My Writing

Here's a little sad story I wrote a several years ago:

WITHERING

I jiggle the key in the lock and open the door with a sigh. Every day the same. But today will be different. Today, Gran goes to Willow Tree.

‘Cathy?’ Gran calls in a thin, wafery voice.

‘Yes Gran,’ I call back. But, of course, I’m fibbing. I’m Donna. Cathy is my mum, but Gran gets so confused nowadays, stuck somewhere in the past, so I just let it be.

I pop my head around the bedroom door and see her, a withered sapling flailing amid the ancient clutter and the faded ‘70s sunflower wallpaper. She’s trying to get dressed. I wince - she’s pulled her blue Sunday frock over her pink-fleeced nightie, which hangs three inches below the hem, and she’s struggling with her bra, trying to put it on over the top of this lot.

‘Here Gran, let me help you.’

‘I’m all in a muddle.’ Her voice quivers and I can see in her eyes a heartbreaking mixture of confusion, embarrassment and fear.

‘Not to worry, we’ll sort it out.’

I undress her. Suddenly, I whiff the familiar sting of ammonia and recoil: she hasn’t changed her incontinence pants either.

I’ve already changed one smelly nappy this morning and here I am again. I’m so angry with her. It’s not yet ten o’clock and I’ve already been through the mill: dressing and readying three squabbling kids; trundling them off to school; dragging a screaming baby, Ben, to the sitter; returning to school with Jim’s forgotten kit; then battling through the morning traffic to get here.

I smother my frustration; it’ll only upset her and it’s not her fault. God, I want to scream. I hate this disease. Alzheimer’s – it rolls off the tongue so easily, it sounds so benign, but it’s horrible, hateful and miserable.

In the avocado bathroom I clean her up, top-and-tail her, powder her – the usual ritual. Ben, Gran – what’s the difference? Except with Gran it feels kind of awkward - invasive.

‘OK, let’s get you dressed, shall we?’ I say as jolly as I can. She nods and I catch a tear welling in her eye. Suddenly I feel so guilty. How can I do this? Bundle her off - to a Care Home! What’s wrong with me?

I simply can’t cope any more. It’s all just a bit too much. You see, as well as the terrible trio and Gran, I also have an absent-without-leave hubby and work part-time for a local vet. Then there’s Mum. She can’t help me because I have to help her too. She had a stroke last year and struggles with housework and shopping. Sometimes, I feel there isn’t enough of me to go around. Gran drew the short straw. The saint they call me. Huh!

Back in the bedroom I try to fasten her bra but I can’t seem to get the hooks properly lined up; the bra’s too small. I yank it together and she makes a tiny squealing sound. My hands are shaking. I want to lash out at her, at something, but find myself crumpling to the floor and weeping.

Gran leans over me, half-naked, like wrinkly paper, and I spot the problem: one of her boobs is squished under the elastic, flollopping out like a week-old balloon. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry – but cry anyway.

Gran smiles and strokes my hair. I remember her doing this when I was a child and I am comforted. I hug her. She wraps her skinny arms around me and holds my head to her breast. I listen to her heartbeat and it soothes me, as it always did. Oh, how I wish I was a child again and my Gran was that strong, proud, stout woman I remember, back when these tired sunflowers were bold.

‘There, there!’ she whispers.

‘I’m sorry, Gran,’ I say through snotty sobs.

‘It’s all right Cathy, Mummy knows.’ And I realise it’s not a lucid moment as I’d hoped. I wipe my tears and look up at her. She looks so frail.

‘Come on,’ I say, grabbing the blue dress. ‘We’ve got to get ready now.’

‘What for?’

‘We’re going to Willow Tree, remember?’

She looks at me, head cocked to one side like a puppy and I know she doesn’t. My heart feels so full and so empty at the same time. How will I feel when I leave her there, with suitcase, and walk away? Will I be able to? I’m not sure I will.  

©JD Worner, 2009