Remember, Remember

by Hazel McHaffie

  HAZEL MCHAFFIE trained as a nurse and midwife, gained a PhD in Social Sciences, and was Deputy Director of Research in the Institute of Medical Ethics. She is the author of almost a hundred published articles and books, and won the British Medical Association Book of the Year Award in 2002. Right to Die, shortlisted for the Popular Medicine prize, was highly commended in the BMA 2008 Medical Book Awards. Remember Remember is her sixth published novel set in the world of medical ethics.

  Praise for Remember Remember:

  It provides an amazing insight into the thought process of someone with dementia, as well as being a gripping and heartfelt narrative. JOURNAL OF DEMENTIA CARE

  Praise for Right to Die:

  There are very few novels which deal with the issues of contemporary medical ethics in the lively and intensely readable way which Hazel McHaffie’s books do. She uses her undoubted skill as a storyteller to weave tales of moral quandary, showing us with subtlety and sympathy how we might tackle some of the ethical issues which modern medicine has thrown up. She has demonstrated that hard cases make good reading. ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH

  … well written and researched… presents issues of medicine, law and ethics in a very human and readily understandable manner… BRITISH MEDICAL ASSOCIATION

  We often talk about books being moving, but how many of them actually cause in the reader a strong emotional shift? We speak of books which make us think, but do they put such a fine focus on a subject that we come away feeling not only well-informed but having had our conscience exercised, or the working order of our moral compass checked? Hazel McHaffie’s novel Right to Die does all this and more… the issues it covers are highly topical and the questions it asks are hard ones, it’s an important book, too… its essential humanity and empathy lift it above ‘the mere facts of the case’. CORNFLOWER BOOKS

  … a fine novel that travels with courage into difficult areas: incurable disease, euthanasia, suicide, faith, loss of personhood, hope and, ultimately, the nature of love in the face of serious illness. JOURNAL OF PALLIATIVE CARE

  This is real life drama that’s a cut above the stories you find in weekly women’s magazines and it is hard to fault either the science or the emotions portrayed in the book… Wherever you stand on the issue, it will give you food for thought and would be an interesting title for a book club discussion, given the timeliness of the particular medical-ethical dilemmas debated. BOOKBAG

  … stimulates [debate on] the ethical and moral issues brought about by modern medicine and the current law. THUMBNAIL

  … very well researched, with medical and legal facts sprinkled liberally, but appropriately throughout… I recommend [it] to anyone who is interested in exploring the euthanasia debate, or looking for an emotional read. FARM LANE BOOKS

  … helps the reader understand the emotions and difficult decisions behind the disease. ALS SOCIETY OF CANADA

  An admirable attempt to tackle the issue of assisted suicide through fiction. ME AND MY BIG MOUTH

  Remember Remember

  HAZEL McHAFFIE

  Luath Press Limited

  EDINBURGH

  www.luath.co.uk

  First published 2010

  This edition 2010

  eBook 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-906817-78-7

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-83-0

  The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

  The publisher acknowledges the support of Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume.

  © Hazel McHaffie 2010

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Family tree

  Prologue

  JESSICA

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  DORIS

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Postscript

  Discussion Points for Bookclubs

  To all the courageous men and women who have allowed me to walk alongside them on their journey through dementia.

  Acknowledgements

  Without the generosity of many people living with dementia I would never have been able to write this book. They have taught me more than they ever knew and it has been a privilege to be part of their lives. Respect for their rights to privacy precludes me from naming them but I thank them all comprehensively. Random conversations with numerous people involved in the care of people with dementia, in homes and organisations, over decades have also helped to shape my thinking. I am constantly amazed by them.

  Dr Gwen Turner and Dr Richard Turner, who have a wealth of personal as well as clinical experience between them, gave me invaluable advice on an early manuscript which helped to shape the final version of this story, and I thank them warmly for their friendship and expert help. Professor Tony Hope is one of the most encouraging people I know, and I’m indebted to him for his ongoing support and reassurance, particularly at a time when he was working on his own major report about the ethical issues associated with dementia.

  I’m grateful too to the team at Luath Press, and in particular, to my editor, Jennie Renton, who highlighted my faults but left me to correct them – exactly the right way to handle me! Nele Andersch proved a real friend when I needed one.

  And as always, I am indebted to my family for their constant support and love. Jonathan, Rosalyn and Camille read drafts with affectionate prejudice. David meticulously proof-read the final version and gave me the space I needed to get lost in this story.

  Family tree found in a handbag at Bradley Drive

  Prologue

  SIMON ARRIVED EARLY for his lecture. He wanted time to size up his student audience and plan his tactics.

  As the latecomers slouched in, his brain rehearsed details of the case he intended to present. He’d need to tread extra warily – too much information could so easily betray confidences.

  Professor Duncan was on his feet; the buzz of young voices died.

