Not Right In The Head

by Michelle Wyatt

  So, each time he would position Mum in the front row of these concerts, he would tell me about it that night during our phone call—about how there was a concert on, but it was ‘way too loud for your mother’ so he had to take her away. I would ask where they were sitting, and he would always say, ‘We had a great seat right up the front.’

  Sigh!

  My cousin once took her mum (my mother’s sister) to a Christmas concert in her nursing home. It was a very festive occasion, the room was appropriately decorated and the Christmas cheer was being spread around like gastro. My aunt and cousin were sitting towards the front (must run in the family), and throughout the one-hour concert they all sang along, having a gay old time. The final rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ had just finished and everyone was cheering and clapping. The performer took a bow and stepped up to the microphone to thank the adoring audience.

  ‘Thank you all very much! We hope you have a wonderful Christmas, and look forward to seeing you all here again next year.’

  Pause.

  ‘I bloody hope not!’

  Yep, that was my auntie. We’re not sure whether she didn’t want that particular singer back next year, or whether she didn’t want to still be in the nursing home the following Christmas, but either way, she felt pretty strongly about one of them. Tough gig for that guy.

  The performances at Mum’s nursing home weren’t always musical. One afternoon a stand-up comedian had been booked to do a show. I wonder if he entertained the idea of cracking the same joke several times just to see if he could get away with it, but no—he had quite a routine planned out. He started off with the standard run-of-the-mill ageing jokes, of the ‘You know you’re old when …’ variety. He was killing them (not literally). Had them rolling in the aisles (some literally).

  One of his jokes even made it into Dad’s repertoire: Did you hear the one about the elderly couple driving down the freeway and they hear a news alert on the radio to take care because there is a car driving the wrong way down the very freeway they were on? The driver turns to his wife and says, ‘It’s not just one car, honey, it’s hundreds of them.’

  Funny stuff, right? The comedian even rolled out the old classic, ‘The best thing about Alzheimer’s is that you can hide your own Easter eggs.’

  And my personal favourite: The doctor asks his elderly patient if he is urinating and opening his bowels regularly. ‘Of course,’ the old man replies. ‘Every morning I urinate at 7 a.m. and open my bowels around 8 a.m. Then at 9 a.m sharp I wake up.’ Boom boom.

  So, all was going well, until the end of his twenty-minute routine, when he ventured down the funeral-joke path. Dad said the room fell silent—that could also be because he has been virtually deaf for a while and refuses to wear his hearing aids. A funeral home is the next stop on the road of life for these fine folks, so funerals are not something they generally find hilarious, especially when they lose another resident from within the nursing home. I’m pretty sure ‘can’t-read-a-room comedian guy’ didn’t get called back for another gig, but he did give Dad quite a funny five-minute routine to bust out at family gatherings.

  With dementia and Alzheimer patients, music is widely used in therapy, often as a form of communication and expression. Over the past decade, several studies and documentaries have shown how a familiar old song can unlock a seemingly dormant memory in the brain. And that although the brain of these patients may not be able to verbalise emotions or convey them physically, it can retain their ability to move in time with a beat, even late into the disease.

  One remarkable video I have seen on YouTube is of a woman named Naomi Feil, who has developed a technique proving to be rather successful in connecting with dementia patients called ‘validation therapy’. In this particular clip, Naomi is working with an elderly woman who, after being non-verbal for many years, starts to sing along with a song she remembers from her church-going days. Naomi starts by gently stroking the woman’s face, which is meant to stimulate memories of how we were touched by our mothers as babies, and then she begins to softly sing to her. The patient soon begins to tap along with the music—but nearly five minutes into the clip, that particular song obviously unlocks a very significant memory in her brain, and this previouslynon-verbal patient starts to sing along with Naomi. Not a dry eye in the house.

  After I first saw that clip, I was convinced that if we could find the right song and sing it to Mum, something in her brain would recognise it—and maybe, just maybe, we could, even for a fleeting moment, bring her back from where she was. It was worth a shot, so I thought a lot about what would be the perfect song. She loved all those old crooner tunes from Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, and couldn’t go past a good old-fashioned show tune in her day. Judy Garland’s ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ was her all-time favourite, but I knew I wouldn’t get through one verse of that song without turning into a blubbering mess. It had to be something that brought her joy, but didn’t take her back to a sad or emotional place.

  I had it: the Collingwood Football Club theme song! She had supported that AFL team her whole life, and on the Saturdays we didn’t all take the train to their home football ground and watch them play, Mum would be parked in the kitchen all day, cooking and listening to the game on the radio. That song was sung as the team ran onto the ground and then, god willing, after the game as part of the victory celebration. It was a perfect choice—and thankfully, you don’t need to be Julie Andrews to sound half decent singing it. If 90,000 drunk football fans can sing it in public, then surely I can pull it off in front of my mother without causing too much embarrassment.

