The box containing her actual ashes is sitting in the bookshelf in our office. I tried to open the box only once, but it is clearly made by the same people who manufacture the black boxes for aircraft. I couldn’t get the seal off it, and when I called the crematorium for advice they told me that it was indeed hard to open, and if you do get the seal off and try to transfer the ashes into another container, then you shouldprobably do it over newspaper, as some of the ashes will most likely fall out. What? That seemed a bit cavalier to me—they just tip the ashes into this black plastic box and seal it shut. How will I know whether I got all of Mum out of there, and then do I just throw that old container in the trash? There would be residual ashes left inside.
So, Mum’s ashes are still sitting there, sealed in that black container.
Dad looks at that photo of Mum on the mantel every time he walks into our lounge room, and on the nights he stays over he walks up to it, kisses his fingers and places them on her forehead, saying, ‘Goodnight, my beautiful.’
We loaded stacks of photos of Mum onto Dad’s iPhone, and I often find him just sitting by the window swiping through them—smiling.
I was always worried how Dad would cope after Mum’s death. You hear so many stories about how one partner dies and then other follows suit with a broken heart. But he was fit, and still a relatively spritely spring chicken at the age of 84. He lasted about a month living with us before he got itchy feet—either that or the constant noise that comes from sharing a house with a five-year-old did his head in. So he moved back into his own unit, and stays at our house a few nights a week.
His routine for the past six years was to spend all day sitting with Mum, so I was worried he would be bored and have nothing to do. I shouldn’t have. He has managed to carve out a nice new little routine for himself. Every morning he goes to the nursing home for coffee and tends to the gardens. Then he does a bit of grocery shopping at the supermarket, goes home to potter around his garden, then cooks himself dinner and finishes the night off with a glass of red wine and a bit of André Rieu.
The nights he is not with us, I phone him to check how his day has been. It took a while for me to not just automatically ask how Mum is.
Instead he asks me how the book is coming along.
‘Getting there,’ I say.
I think I might just go and call him now, to tell him I have finished.
Now, if only I could remember where I’ve put my phone.
Mum’s mother and father—Barney and Alma—standing outside their house in Collingwood, c. 1950.
Mum (Beverley Alma Pitt) aged three and a half months, in February, 1936.
Mum and Dad on the night of their engagement in 1954. I love this photo: so classically beautiful and innocent.
Mum and Dad on their wedding day, 8 October 1955.
Mum on the honeymoon somewhere in Adelaide. Nothing says newlywed like a nice piece of road kill.
My Nana enjoying the Christmas festivities in the world’s biggest chair.
Mum all dolled up for a night out, in the doorway of our family home c. 1960.
Mum and I strike a beach pose.
The playpen my parents used to put me in while the rest of the family enjoyed a day at the beach. Either I was not the smartest kid, or they figured those legs wouldn’t carry me far away as they didn’t bother to use the fourth side of the enclosure.
The three kids: my brother Peter, my sister Jenni and me. I’m the one who has clearly fallen down the crack of the couch.
The three kids again. With colour photography also came better photo composition.
Me amid the Christmas morning present frenzy. I later found that Hands Down board game in the back of the garage when we cleaned out the family home forty years later.
My sister Jenni and me on the backyard swingset, wearing homemade dresses (and judging from my sister, homemade haircuts too).
My sister and me modelling the latest homemade fashions of the early seventies. Mum obviously anticipated me growing like a weed with the size of that hem.
As a going-away gift, Mum presented my sister and me with these hand-painted Aussie-themed windcheaters for our backpacking tour around Europe in 1988. I’m the cockatoo and Jenni’s the koala.
Mum and Dad, always the life of the party, dancing together at my brother’s wedding.
Mum’s fiftieth birthday. Dad tearing up the dance floor in usual style and Mum looking embarrassed, also in usual style. Look up the term ‘daggy dad dancing’ and I’m pretty sure you will a picture of Frankie.
Mum and Dad at the Grand Canyon. On one of their trips over to visit me while I was living in Los Angeles, the three of us went on a two-week road trip through the west coast of the United States.
Mum and Dad at the Statue of Liberty. This was taken on a trip to visit me while I was living in New York City. This is their own version of the obligatory holding-up-the-Leaning-Tower-of-Pisa tourist snap.
The family at my twenty-first birthday. From left to right, my sister Jenni, my brother Peter, Dad, me and Mum.
Mum and her sister Desma in their usual state—non-stop talking—while Dad sits silently in the background, smiling.