  ‘Good morning. May I remind you to switch off your mobile phones, please. I’m sure the world can cope without your pearls of wisdom for 90 minutes on this particular Thursday morning.’ A pause while everyone checked. ‘Thank you. I can assure you the sense of bereavement will soon be forgotten, because our guest speaker today is Simon Montgomery-Bates. As a practising lawyer, author of six legal texts, and with something of a reputation as an after-dinner speaker, he brings a wealth of experience and skill to his presentations. I can promise you, you will be challenged, you may be shocked, but you will not be dozing during this session. And that includes you three on the back row who seem to be settling down for some kind of slumber party.’ A ripple of appreciation. ‘So, without further ado, Simon.’

  Simon strolled forward, adjusting his bow tie, and let his gaze wander over the faces. Only when he had their full attention did he start to speak. He began to pace, one hand behind his back, the other clutching his lapel. All eyes followed him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the case I bring before you today bears all the hallmarks of a cause célèbre. We have an elderly widow with aristocratic connections and inherited wealth. We have attempted murder.’ A pause. ‘We have a lawyer-lover with a conflict of interests… no, not me, I can assure you! We
have issues of mental competence; a cuckoo in the nest; tension between potential inheritors; a will that must remain sealed until the testator dies; secrets and deceptions that span decades. And yet,’ he raised one finger, ‘this is an ordinary family. They might be living next door to you… or to me. (Contrary to campus rumour, I do inhabit this planet, despite my Vulcan-like logic and detachment.) It’s highly unlikely that the names of any of these people will hit the headlines, or that they will ever appear before you in the High Court. Nevertheless, their situation poses a number of legal challenges.

  ‘We’ll begin with the eldest daughter of the widow, Annie. And before you start texting the News of the World, Annie is, of course, not her real name. Annie is in her sixties and in the process of clearing the family home. You… yes, the young lady there, in the red jumper… you are Annie. You grew up in this house. You love every stone of it. It’s full of memories. How are you feeling, dismantling your history?’

  ‘Sad? Angry? Torn?’

  ‘Indeed. I’m glad you included angry, because you have a brother and a sister who also grew up in this house, but they…’

  JESSICA

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS IN THIS room that I almost murdered my mother.

  My hands were actually starting to press down on her shoulders. As she sank she grabbed for the rail, missed, and began to flounder. A wave of water went over the side of the bath, soap stung my eye. I groped for the towel. By the time I could see again my rage had passed.

  Looking back now, I still wonder. Would it have been better to have ended it that day? Maybe once this house is sold I shall get some kind of resolution.

  The bathrooms were top priority as soon as Mother was admitted to the home. It was the smell; no amount of scrubbing or bleach would eradicate it. Floors, suites, tiles, everything had to go.

  It’s a big concession having men in to do the tiling. But James was insistent. ‘OK, do the painting and papering yourself, if you must, but let me organise the bathrooms.’

  They’re only young, Jake and Richie, fingernails encrusted with grout, but in a few hours they’ve finished upstairs and down. No cracks, no misalignments.

  ‘Nice choice, Mrs B,’ Jake said. ‘Can’t go wrong with white.’

  Oh yes you can. Mother had white in here before…

  ‘We’ll be back tomorrow to finish the grouting. You’ll be all hunky-dory by teatime.

  But I’ll be glad when they’ve gone. It’s painful having strangers in this house that’s so full of family ghosts.

  It’s not the same for James.

  I can see her now, the week before she was admitted to The Morningside. Hard to believe it’s been almost a year.

  It was such a warm day for March I wanted to fling open all the doors and windows… except that anything open represented an escape route to my mother. She shuffled into the hall and stood passively, waiting to be led. I took her hand and inched her from room to room, willing the old familiarity to spark something in her brain.

  But a packet of Ginger Nut biscuits lying on the kitchen surface generated more interest than any of my prompts. She spent 10 minutes trying to pick a flower off an embroidered cushion. I tried to distract her, like they said, showed her family photographs: no response.

  The last time she’d been in this house she’d given the appearance of knowing where she was. Now even that veneer had gone. Hope died within me.

  Now I have the house to myself again, I can get on with emptying cabinets. At least the kitchen doesn’t need redecorating having been completely gutted and refitted after the fire.

  It had a fair hold before Bert, the postman, called the Fire Brigade. Bert knew all about Mother and when he’d smelt burning he’d charged straight into the house to check she was safe. It was empty. Mother was skulking behind the garden shed, a singed teacloth in her hand. ‘Have you come for tea?’

  She’d left an empty saucepan on the electric ring, the fire chief said, then she’d dumped a pile of towels and teacloths on top of it.

  ‘She has Alzheimer’s,’ I explained.

  ‘And she lives on her own?’

  The criticism stung. I’d already removed bleach, medicines, matches, scissors and knives. I visited her daily, cooked, cleaned, ironed, shopped, stuck labels on everything to remind her what it was. I phoned her frequently to check she was still there, still pretending.

  It was a bleak moment standing there amidst the devastation she’d caused, facing the only possible solution.

