The Irony of Day and Night
By J C Pereira
Life presents us with a mixture of challenges but also with equal measure, joy. As we watch our children grow and learn, discovering new things with each step, we grow with them uncovering things about ourselves in turn that we never knew existed. We look ahead more and more trying to anticipate and create a better world for our offspring, a far better one than we experienced. In truth in more ways than one, we unconsciously impose our own fears onto them, but this is but one of the consequences of parental love and concern. Still, the short time we have with our beloved darlings before they outgrow us is one of the greatest gifts of life. Irreplaceable.
Sadly, it is during this bright phase of life’s joy and forward planning that many of us encounter the fearful harbinger of what might happen to us. The clear sign of the cruelty of time and the preciousness of life. As we are engrossed in the care of our young, we begin to witness the fragility of our old. Those who were once the bastions of strength and unchanging immortality suddenly start to transform in front of our eyes. Unnoticed at first like a sneak thief, the vulnerabilities of our existence are manifested starkly in the deterioration of parents, either one or the other, both if we are very unlucky. At first, the signs are slight, and we dismiss them with humour, chuckling a bit nervously when Dad or Mum begins to hide things in their pockets or forgets where they are when driving in age long familiar places. We suspect what might be coming but place our hopes in denial. The flood refuses to stay behind the wall. Before we are ready we are caught in the current, sometimes drowning. Dad shuffles where he used to walk. He speaks to you in the same way he once did, but now you cannot understand a word he is saying or rather the words are clear, but the context is bewildering. You encourage him to do this and to do that, but the leakage continues unabated.
Someone once said to me that Alzheimer’s strips away the person you knew and leaves behind all the base selfishness and primitive aspects that were once controlled and minimised by a fully functioning and guardian cognitive forebrain. Whether this is scientifically true or not I have no idea. My eyes alone tell me what I see, and I am fearful. At New Year Dad conducts the fireworks to music that only he can hear, expressing the raw joy of a ten-year-old. He tries to tell you of his elation but gives up at the confusion in your gaze. By March he can no longer find his way home, but he tries to slip out anyway. Thank God for neighbours! He starts exhibiting obsessive behaviour, hiding keys and money around his person and under his pillow. I suspect it is some attempt to hold on to what is fading away. An awareness of the inevitable. Once a dominant personality in his household he finds a different way to dominate his wife, becoming at the same time dependent and demanding. There is an impish and childish manner in his behaviour where every second is pounced on to cause mischief. In a child this can be endearing, in an adult it is exasperating. The Dr, a journeyman in this tragic play, dispenses medication that he knows will not work, but in the end, it is not really meant for Dad. As August approaches, you are no longer sure if he knows who you are. ‘It’s your daughter, dear.’ He clings to Mum like a creeping vine, and at dinner, he eats and eats as if the stop switch has been broken. Is this the primitive behaviour that allowed us to survive on the hostile savannahs through time? Eat while there is plenty for there might be none tomorrow. He tries to drink from bottles. He blatantly steals food from Mum’s plate and would eat both his and hers if given a chance. All done with an expressionless face and a belligerent manner. When all food is taken away, he attempts to munch his way through napkins or even metal glass holders. After lunch Mum becomes ‘Mama’ and is followed from room to room closer than a shadow. Is this still a primitive, subconscious form of control? You do not know the answer but hope for the best.
Despite your best, however, you begin to fear for Mum. Laden with guilt your worst thoughts seep to the surface like oil. In his selfishness will he push my mother into the grave ahead of him? My Dad is gone. I want to preserve my Mum. She deserves a life free from servitude. You start to resent the remnants of what once was. Tragedy rides on the back of joy but should tragedy be allowed to kill joy?
Now the winter months are coming again and you know the certain outcome yet you are afraid of all things peripheral. How will his unavoidable passing affect the living?