Dad and I always insisted on dragging Mum into photo booths. She was never a big fan of having her photo taken, which made this even more fun.
Mum, Dad and me on my wedding day. This photo was taken just after the ceremony had taken place in the lounge room of my husband’s parents house in Camas, Washington. The carpenter who was building their deck just happened to be a minister so he performed the official duties.
Dad hamming it up for the camera. Getting a serious shot of him has never been easy. I had just cut his hair with the dog clippers so he gathered up all of the clippings and placed them on his head to make it look like he had more hair.
Mum and Dad proudly showing off their orchids in one of their three greenhouses in the backyard. The family pool was torn down the day after I moved out to make way for more orchids.
This photo of Mum was taken the Christmas of the cookie baking incident. Little did we know this would be the last Christmas we would spend with our mum as we knew her.
This was taken the Christmas after her diagnosis, the last in the family home. You can see she has very red eyes and has a handkerchief in her lap. The constant crying and pacing had started by then. And of course there is Dad putting on the brave face for us all.
Dad showing Mum our newborn son, Sam. Mum was in the nursing home by this stage and I’m pretty certain she never really knew that this was her grandson.
My son Sam was asked at school to do a drawing of his grandparents and what they meant to him. The picture features Pa standing in the middle and then Nan on the right, just hovering out of her wheelchair. His text reads: ‘Grandparents are special. I have Pa and Nanna. They live far away from us. I play with Pa because he is very funny, because he tries to make me laugh. I don’t do anything with Nanna ‘cos she’s sick. I love them 20 inches long.’
My awesome family together in February 2015. From left to right, my sister Jenni, me, my brother Peter and Dad.
Me and my hero—my gorgeous dad—in 2015.
Me with the the lights of my life: husband Ed and our beautiful son Sam (aged 7).
Helpful websites and organisations
Search the internet for Alzheimer’s or dementia and you will get literally millions of results. In Australia, there are many organisations that offer support and information for not only those who have Alzheimer’s or dementia but equally as important, for those who are caring for loved ones. I have listed some websites that you may find useful but this is really just the tip of the iceberg. Be resourceful and don’t be afraid to ask for help.
The most useful organisation for us was Alzheimer’s Australia, a good place to start. They have a very comprehensive website that covers every aspect of dealing with Alzheimer’s and dementia including care and support, suggested medical professionals, fact sheets and the latest news and res
earch information. Their helpsheets are updated as new information is learned and research developments come to light. You can sign up for their newsletters that will keep you up to date with the latest dementia news. They have resources listed that are specific to each state so you can get information that is locally relevant. Their website is
If you don’t have access to a computer—or you are like my parents were and have a perfectly good computer in the home but have no clue as to how to, or desire to, use it—then there is a number you can call, the Australian National Dementia Helpline, which will point you in the right direction for any enquiry regarding Alzheimer’s and dementia. The number is 1800 100 500.
Another helpful organisation is Dementia Care Australia. They are an independent information and education organisation that specialises in all things Alzheimer’s and dementia. They also offer a very comprehensive website with all of the information and resources listed, but they also offer a service where family members and carers can sign up to become a ‘Spark of Life Member’. This offers suggestions and solutions to everyday problems that come from caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s or dementia. Their website is
The Alzheimer’s Association is a voluntary health organisation that focuses on Alzheimer’s care, support and research. Their website is very comprehensive in providing education, resources and awareness of Alzheimer’s. Go to
‘Your Brain Matters’ is a program developed by Alzheimer’s Australia designed to help you look after your brain health. Rather than just give you the stock standard stats, information and tips on how to improve your brain health, it offers them up on a cute little website platform that may even feel like fun when doing it. They offer five steps for you to follow that may help to keep your brain healthy, set challenges for you and offer a range of quizzes that you can take to get a sense of where you are at. This can all be accessed from their website at
If you are like me and feel the need to Google palliative care so you look like you actually know what it entails, then go to this website for more information:
If you feel that your loved one’s driving skills are a little more worrying that just the unfairly stereotypical ‘old person behind the wheel’ scenario, you might want to check out
If you want an actual legitimate source for the three and seven stages of Alzheimer’s rather that the stages I have listed in the book, then go to:
As mentioned on page 32, to download any of the versions of the SAGE test go to
Louis Theroux’s documentary Extreme Love: Dementia is not available to watch online at the time this book was printed. If you want further information about the documentary you can find it at:
Here is a link to the YouTube clip on Naomi Feil and use of validation therapy with Gladys Wilson. Try to watch that one without crying!