  On paper, of course, I was not alone with this.

  When the diagnosis was finally pronounced my uncles, Sydney and Derek, did visit, together for moral support. But Mother dredged up an Oscar-winning performance. Her only sister, Beatrice, who saw more of the deterioration, spent so much time talking about her ailments and her activities it was doubtful whether she even registered the implications of the illness.

  To an extent I could excuse that generation on account of their own advancing years, but I’ve felt far less forgiving of my own. Eugene, living in Australia, had a cast-iron reason for leaving things to me. And to be fair, he rang, he commiserated, he suggested buying in help, offered financial assistance. My younger sister, Adeline, technically should have shared the responsibility. Technically. She has more money (she works in advertising; her salary is obscene) and more time (no children or grandchildren). But in her position, she ‘cannot afford’ the slightest whiff of anything ‘unsavoury’ in her background.

  And so I’m the one still taking responsibility for Mother. She may no longer be physically in my charge, but her house is.

  The task of getting it into order was overwhelming, so I’m tackling a room at a time. Kitchen first – least demanding, least emotionally draining. Anything I find in these cupboards got there within the space of eleven months – the time I lived here with Mother after the fire. I make rapid progress. Cooking paraphernalia… charity shop. Shrivelled vegetables, dubious packets and tubs, glue dots, erasers, half-eaten biscuits, sticky jelly babies… straight in the bin. Nothing of any significance. Then, at the back of one of the base units, I find a box tied up with string, the knot so intricate that Houdini would have been daunted. I resort to scissors. It feels sacrilegious.

  Inside I find… a treasure trove. Drawings by grandchildren; an invitation to an art exhibition in Glasgow; a school note saying Eugene has won a special Governors’ ‘Overall Improvement’ prize; a newspaper clipping showing Adeline and me holding a turnip at some agricultural show; a bundle of letters held together with a red elastic band (assorted senders: Grandmamma, Lionel, the Palace of Holyrood, me, the electricity company, social services, James, Jenners, George)…

  I close the shoebox and carry it through to the hall. So many stories lie in that single hoard. Those impenetrable knots – perhaps this was Mother’s way of protecting her past; if she couldn’t get into the contents she couldn’t destroy them.

  Tucked down the side of the adjoining cabinet I find an old sepia photograph of Mother’s family. The names are written on the back in a beautiful rolling hand, not hers: JACK, SYDNEY, DORIS, DEREK, BEATRICE, MAMMA. But both the name, Doris, and her face are covered in heavy ink scratchings. How sad. Was Mother aware that her identity was being eradicated by this crippling illness when she removed herself from the portrait? What must it do to a person to contemplate their own living extinction?

  I let my thumb glance over the blackened spot where she once smiled. Doris: eldest daughter, mother, grandmother. It’s too easy to forget those years in the ongoing struggle with dementia.

  I slip the photo into the shoebox in the hall, my mind still in the past.

  The holes in the frame of the front door jerk my mind on to another crisis.

  I’d only gone down to the newsagents. Ten minutes running there and back, not stopping to talk to Eunice McClarity, not waiting for the pedestrian lights to turn green. I’d left Mother asleep, knowing I must be back before she wakened.

  The futility of tr
ying to fit my key into the keyhole took a while to penetrate. It must fit. It must!

  I tried a nail file. I tried phoning. I tried an appeal. ‘Mother. It’s only me, Jessica. Open the door for me, there’s a dear.’

  I listened through the letterbox. What did silence denote? Unlit gas… electrical sockets… steep stairs… every hazard raced through my mind.

  The policeman was sympathetic but brutally pragmatic. ‘Only one way in. Break the lock. We cannae just slip a slice of plastic in, and bingo. Doesnae work like that. But I can give you the name of a reliable bloke who’ll repair the door.’

  I had no choice.

  All my anxiety about the trauma of an SAS-style invasion proved groundless. Mother was oblivious to the whole operation, lying fully clothed in two inches of hot water in the bath, her head encased in a towel and fur earmuffs, her slippers soaking in the lavatory pan.

  ‘Did I invite you?’ she said – not to the assorted strangers storming her house; to me. Then, ‘Ring the pope. He’ll know.’

  It was the last time I left her unattended.

  As I pick up the sack of foodstuffs and drag it to the back door, I can’t resist a wry smile at how cross Mother had been that time Pandora tore through her cupboards, ‘saving’ her from food poisoning.

  ‘In my day there was no such thing as sell-by dates.’

  ‘Gran! It’s gross.’

  Pandora. Light years away from Mother’s chaos. Judged against Pandora’s standards we are all incompetent. I wish I could rid myself of this nagging anxiety about my daughter.

  But there’s work to be done before James arrives to remove the boxes and bags. Dear James. What would I do without him? I know he’ll be there until this job is done, whatever his own private reservations.

  ‘Yoo-hoo. Anybody at home?’

  ‘In the kitchen, James,’ I sing out.