Some days I don’t know who I am.
But today I am your sister.
I’ve come to give you a lift to the centre. Your eyes are bright and you welcome me with open arms and a little more excitement than usual.
The prospect of good company and a cup of tea always makes Tuesdays something you look forward to.
I know that today I am your sister, because, as the lights turned green and we drive past the Chinese restaurant, you tell me excitedly that your daughter has found some old photos of our aunts.
They are old pictures of Blanche and the others in their Edwardian dresses. You are unsure how she came across them, but it is an amazing find. And all their names are written under the photos so you can be sure which aunt is which.
The story is plausible, as you were born ten years short of a century ago, and whilst my aunts might put on Edwardian clothes to dress up, for yours it was the fashion of the day.
I ponder quietly whether to correct you, but it would just be another reminder that our realities are different.
And, without the trappings of logic, your joy feels limitless. Such moments are less and less frequent, more and more precious.
‘I don’t know how she found the photos, but she did. Of course she didn’t recognise all of our aunts, but I could’.
Tears drop onto my lap as I negotiate a large lorry turning right ahead of us in the lane to our left. I listen, and when I can, I add words of appreciation.
The small upside to your near blindness is that you can have this moment without seeing my reaction. You finish the story as we turn into the car park, all your happiness intact.
As I drive home, I try to understand why I was so upset. The diagnosis of dementia is over a year old and it isn’t distressing to be mistaken for your dear sister, who died more than a decade ago.
Perhaps it was hearing you praise me in my supposéd absence; as some of the tears had been happy tears, I can’t say it was all sad.
You are my mother, I am your daughter.
