Over Streams and Squirrel Woods…

Yesterday Cerys and I picked up Mum and came to our tiny flat in Tenby for a weeks holiday. We unpacked, had supper, watched our ancient TV for a while and then went to bed, Mum in the bedroom, Cerys in the tiny bunkroom and me on the bed settee in the lounge/kitchen. Mum seemed to be having trouble getting to sleep, and I felt too buzzy after driving all day, but eventually I dropped off, and dreamed of the sun and sea. At 4.50 as the first grey strands of light peeped around our curtains, a terrible wailing, then deep guttural aggressive shouting, followed by screaming, woke us and presumably everyone in the block. I jumped out of bed, flicked on the corridor light and rushed to her, throwing on my dressing gown as I went into the room. As I moved towards her she bellowed out, “I’ll call for help if you come any nearer, don’t touch me. Help, Help, Get OFF me!” I talked gently, soothingly and tried to put my arms around her to calm her, but she thrashed around violently, hitting me hard, and then dug her nails into my arms, gripping like a limpet. “Mum, Mum, you’re hurting me, let go; it’s me, Alys.” I begged, struggling to prise her fingers off my arm. But she was supernaturally strong and had a glinting malice in her eyes. “Help, leave me alone! You frighten me,” she sobbed. “I’m your daughter, I love you,” I kept repeating. “No, no, you’re not, you’re trying to hurt me.” Her sobs grew louder as she pushed me away, her sour breath and clammy skin repulsing me as much as her physical violence. Unable to communicate with her or calm her in any way, I called for Cerys, who appeared at the door, a strained, frightened face peering out from a tightly wrapped duvet. “Who are you?” Mum demanded. “Nana, Nana, I’m Cerys, your grand-daughter, you know me. Stop hurting Mummy, what’s wrong with you?” “Why are you dressed like that?” But her aggression seemed to be subsiding. I helped her out of bed, as she wanted to go to the toilet. By the time she returned I had made her a cup of tea. She looked at it suspiciously. “Why are you trying to confuse me? You’re plotting against me!” Her face was twisted, eyes slit-like, skin flaccid and grey. I explained over and over, why she is experiencing nightmares, that I was trying to help her, that she should not take the extra night-time Sinemet she had been prescribed. It seemed to have made her hallucinations worse, but she need do nothing against her will. It was after six and other people’s days were just beginning. There were the sounds of lift doors banging above us and of engines, as the traffic started its usual assault on the road outside. The bedroom was flooding with morning light, but she still did not accept that I am her daughter. “Why is Cerys hiding there?” she demanded, pointing to a corner. “She’s in bed, Mum.” I called to Cerys in the other room, who confirmed where she was in reassuring tones. “Are you going to go back to bed now?” “I want to get in with you,” she said petulantly, starting to get up. “The couch bed is tiny. You get into your bed, Mum.” “You come in with me then,” she insisted, a ‘cross child’ expression on her sagging face. I got in, reluctantly, by now, exhausted and drained, some lines from an Emily Dickinson poem going around in my head: ‘One need not be a chamber to be haunted One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing..’ We lay down. To my shame, I turned my back. I just could not put out my arms to comfort her. A cold, clammy claw with its bird-wing tremble gripped my arm tightly. Neither of us slept.