‘Do you remember my friend Biddy?” says my pal Aine to her mother May.
Of course, I do,” says May, who has been battling Alzheimer’s for the last three years. “Biddy always had a great appetite and used to clear out the fridge when she stayed with us.”
“No flies on you,” says I. “Your memory is good.”
“Oh, trust me, she has her moments,” says Aine, sighing. “I just snatch the good parts.”
As for me, I hadn’t seen May for years, but this lovely woman had been a massive influence on my life.
May is her 80s, with whitish, curly hair and blue amused eyes. Even now, my mind flies back to being in her kitchen, the open fire, the iron bastable with its raw soda bread placed in the centre, its lid covered in ashes. That image made a deep dent in my memory. In her day, May was a fantastic baker. One of the best. She was also clever, original, spirited and erudite.
I remember her showing me a thesis she had found by a fierce interesting lad called Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire, an Irish lecturer, professional chef and culinary historian. It was called The History of Eggs in Irish Cuisine and Culture. Yes. It was all about eggs. May and I thought it was fascinating.
“We must meet this fellow someday,” she said, pulling a batch of buttery, bulging, fat raisin scones from the oven. We never did.
Anyhow, let me get back to the story.
“I have a plan, Biddy,” says Aine. “Since you’re staying for the weekend, we can do all sorts of fun things. I’m going to bring Mum to the nail salon to get her manicure and pedicure done. In fact, let’s all get one.”
The first thing we did was find a place that could do us all at the same time. May wore her mauve mohair coat, buttoned to the chin, and a pink and cream headscarf to stop her hair flying in the wind.
Well, the day started well enough. May wanted her nails polished red, Aine wanted blue and sure the shred of nail I have left from biting them was barely worth a coat of varnish at all.
Anyhow, I picked silver and watched as May sat calmly, both hands out ready for action, as the nail technician set up her station with files, clippers and cotton buds.
May was chatting away, sharp as a tack. You wouldn’t guess about the Alzheimer’s but, as I would soon learn, both Aine and May, God bless them, were living with all sides of this desperate disease – all the despair, the dark humour, the humiliations and the steep decline. Not easy.
Well, we brought May everywhere. First, we had coffee with bagels, smoked salmon and cream cheese outside Mugs in Dalkey. May was in top form. Then, we took a walk up Killiney Hill with her pudgy, overweight dachshund, Dumpling.
Back home, we took the shoes off and sat in the sitting room. “Mum likes to watch the teleshopping,” says Aine. “Do you mind if I nip out for a few minutes? I need a bulb for the bathroom and some Solpadeine, I’ve a vicious headache.”
“No problem,” says I.
May was all set up in her chair, Dumpling at her feet.
“He is such a gorgeous dogeen,” says I.
“I own the front part of him,” says May suddenly, “and she,” she says, pointing at a photo of Aine, “owns the back. It took me a long time to get custody.”
“Oh,” says I, “that’s great.” I tried hard not to laugh. I know it’s disturbing, but once you go with it, it’s fierce funny.
And May wasn’t finished. “The front part is more expensive than the back,” she says.
“Why is that?” says I.
“Isn’t her gob at the front and her bum at the back.” I started to laugh, and May did too.
“Oops,” says Aine, tearing through the door, “I see she’s giving Dumpling sweets again.”
I hadn’t even noticed, but May had been furtively feeding him KitKats.
“Mum keeps feeding him anything and everything, but I’ve lost the will to argue. Last week, she wanted to go for a walk on her own with Dumpling. I said fine, even though I was going to follow her. I like to give her some kind of independence.
"Well, she put on her coat, her hat, scarf and gloves, took the lead and walked down the driveway. Where do you think Dumpling was? Dozing on the couch beside me. Mum came back with her head down saying, ‘I forgot the dog.’ It was awful.
“She sometimes has trouble finding the right words. Despite the sadness of it, it can be hilarious,” says Aine. “Last week I told her to open the front door to her carer. ‘Welcome to my humble commode,’ said Mum. We all laughed. It takes away some of the stress.”
That evening I booked Oliveto in Dún Laoghaire for dinner. “Will she be OK?” says I.
“Sure, we can only try,” says Aine. “Despite the Alzheimer’s, she loves getting out.”
May was delighted. “Dinner,” says she. “I’m starving.”
She seemed to be free of all care. And boy, the food was good. We started with some small sharing plates of grilled squid, mussels and bruschetta. That disappeared pretty quick. We were all seated, all talking in an affable way.
“I fancy a steak,” says May next, so I ordered her a big fillet, followed by a plate of rosemary fries. I was relieved that she was enjoying herself and Aine had some moral support.
“I’d like a bottle of wine,” says May.
“A glass would be better for you, Mum.”
“I asked for a f**king bottle, Aine. Did you hear me?”
We did. And so did everyone else. The atmosphere grew strained. May cast her eyes towards the ground.
“Mum used to never use bad language,” says Aine to me quietly. “The frontal-temporal dementia affects her behaviour and personality.”
“Don’t be worried at all,” says I. “Isn’t she enjoying herself and feeling liberated from life?”
“Well, dear,” says May, looking me straight in the eye after her steak. “I am stuffed. Can you take me home? I want to go home.”
“Of course,” says I, looking at Aine for advice. It had certainly been a full schedule. We were all, using May’s expression, “knackered”. Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s is so tricky, so exhausting.
“But at least,” says I to Aine, “we kept May busy all weekend.”
The following morning, I lit the fire up and put the coffee on. May’s place hadn’t changed much over the last few years, except for new stickers on the presses mapped with the words, ‘cups’, ‘tea’, ‘sugar’, ‘cutlery’ – Aine’s attempt to help May navigate her favourite room in the house.
Aine came downstairs for the chats. Then suddenly, just like that, May appeared in her dressing gown. We were both startled by her expression.
“What are you doing here?” she says to Aine, her face compressed and challenging. “I haven’t seen you in years. You have a cheek turning up after all this time.”
Jesus, hadn’t she forgotten the whole weekend, just like that.
“And who’s that fellow with you?” she says, glaring at me.
“That’s Biddy, Mum, she’s come to stay with us.”
“Not on my watch,” says May, and she turned on her heel and left the room.
Bless her.
