by Jo Edwards
Tuesday
We were still unable to open the HR application form and all the managers were up in arms, saying the time we had to complete it was just getting shorter and shorter. Emails were flying all over the place. I kept out of it. I was finding it difficult to concentrate, wondering how my mother had got on at the doctors.
My team managers were being very needy. I thought I should have a travelator built past my desk, so they could just step on and ask their inane questions as they glided by, without stopping. TLS George surpassed himself. I’d spent over an hour with them all this morning running through a large document called the EBP - Emergency Business Procedures. This was a list of actions we had to take if the building was inaccessible, if it burnt down, for example. Oh happy release. I walked them through it, page by painstaking page, and they all said they fully understood everything. This afternoon, TLS George had come up to my desk and said he’d received an email from the communications team asking if he’d been briefed about the site’s EBP. He said he’d never heard of it, so he’d replied “no.”
He was a bit taken aback when I shouted: “You stupid shit George! You’ve got the memory of a fecking goldfish!”
“What?”
“Do you actually remember this morning? It was the bit of the day which took place before you went to lunch. I spent well over an hour of my life taking you through - no, spoon feeding you the EBP, which you told me you understood. That was at eleven thirty. How come it’s now two thirty and you’re telling me you can’t even remember it? What’s wrong with you? Am I just wasting my bloody time?”
“Oh that,” he muttered sulkily, “I didn’t know what it was called.” What a waste of bloody space you are. Now the Communications team would think I hadn’t briefed my team, and that I was incompetent. Sure enough, one minute later, I received a bollocking email from Brett the Boss, saying it was a “must-do” communication and I had to “make it happen”.
He copied Cruella into the email, congratulating her on her successful team briefing. Great. One nil to her. Was there actually any point me applying for this role? I replied to Brett saying sorry and confirming that I had now briefed everyone. I decided that telling him I had already briefed it, but one of my team couldn’t recall it five minutes later would have sounded worse.
I got home at seven, itching to call my parents, but had to wait until quarter past, as I knew they would be listening to The Archers. When I phoned them my father answered. He told me that “those stupid bastards next door” had already put their Christmas lights up, and it looked like the “bleeding Blackpool illuminations”. He rumbled on about them for quite a while, until he began to run out of steam, and I managed to dive in and asked how they’d got on at the doctors.
“Had to wait forty bloody minutes to see him.”
“Yes, but what did he say about Mum?”
“Well, not exactly thorough, are they? He couldn’t wait to get us out of his bloody room. Asked her a few questions, gave her a prod and said we’d have to go and see someone else at the hospital. Christ knows when that will be. He said an appointment would come through, but I won’t hold my breath.”
“But what did he say Dad, what did he think about Mum?” It was like pulling teeth. There was a pause.
“He thinks it could be the early stages of dementia,” my Dad said quietly. “But it might not be, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything at all really - useless. The hospital will tell us more.”
I couldn’t speak. I had a huge lump in my throat.
“Are you there, Kate?” my Dad asked. “Now, don’t you go getting upset, you know your mother wouldn’t want a fuss. She’s perfectly ok, look, here she is to say hello.”
“Hello love,” my mother said brightly. “How’s Luke?”
Luke? Who the fuck’s Luke? I used to go out with a Luke about twenty years ago. He was the one and only bearded man I’d ever been out with. Once, during a snogging session, one of my bogeys had got caught up in his moustache and I’d retched. He’d called an abrupt end to our relationship, saying, not unreasonably, that he wanted a girlfriend who didn’t throw up when he kissed her.
“Er, he’s fine Mum,” I said, not wanting to upset her. “How are you doing?”
“Oh good, good. How about you, how’s things, any news?”
Well Mum, it’s like this - my husband has moved out for a while because he can’t stand to be near me, he’s possibly having an affair with a woman who gives birth to devil children, he’s spending money willy-nilly without consulting with me and I’m about to lose my job to a woman who is universally hated and feared by all, but she’ll still be considered a better choice than me, so I’m not really sure what that says about me.
“No, no news Mum.”
We chatted for a bit and she didn’t mention the visit to the doctors, so I didn’t ask her about it. Anyway, I wouldn’t have trusted myself not to blub down the phone. That wouldn’t have been very fair on her. I Googled “dementia”. The word itself is taken from Latin, originally meaning madness. It was a depressing read, describing the illness as a ‘long term decline’. I felt a glimmer of hope when I read that in some cases the symptoms were reversible, but this only occurred in less than 10% of cases.
I thought about calling my brother, but decided not to. Why ruin his evening, too? He was probably still enjoying his honeymoon period. I’d talk to him about it when he next called, or after Mum had been to see the specialist and we had more information. Why was this happening to my Mum; couldn’t my parents just have the trouble-free, silver-lining slide into old age that they so deserved? Life was so bloody unfair. For the second night in a row, I sat on the floor and cried, before slapping myself in the face - wimp, weed - and putting the TV on to watch Homes From Hell. May as well wallow in someone else’s misery for a while.
Wednesday
HR managed to email a version of the application form that we could actually open. Brett had said it would be simple and straightforward to complete. It didn’t look it. The first half of the form was very similar to a CV, and you had to describe your last three jobs, along with your key responsibilities and achievements. Then you had a free format space to complete to say why you were a suitable candidate for the role. Because I’ve been doing it for 12 years and no one’s ever complained? Then there was a section entitled “Key Proficiencies”. This listed certain skills such as communication, leadership, influencing, arse-licking etc. and you had to give examples of times when you’d demonstrated these proficiencies. My God, it was going to take forever. Protesting emails started to fly around from managers saying the timescale (Monday) was ridiculous, but HR wouldn’t budge, saying the deadline was “paramount” to the Perypils restructuring programme. At least I had the weekend to complete the form. It wasn’t as if I had anything else planned.
In the evening I started to read as much as I could about dementia on the internet, including checking to see if it was hereditary and then feeling guilty for thinking about myself. Received a text which read: “You haven’t forgotten me have you?!” It was from the Best Man. Oh God, I had forgotten. And forgetfulness was one of the major symptoms. Had it started already? I texted back, saying: “Yes! Very sorry. Will call you tomorrow evening if that’s ok.” I wrote it down on my Things I Really Must Do list, under Make a Will and Phone Auntie Jane, which had both been on the list for about a year.
