My mother is losing her identity in the midst of a country losing its own. Try to build what memories you can today
"Happy Easter" announced my grandmother, Marina, over Christmas dinner exactly 30 years ago. We all looked at each other. There was the odd giggle from kids like me, too young to understand the gravity of the statement. It was the moment her dementia could no longer be denied. Since then, the condition has claimed member after member of my family, roughly at a rate of one every three years. Grandparents, aunts and uncles – of whom there were many, as both my father and mother were the second youngest of six – one by one succumbed.
My parents were next. My father, brilliant entrepreneur that he was, found his own unique way of beating it. He died of pancreatic cancer before it took hold properly – in your face, Alzheimer's. My mother was next. The sparkle in her eyes has been gradually replaced by a lost confusion over the past few years. We have all gathered at our family home this year for the holidays; all her children, significant others and grandchildren. It is unspoken, but understood, that this is probably the last year she will know who we all are.
The island of Mykonos plays host; beautiful and serene, without its summery, cosmopolitan bluster and bustle; like an expensive restaurant during that sweet time in the early hours of the morning, when all the chairs are upside-down on the tables and the staff count their tips, rest their feet, and share a drink and a joke with each other. All around us, Greece is falling apart: economic crisis, hardship, scandal, a Golden Dawn candidate for Athens mayor. Our mother losing her identity in the midst of a country losing its own.
And yet … and yet the result of our gathering has been magical. The energy and love in the air is almost palpable. Deglaze it with a bit of port and you could turn it into sweet familial gravy. We laugh, we eat, we drink, we argue, we play charades. There are difficult moments, but we help each other out, like a climbing team on the tricky slope of ageing, attached to each other by genetic rope. I have learned to say the word "nappy" to my mother without blushing; she has learned to hear it without protest. Most of all, we adapt. Remarkably quickly, with very little fuss, we develop strategies and routines for the person who, after giving care for decades, now needs a little bit back.
A rather socialist thought occurs – I just can't help myself. At what point up the scale do those same qualities that we value, admire and reward become negative? At what level do notions like caring for the elderly, the sick, the vulnerable as a unit, sharing what little one has, supporting each other, cease to be admirable and become the characteristics of a sucker? At what stage do we stop being an extended family or neighbourhood or community or nation and divide into shirkers and workers, strivers and skivers, immigrants and entitled ones? Why do we feel the need to replace togetherness, support and solidarity with the rhetoric of individualism, profit and sharp elbows?
The importance of the holiday season is not necessarily religion, decorations, trips abroad or expensive presents. Whatever your religion, whether you are with family and friends or alone and in trouble, at home or away, this is the season for crystallising experiences that last a lifetime – good or bad, they are all formative. Five years ago, I was homeless, destitute, depressed and desperate. Those times are, in retrospect – believe it or not – as precious to me as the best Christmas I ever had. Because the holidays are "down-time"; time away from work and daily friction; time for introspection and reflection. They are time spent at the memory factory; a factory which does not distinguish good from bad, just memorable from not.
So, this is my wish to you: whatever you do, have a memorable day. Take the time to distinguish it from others. To congratulate yourself for making it. In the times in which we live – in these desperately cynical, difficult times – it is a huge achievement. Take a moment to share this moment of your life, whether physically, in spirit or online … to encase the thoughts and feelings of this day in the resin of your soul and fossilise them for eternity.
Many, like my mother, cannot do this any more. Confronted with this loss (and the frailty of one's own mind) that the importance of enriching our memory bank while we can comes into sharp focus.
DementiaChristmasMental healthAlzheimer'sHealthGreeceEuropeAlex Andreoutheguardian.com © 2013 Guardian News and Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds |
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