Taureef Mohammed
WHEN SHE learned her mother might have had dementia, it was too late: her mother had already died. Now, sitting outside the doctor’s office with her father, who had just been diagnosed with it, she seemed haunted and disturbed – she could only think about her mother.
Who had she argued repeatedly with: her mother or dementia? Who had called her more than 50 times in one day: mother or dementia? Who had refused to take their medications: mother or dementia? Who had accused her of stealing: mother or dementia? Who had tripped off over trivial things: mother or dementia? And what about all the arguments: mother and father, or was it all dementia? Perhaps it was all three.
Who was her mother? What was dementia? Why did they seem to blend together? Why did they seem to complement each other so well, so much so that it was difficult to say, “This is not my mother – something else is wrong”?
Was it dementia that made her mother so stubborn? No, that was all – 100 per cent – her mother, she had thought. Now, she wondered if it was half her mother, half dementia – or perhaps it was 100 per cent her mother, multiplied by ten, the dementia.
The doctor had asked: “Who was your father? Tell me about his life before he started having cognitive problems. When was he last his normal self?”
Her mind was now racing: it was now on her mother; her father’s appointment was over.
Her mother had been a seamstress, and had sewn a dress the week before she died from the heart attack.
The earliest image she had of her mother was her sitting working away at her Singer sewing machine in a disorderly room, magazines, sketches, pieces of cloth, scattered all around. She sewed wedding dresses and evening gowns.
Growing old, her mother continued to sew, hindered only, she had thought, by the osteoarthritic changes of her hands. They had become crooked and knobby; she had difficulty threading the machine and winding the bobbin. Over the last couple of years her mother had needed help in preparing the machine. But now she wondered if it was really only the osteoarthritis.
She tried to remember the most recent image she had of her mother in the sewing room. Something was different. Something looked off: she did not seem as connected to the Singer sewing machine as she once did.
At the machine, she used to look like an experienced driver at the wheel. That ease and familiarity seemed missing from the most recent image. The disorderliness of the room seemed more apparent. And where was that dress she had told her about?
She suddenly had a strong to urge to find it, to find all the dresses and scrutinise them, like a detective about to crack a mystery.
“When was your father last his normal self?”
What a stupid question. “Normal” is such a meaningless word.
It seemed her mother stopped being her normal self, whatever that meant, when she stopped dyeing her hair. Perhaps this was the starting point.
The change in her hair, it seemed, was the only thing that was black and white in this story. Nothing else