  So off we went on the habitual Sunday morning visit. I had warned my husband there was a pretty good chance he was going to witness some kind of a miracle that morning; I’m surprised the thought of inviting a news crew along to record the action hadn’t crossed my mind. After preparing myself emotionally, I stood in front of Mum, who was sleeping happily in her chair. I leant forward and slowly started to stroke her face, just like the woman in the video clip. Then I started singing softly in her ear. I got through the first verse and chorus, then stepped back to witness the awakening.

  Nothing. She was still sleeping.

  I leant in and repeated the process. Still nothing.

  I did it a third time. More nothing.

  At this point my husband went back to reading his paper. I mumbled something about her being very tired, then retreated to my seat to ponder why my singing therapy hadn’t elicited even the slightest of responses.

  After a few minutes I tried again. Still nothing.

  I then decided to expand my repertoire. I tried a bit of ‘New York, New York’, followed by ‘Quando, Quando, Quando’ and then ‘What’s New Pussycat?’. I finally resorted to ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’. Yep, I had played the trump card, at the risk of it being too emotional, and still nothing. Not one tear. Not even a twitch. She didn’t open her eyes for that entire visit—quite possibly out of protest to my singing voice.

  For the next few days I tried to make sense of why my singing therapy hadn’t worked. Maybe it was too late—maybe I should have started the awakening process earlier? Maybe it was just about trying different songs, until the right one hit?

  It is amazing how, after losing a loved one to this disease, you spend quite a bit of time beating yourself up about what you could have done differently, to either prevent the disease (impossible), or slow it down (unlikely). After Mum was diagnosed we tried many things to keep her brain active, and I still think about what more we could have done. One of the problems is that the disease can involve such a slow decline, and symptoms such as being a bit forgetful are simply seen as a natural part of getting older, rather than reflecting an underlying disease. As mentioned earlier, I just figured Mum’s brain had forgotten how to function fully because Dad had started doing everything for her.

  If you suspect a loved one—or you yourself—may be suffering from the disease, there is so much advice and inf
ormation available through Alzheimer’s organisations to help guide you in the right direction. If nothing else, you will feel better about knowing you did what you could—but trust me, there will be days where you will feel you could have done more.

  Many, many days.

  16

  To be brutally honest

  Have you ever wondered why older people seem grumpy? I do. My father, at the age of 86, is very grumpy—my son is too loud, there is nothing on the television worth watching, things are too expensive now, the younger generation have no respect for the older, kids should be outside playing, not inside on their iPads.

  Hang on. All of that is actually true! So maybe old people aren’t grumpier, just more honest. Maybe at some point they just decide, to hell with it—I’m going to say what I think. And the older they get, the more honest they get.

  There was a woman in Mum’s nursing home who would constantly call out that she was choking. We would hear her all through the corridors—sometimes for an hour at a time. The first time I heard it I reacted as most visitors do, and ran to get a nurse. The nurse looked up from what she was doing and calmly told me not to panic, as this particular lady was in no actual danger of choking and it was just a ploy for attention. Even though for the most part I believed her, I couldn’t really put out of my mind this idea that there was a woman screaming and choking in her room, so I decided to look in on her, just to reassure myself she really was okay. Her room was two doors up from the communal area, so I wandered up and leant partway in. She was calmly sitting up in a chair, knitting. She looked up as I entered the room and smiled at me, then went back to her knitting and yelling.

  Knit one, pearl one, choke one, yell one.

  She had quite the routine going. I can imagine how hearing it every day with some frequency might get on everyone’s nerves.

  One afternoon I was sitting in the communal area with Mum and Dad and we heard the first of the ‘I’m choking!’ calls ring out. Dad gave me that ‘here we go again’ look with a roll of his eyes. The next thing I knew, a resident wheeled her push walker past us with some level of urgency, mumbling to herself. Following her out of curiosity, I saw her stop at the door of The Choker. She lifted up her walker so it was just off the ground, then started banging it into the open door of the room. The Choker looked up at the commotion at her door; the agitated woman set her walker down and screamed, ‘I hope you choke and then we won’t have to hear you anymore!’ Wow, that was quite the heckle—and probably echoed the sentiments of many in the facility. The disgruntled resident turned around and headed back towards me; I was now standing in the middle of the corridor like a stunned mullet. As she came level with me, she smiled and said, ‘That will shut her up.’ Off she wheeled with a sense of victory. I watched until she turned the corner, then went and sat back down with Dad. One minute later we heard ‘I’m choking!’ from the room two doors up.

