have thought about the fact that I prefer a flat white. I wonder if Dad might have liked a flat white, if they had been more readily available in his lifetime?
Anyway, memories.
Memories of memories.
And shadows of memories, ghosts of memories.
I’m interested in what we remember, and what we lose. What we notice at the time, and what we hold in our memory banks so we can revisit them later. I hope I always remember the woodpecker that had breakfast at the birdfeeder just 2 feet from my desk this morning. Will it come back to me, unbidden, if I see a woodpecker again when I am old? Will I always remember that moment it first landed on the birdfeeder and I held my breath, lest I disturb it? And how when it had its fill, it flew back up to the telegraph pole and clung on, in classic woodpecker pose, but this time not so close, so I couldn’t see the detail of each and every feather.
Also, I do love the photograph (above) of the ghosts of madeleines, created by the dusting of icing sugar.
***
You might want to dip into other posts, or understand how we got to this point? This series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; as her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.
MisoCat sat with me on the sofa as I stabbed yesterday evening.
She’s occasionally good company, when she’s not attempting to hack into my work laptop by pressing ALL the keys on the keyboard.
The bonus pics today are mum’s father, Commander James Graham. I met an elderly gentleman at a party the other week (I know! A party!).. and he discovered who I was, and then reminded me how much Grandpa liked to write to the papers. Most weeks there seemed to be a letter from Cdr James Graham in The Times.
One of my cousins asked who the elderly gentleman was, who recalled our grandfather… and I responded with what was actually the more interesting story:
He is a neighbour of Archie and Sarah McConnel. The first story he told me (when all he knew was that I’m from Gatehouse) was when he first started work as a trainee quantity surveyor.. he had a meeting in Fleet Street with Mr Wolffe. At the end of the meeting Mr Wolffe cracked open a bottle of champagne and invited him to join him… in toasting the birth of his latest child. That baby was me! His name is Robert Waugh.
The moment I tell Sarah that her neighbour toasted my birth, over half a century ago
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last couple of years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
I’m nearly at swallow time again, just as the wee darlings prepare to set off for the Southern Hemisphere again.
I didn’t speak to Mum today. I’ve thought long and hard about it, but I have decided that daily contact probably won’t benefit either of us. I don’t really know if it would be good for mum or not, if I knew it was a comfort to her I would do it in a flash. I know that within minutes she has no recollection of my call.
And phone calls with her are generally less positive than visits. And I honestly can’t do them every day. OK I could. But I choose not to.
I know she is well cared for. This used not to be enough, I wanted her also to have some pleasure in her life.. she had a remarkable ability to still find pleasure in her diminishing world, as she became less mobile and increasingly blind. We picked her flowers so she could smell them. We cooked tasty meals packed full of flavours to stimulate her taste buds. I hold on to that moment she smelled the honeysuckle early this summer. She seems unable to find that joy any more.
So. Go out. Smell the flowers. Sow seeds. Grow plants. Feed the birds. Soak up nature. Swim in the sea. Climb trees. Eat plums as you pick them from the tree. Eat whatever takes your fancy. Enjoy every moment while you know how to.
It both breaks my heart and brings me solace to re-visit this post in my memory. Solace, remembering all the joy Mum eked out of her world, and shared with all of us around her. Sadness to recall how distressed and confused Mum could be on a phone call. I continued to call her several times a week, until one day, many months later, I decided not to any more. As much as anything, I needed to wean myself off that regular check in with her once it was no longer nourishing either of us.
But today I urge you all to take every ounce of joy that you can from each hour of each day. I am reminded of the night before I left home to go to University, in London, leaving home for the first time, and at the age of only just 18. I went to say goodbye to my Gran… we chatted and she talked of this and that, I remember not what… and then she paused and looked at me with those pale blue eyes of hers.
As she was holding my eye contact, she said: “Loïs, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
I gulped. This seemed like an important instruction from Gran, whom I was named after, and adored (but also I did not want to disappoint her in any way). She was my premier matriarch in this matriarchal family.
She continued, “But remember that the only things you regret in life are the opportunities you missed. If it makes you happy(and you’re not hurting anyone else) do it”
Gran was so right.
As you travel through this world, enthusiastically embrace every opportunity and follow your heart.
A young(ish) Gran in a fabulous embroidered cloakMe with Gran, circa 1967
***
I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were slipping away, like me at a party I don’t want to be at.
Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.
I visited Mum again this morning. And took her more homemade biscuits. She really does love her biscuits.
I told her (again) that her big sister has moved into a home. Mum seemed to have a flicker of understanding and then told me (again) that she didn’t think she would do that.
Mum had her 90th birthday earlier this year. We were still in lockdown and my brother was with her. No-one else, as we weren’t allowed more people from different households indoors at home. It really was not the greatest way to celebrate all those years. Three weeks later she was diagnosed with mixed dementia. I was surprised and yet not at all surprised by the diagnosis… I pretty much knew she had the early stages of dementia so it was a relief to have it confirmed. But the assessment was done over the phone and as I sat next to mum listening to the call, I felt she was doing so well and worried there might be no diagnosis. But at the end of the call the Dr told mum his diagnosis. The phone was passed to me and he confirmed to me mixed dementia: Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia.
I hadn’t expected this immediate diagnosis, but knew that I was not now going back to my ‘office’ and working straight away. Instead I reassured mum that dementia was just a word, she was still my same mum and I loved her and would keep her safe.
The next morning mum acknowledged she had a touch of the alzheimer’s.. and then seemed to forget about it. Occasionally now I remind her. But mostly I remind her that she is loved, that she is the best mum.
Your bonus today is the River Fleet, and this view feels as familiar to me as the back of my hand so I’m grateful I get to walk across the bridge and see the peaty brown water each time I go to visit mum.
I took a picture of Mum as she was sitting quietly in the sunshine the day before she was diagnosed. Two days after her diagnosis, she was again sitting in the sunshine, and I took another picture of her. These two pictures feel so different to me. In the first she seems carefree, and in the second, there is such a sadness in her far away look. She looks so lost.
And she was, she was beginning to be lost. To everyone, even herself.
***
I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were slipping away, like me at a party I don’t want to be at.
Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.
Same with Mum really. An optician came to the home on Friday and I accompanied Mum to her appointment.
It was just a week since I’d seen her.. and when the carer told her I was there she didn’t think they were telling her the truth (this is a recurring theme). When she saw me she kept asking if really I was Loïs, she didn’t believe it was really me. This was not expressed with any joy, just sorrow that perhaps it was all a con.
The appointment with the optician was hard for me – mum was distressed and tearful and wouldn’t let go of my hands. But shortly afterwards she had forgotten it all. She was still mistrusting and unhappy but pleased that I would come back the next day with biscuits.
I did. And she was much less distraught… I sat and crocheted as we chatted. I’ll drop in and see her this morning before heading back up the road.. I don’t know if she gets much lasting comfort from my visits (other than the full biscuit tin) but I sense she gets some little comfort while I am there.
As I re-read this post I feel that ‘slow progress’ is one of the recurring themes of the last two and a half years.
In ‘Today’ Mary Oliver writes this line:
I hardly move though really I am travelling a terrific distance
And although none of us has moved much in the last two and a half years, we have all travelled such great distances. And this last month Mum has moved less than ever, mostly sleeping, occasionally waking and smiling. But she is surely travelling a terrific distance, and soon will travel to a place unknown. Her slow pace has helped us to adjust to this new destination. She travels with such grace.
***
I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were slipping away, like me at a party I don’t want to be at.
Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.
Shewolfinthevalley 