Mum looked frightened and her eyes flicked to Suzy, who stepped forward.
‘Do you know who Erin is, Penny?’
Mum shook her head, her eyes wide with fear, and my heart broke for her. We went through this, or something similar, almost every time I came. Sometimes Mum simply accepted my presence and let me spend time with her. On really good days Mum recognised me and we talked almost like we used to. But much more often, Mum became anxious and frightened when I arrived and I had to leave her to calm down. It already looked as though today was going to be one of those days.
‘Why is she here?’ Her voice wavered and the pitch rose in panic.
‘I’d better go.’ I stood to leave.
Suzy placed her hand on my arm gently. ‘Thanks Erin. Just give me a moment to calm her down.’
I stepped outside the room and sucked in the over-warm air, trying to fill my lungs, to calm myself. It didn’t matter how many times I told myself Mum’s reaction wasn’t personal, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit broken every time this happened.
I took myself outside. I needed fresh air and time to think, to decompress. As I strode around the grounds – the grass was wet underfoot and the wind had got up even more now – I thought about the look on Mum’s face when she hadn’t recognised me. You’d think after fifteen years of this I’d be used to it, but it seemed to get harder rather than easier. You would also think that, given my job, I would understand it more. But this was too personal; I couldn’t take a step back and be objective.
A few years ago I’d broached the subject of trying to help Mum’s memory with music with Suzy. She’d agreed it was worth a go and so, that very first time, I came in armed with Mum’s favourite songs loaded onto my iPad, and played them to her. The effect had been both instantaneous and overwhelming. From the moment the songs had started, Mum had been transformed. Her face had lit up, the anxiety in her eyes had disappeared, and her whole body had seemed to uncurl. She’d leapt up and begun whirling round the room, singing along with every word as if she’d heard the songs only yesterday. It had been so wonderful to see her like that, it felt as though the curtain that had hidden my mum from view for so long had momentarily lifted and it filled me with warmth. The second the music stopped she’d stopped too, like a tired old wind-up toy, as though it had only been the music fuelling her. But for those few moments, at least, I’d felt as though I had my mum back.
Since then, I’d experimented with how we used the songs we chose. Sometimes it was just a case of playing a piece as loud as I dared and letting Mum get lost in the memories it evoked, allowing her to believe she was the young woman she used to be again, dancing round the living room with me on a Saturday afternoon, or swaying with Dad in the kitchen. Other times though, I’d tried playing songs quietly in the background, and asking Mum questions about when she was younger to see if the music would trigger something in her brain that might otherwise have been lost. I’d had mixed results; sometimes Mum was lucid and talked openly, even if it wasn’t quite clear whether she knewwhenin time she actually was. Other times the therapy didn’t do much at all and I’d left her feeling deflated.
I walked on, the dampness in the air making my hair stick to my face. I should go back and see if Suzy had managed to calm Mum down, so reluctantly I turned and headed back towards the care home, my feet heavy. I climbed the front steps again, and this time when I pushed open the door the warm air felt oppressive. There was no-one around so I made my way towards Mum’s room. Suzy came out, pulling the door gently behind her.
‘Ah, you’re back, excellent timing,’ she said, smiling. I wished I had her serenity. She appeared to find it so easy to cope when everything seemed utterly out of control.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s calm again now. She’s ready for you.’ She nodded at my bag. ‘Have you got some songs for her?’
‘I have. Do you think she’ll be okay with them today?’
‘I think she’ll be fine.’ She placed her hand on my arm and smiled. ‘She lights up when you come in you know. I know it’s really hard to see her distressed.’
‘Thank you Suzy.’
Inside Mum’s room I was relieved to find her back in her chair, calm. She turned when I walked in and smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said. Even though Mum was only fifty-seven, her once blonde hair was now completely white. It was still long, and I remembered when I used to spend hours plaiting it for her, or brushing it and pulling it into bunches back in the days when I dreamed of being a hairdresser. The colour made her look elegant and distinguished, but I couldn’t help feeling a pang of melancholy when I saw the blankness behind her eyes, the only clue from the outside that her mind had played such a cruel trick on her. I tried not to think about how things would be if dementia hadn’t snatched her from me, of the fun we’d have had together, because it hurt too much.
I sat down on the smaller chair opposite, then leaned over and took her hands gently in mine. She peered down at our clasped fingers then back up at me with a puzzled look in her eyes. She said nothing so I took a minute to study her, this face I knew so well and yet which also seemed so unfamiliar to me.
She was lucky to have this place, I knew. Dad paid for it every month without fail and it was one of the best homes around – when he’d finally had to admit he couldn’t cope with Mum by himself any more, he’d made sure he did his research and found the very best place he could. But seeing her here, festering away, deteriorating month by month, dragging out the years in the same old room, the same old building, gave me a hollowed-out feeling, like homesickness. Sometimes I wondered whether she might be happier if she just left this world for good.
We sat in silence for a moment, only the sounds of the other residents and the nurses disturbing our peace. The radiator clunked beneath the window and I stared blindly into the lamp before looking back at Mum’s face. Dark spots jumped in my vision.
‘Would you like to listen to some music?’ I said, eventually.
She nodded. ‘Yes please.’
I took my hands away and leaned down to find my phone in the bag. I pulled out the wires, then the portable speakers, then scrolled through my playlists. Mum waited expectantly, her eyes wide and innocent. Finally finding the song I was looking for, I pressed play and the opening strains of ‘Like a Prayer’ rose out across the room; the guitars, the choir and Madonna’s soaring vocals…
Mum clasped her hands together.
‘Oh I like this one!’ she cried, getting to her feet as the beat kicked in. Slowly, her hips started to sway and she bounced from foot to foot, transforming almost instantly from a frail woman to my young, fun-loving mum. The change in her face always hit me, as though the years had dropped from her and she was twenty again, dancing at her local disco, attracting the eyes of all the boys, not a care in the world. These moments, when her dementia mask slipped, made all the other difficult times worthwhile. God how I adored her.
I watched her for a moment more, then she beckoned for me to join her, so I did. And for a couple of minutes, while the song played, we danced round her small patch of carpet, arms in the air, singing along. Mum was never quite sure of the words but she sang at the top of her voice anyway. I wondered what her neighbours must think, if they even noticed. People were sometimes surprised by the songs I played to Mum when I explained to them what I did: her favourite pop songs from when she was younger; some of my father’s favourites, older songs from the sixties and seventies; and sometimes more basic tunes, simple harmonies and notes plucked out from violin strings. It was the same with all my patients. People expected the therapy to rely on classical music, and sometimes it did. But actually, classical music could often be too involved, have too many layers of tones and rhythms. Some music therapists played simple sounds, particularly to new-born babies in ICUs, and rhythms that mimicked the heartbeat. For dementia patients, we were often guided by the individual’s personal choice, and that was definitely the case for Mum.
The song came to an end, and before the next one could start, I pressed stop. I’d learned from experience that if I tried too much all at once it left Mum feeling exhausted and more confused than ever. One song at a time was the best way.
Mum was still standing in the middle of the room, adrift. She seemed bewildered, but a wisp of a smile remained on her face, and I longed to take a photo of her, to capture this rare moment when she looked truly happy again. Instead, I took her hands and guided her back to her armchair, helping her settle before sitting back down myself.
‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’ I said, trying to regain Mum’s attention. When it became clear she was still elsewhere, I fiddled with my phone again and found a different song. This time I turned the volume down low and let the song play softly in the background, a suggestion, in the hope it would filter through to her mind.