  You may notice when visiting nursing homes that most rooms have cute little signs on the doors displaying the resident’s name, and usually a photo of them or a drawing from a grandchild (or artistically challenged loved one). On Mum’s door we had a nice picture of her, with her name. Nothing too flash—just whose room this is, and this is her name. Maybe the real purpose of these door signs is to help residents remember which room was theirs? One woman decided it was her job to move these signs around. As if these people aren’t confused enough: you leave your room for a cup of tea as a lovely-looking older lady named Betty only to return ten minutes later and discover you are now a 90-year-old man with a Greek fishing cap who goes by the name of George.

  My husband’s grandmother lived to the age of 98, and was as honest as they came. A woman in her nursing home named Wendy, who resided on the same floor, also had her name and photo on the door, which showed a largish woman with grey curly hair and a big cheerful smile; underneath the photo was her nickname, ‘Grandma Hugs’. One afternoon, my husband remarked to his grandma that ‘Grandma Hugs’ seemed like a nice lady. Grandma looked up from the TV—whose company she clearly preferred to ours—and said, ‘If she tries to hug me I will push her to the ground!’ She would’ve been lucky to tip the scales at around 40 kilos, whereas Grandma Hugs weighed in at around 90 kilos. In her case at least, it seems brutal honesty was a source of strength that could overcome any physical shortcomings.

  Another time we were sitting in her room at the nursing home as my mother-in-law was sorting through some clothes in a chest at the foot of her bed that Grandma had decided were to be thrown out. Each piece of clothing was brought out and held up for Grandma to assess and perhaps salvage. A lovely cream-coloured cardigan with pastel hand-knitted flowers sewn onto the lapels was offered up. Casting her eyes upon the garment, she threw her arms up and declared, ‘Get rid of it, it’s awful.’ My mother-in-law took a breath and awkwardly explained that she’d bought that cardigan only a few months ago and Grandma had seemed to like it. Grandma asked for a closer inspection of the cardigan, ran her fingers across the flowers and said, ‘Well, I didn’t care for it then, and I don’t care for it now.’ Yep, that’s honesty for you.

  Then of course there’s that fine line between honesty and Alzheimer’s. One example of that was when my normal-sized and nicely groomed cousin walked into her mum’s nursing home one afternoon with a beautiful bunch of flowers. It wasn’t Mother’s Day, or her mother’s birthday—it was just a simple gesture to say I love you and I hope these flowers brighten up your day. She got no more than five steps inside her mum’s room and my aunt said, ‘If you put on any more weight your arse won’t fit through that door! And what have you done to your hair? You look a hundred.’ You can only hope that the flowers all drooped and a downbeat kind of ‘bup bow’ comedy sound effect filled the room. What makes a mother say that to her daughter?

  Clearly someone who has Alzheimer’s or dementia can’t really control their emotions, and in turn what they end up saying to people, so there is no point being offended in these situations. Mum never went down that brutally honest path. She was virtually the opposite—always a wonderfully supportive and happy person. One of the last words I remember her saying with any regularity was ‘beautiful’. She used it in reference to everything.

  ‘How is that meal, Mum?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Are you feeling okay today, Mum?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Do you need to go to the toilet, Mum?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  We were thankful Mum had latched onto such a lovely, positive word. One gentleman in her facility had only two words in his vocabulary: ‘piss’ and ‘off ’. Used together in succession. About everything, and to everyone. Even my young son. (It’s amazing how toddlers store things in their tiny little minds and then recall them at the most inopportune time.)

  One place in nursing homes where honesty is in full flight is the dining room. Of course, nobody expects a five-star meal in these facilities—and with a fair number of the meals vitamised, it seems pointless to cook up a beautiful piece of marbled wagu and then pulse it in the blender. So it’s cereal, toast and fruit for breakfast, casserole or cold cuts and salad for lunch, then pasta or roast for dinner. I have to admit there were days I couldn’t quite determine the specific type of meat on offer, but it was definitely a protein, I think. What I do know is that the meals are planned around dietary and nutritional requirements, and served up to 100 people in each sitting, and to a budget, so there are times when the food is going to be a little less than hot, and a little less appetising than something prepared by Heston Blumenthal.

  Dad knew this, and I knew he knew it, but he would continually complain about the food. Every night I would get the rundown of the three meals and how it was beyond him that anyone could serve that food up to human beings. How he had taken her lunch plate back to the server and complained it was cold, or the meat was tough, or the vegies weren’t cooked enough. One time he even took a piece of rockmelon back to the kitchen because it was a bit green.
To be fair, Dad wasn’t the only one complaining about the food—but instead of walking their plates back to the kitchen, or asking one of the staff if they could have their apple pie reheated, some residents would throw the food. Throw it on the ground, throw it at the carers, throw it at each other. Throughout the dining room you could hear the reviews of the meal, accompanied by expletives as a bowl of custard hit the dirt. An elderly man who often sat at Mum’s table needed to be fed by a carer, who would load up a spoon full of vitamised goodness and lift it towards his mouth, just as his arm would slap it away, sending the food and utensil flying through the air like some kind of tasty missile.