A brutal illness

I’m sitting in The Art of Tea, my usual haunt for midweek meandering. Several of the people around me are engrossed in a book or their phone or a laptop; others are talking quietly. Then there’s - two women - an elderly mother with her daughter talking rather heatedly. Unfortunately, the older lady appears to be suffering from some form of dementia. The younger woman is continually trying to assure her mother regarding certain facts - basic facts like her surname and how many children she has borne. It’s a desperate scenario – the mother’s confusion and the daughter’s desperation as she attempts to help her mother. It’s a situation which is harming both parties – the mother sitting with her head bowed in confusion and the daughter totally unsure us to how to progress.

They seem to reach an agreement that they will talk to another member of the family who can confirm how many children she gave birth to. Having reached a point of agreement, the daughter attempts to bring the conversation around to more mundane topics, smiling at her confused mother. They get ready to leave, the mother standing a little unsteadily. As a final gesture she picks up the glass of red wine from the table and drinks half of it before passing the glass to her daughter to finish. They leave arm in arm, I suspect both enjoying a short respite from the confusion. It is a brutal illness.

Postscript I was unsure as to whether I should write this, or even been aware of the situation. It was difficult to avoid and the stress was palpable - both parties frustrated. It was the closest I’ve ever been to dementia. It was frightening.