Here are some other useful online resources that Alzheimer’s Australia have suggested might be worth a look:
Self-Administered Gerocognitive Exam
Acknowledgements
This was not an easy book to write. I had lived through watching my mother suffer with Alzheimer’s for close to thirteen years and by the time I had finished writing it, she had been gone two years. I had to relive the story all over again, and it was a much more emotional journey than I could have imagined.
One doesn’t just ‘get through’ something like this—one is nurtured and carried through, with love and support and encouragement, which I was lucky enough to have in spades.
So heartfelt thanks must be acknowledged to so many wonderful people.
Firstly to my wonderful husband, Ed, who took up a full-time job after being Mr Mum for seven years so I could put all my energy into writing while he put all his wages into our bank account. Your support was and is invaluable—and as a published author yourself, it must have been hard to sit back and watch without touching.
To my beautiful son, Sam. Your unconditional love and need for me to still be your mum outside the hours of 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. were what motivated me to keep writing. Every time I bring out a book for him to read, he asks me if it’s my book. This time, buddy, it is my book, and you are reading it—finally! I love you more than I hate spiders.
To my sister, Jenni. We endured this thirteen-year journey together and you have always been the strong, sensible and rational one, keeping me grounded and talking me off the ledges that Dad occasionally puts me on.
To my brother, Peter. Sorry for painting you into a bullying big brother who never cries—it’s called poetic licence. Thanks for being there and for being such a great support to Dad. And thanks to Peter’s wife, Jules, for keeping Pete on track. Thanks to my nieces and nephews, Erinn, Jordan, Jordan and Lachlan. You guys rock and Nana adored you all.
To my American family, Mom, Dad, Julia, Rob, Vicky, Ken, Cathy and Rob and all of your wonderful kiddos—thanks for all the support and encouragement.
To my beautiful cousins, Gail Johnson and Debbie Pratt, and their amazing families. Mum loved you both like daughters. Thanks for sharing stories of your own mum for the book—she was a cracker!
Thanks to the many family friends who over the course of our family’s life have been consistent and caring in their love and support. The Orrs, the Febens, the Storays and the Bennells.
To my gorgeous friends Stephanie Bansemer-Brown, Simone Desmond-McRostie and Andrea Stevens. You all kept me motivated with encouragement and love and the occasional much needed distraction. And for all of those friends who checked in on me and supported my journey—Rove, Johnny T, Hayley, Lozza, Lisa, Melissa, Mrs. C, Fary and all of my ‘school mums’.
To Kaz Cooke, who kickstarted me and guided me down the right path—thanks for your advice and encouragement.
And to Declan Fay, who taught me more about writing than I ever needed to know. I guess all those hours I spent watching you lean back in your chair rubbing your belly have finally paid off. All good, not sad.
To all of the wonderful carers at Mum’s nursing home who looked after her like she was family, and in turn looked after Dad along the way. Thanks to Linda and Pina for being there for Dad and keeping him caffeinated. To all the amazing people who have watched and cared for friends and loved ones with this disease. Thank you for sharing your stories with me. I am forever in debt for the inspiration and stimulation you gave me to write a book like this.
Lastly and mostly, Mum and Dad.
Mum, you always were and always will be the mo
st loving, generous, supportive and beautiful person I have ever known. I hope you are proud of this book, and that I haven’t embarrassed you too much by sharing our crazy family stories. I know you and Aunt Des are up there having a cuppa and spelling out swear words. I miss you and love you forever.
And Dad—words cannot convey how much you mean to me. You have been such an incredible role model for not just me, but everyone lucky enough to call you a friend or relative. Your unwavering love for Mum and our family is awe-inspiring. Thanks for supporting my quest in writing this book and giving me free rein to tell our story. I would tell you I love you more often, but without your hearing aids in you probably won’t hear me. Lucky you already know.
SATIAMIME Test (Self-Administered, Totally Inconclusive and Mildly Irrelevant Memory Exam)
Here is my own version of a cognitive written test. I’m pretty sure it has little actual value in terms of keeping your brain active, and any score you get has no medical bearing whatsoever.
1 What present had my brother always received on Christmas Day?
a) A bag of coal
b) Chocolate-filled Santa stocking
c) A pair of black lace G-strings
2 What item of my mother’s did my father hang from a chandelier one morning?
a) Her false teeth
b) Her bra
Not Right In The Head Page 16
