When I hear myself utter the phrase: “You know, my wee granny with Alzheimer’s?”, I cringe. I wonder when, over the course of the years, this wonderful woman who was such a big part of my life growing up became, in so many ways, reduced to “my granny who has Alzheimer’s”.
When did she stop just being “my daddy’s mum” or “my granny Davidson” – when did she become someone primarily identified by the illness which has consumed her over the past decade rather than as the woman she was before?
And she was a force to be reckoned with. She fitted the mould for the perfect Irish granny with aplomb. On a visit to her house she would often be found hunched over her prayer books in quiet contemplation. She could wither even the fiercest of childhood defiance with one look.
But she was the keeper of the biscuit cupboard, and grandchildren were granted access with the manner and style of Mrs Doyle. You simply did not refuse a biscuit from granny.
She was the lady who would slip 10p into our hands, with a whisper and a conspiratorial wink that we were not to tell anyone she had sneaked us money for a bag of sweets on the way home.
She was the keeper of a garden so lush with flowers, I considered it one of the most beautiful places on earth – and in the summer we would leave the house with enough cut stems to ensure every empty milk bottle at home was made use of as a temporary vase.
When we got sunburned – as children of the 1980s often did – my granny would arrive with an ornate glass bottle of calamine lotion and soothe the sting out of our bright red skin.
And in the winter, when we visited on Sundays, she would serve us the hottest cup of tea known to mankind and I remember often grimacing at how hot and strong it was – without ever thinking to ask for more milk. But with the tea there was sandwiches. Corned beef and tomato; ham; lemon curd – delicious slices of thick, plain bread buttered to within an inch of their lives.
When my grandfather died, 22 years ago, my granny was still a relatively young woman – just hitting her 60s. I remember the look of loss on her face and I remembered the stories I had been told about how madly in love they were.
I recalled how I heard that my grandfather had given up well-paid work, which required him to work away from home for a week at a time, because he had learned my granny had cried every Sunday night when he left. He found work at home, less well-paid, of course, but he told her they would manage. Some things, he said, were more important than money.
I remembered being told how, when they weren’t long married, my grandfather fell from a ladder and suffered a head injury. He was unconscious and perilously ill. My grandmother sat by his bedside and begged him to come back to her – telling him that she was expecting their first child.
Of course, he did come back to her and they had almost 40 happy years together.
When my granddad died, I spent more time with my granny than ever before. We became close and I will cherish the chats we had on a Saturday night while I helped her babysit my young cousins to allow my aunt and uncle out to Mass.
I didn’t realise she would slip away so soon.
The first stages of the illness were sneaky. She was “just forgetful”. Then she was confused. But at other times, she was there as she always had been. I remember as I waited for labour to start with my first child she handed me a prayer card to read. I took it into the labour ward with me, and while I don’t consider myself religious, I prayed over that card many times during the 26 hours that followed.
When she met my son, I had my first horrible taste of this illness. She greeted him, held him and loved him. Then a few minutes later, told me what a “lovely little girl” I had. Memories were quickly becoming jumbled.
From then, it feels like we have had a series of horrible first times. The first time she didn’t recognise me. The first time she was hospitalised. The first time we thought she was going to die.
She’s still here – my granny. Her body is, anyway. More than a decade on from her diagnosis, she is physically present in our lives. But the person she was is gone. It’s incredibly painful.
I have to remind myself she will always be the person I have described above. That she is more than what the last 10 years have made of her. So when I wrote Still You, I wanted to write a story which showed that a person with such an illness is still a person. Their life story is still their life story.
It was a massively personal book for me to write – even though it is not my grandmother’s story. But it challenged my own attitude to the disease. It made me think of how I identify with my granny. I hope the telling of my main character Aine’s descent into dementia does the topic justice – as does the telling of the story of the life she lived.
I’m going to make an extra effort now - an effort not to refer to my granny – Anna Davidson – as “my wee granny with Alzheimer’s”. Instead, I’ll try and always remember the hot tea, the calamine lotion, the sneaky 10ps and our cherished chats.
