blinding and unnerving. The hospital smells are making me claustrophobic and uncomfortable. The seat is hard and my back aches against the cheap plastic, but I wouldn’t be able to relax anyway, not when Mum is lying wan and thin in the bed beside me. There’s a tube coming from her arm, to “hydrate her”, the doctors say. One of them approaches me now, holding a file and not smiling. I stand to greet her, shake her warm hand, and then step back to wrap my arms around my unsupported chest.
“Ms. Howland?” she says, emphasising the “Ms”. She seems like the kind of woman who has everything together. She’s probably five or six years older than I am—judging by the grey in her dark hair and the wrinkles around her eyes—but it feels like a generation. She holds herself with confidence. I imagine that she’s the mother of brilliant teenagers who will ace their GCSEs in a year or two. She’s the kind of woman I always assumed I’d grow up to be. Someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed by bills and dating profiles. “I’m Dr. Masood. I’ve been taking care of your mother this morning.” She glances at my pyjamas with a frown.
“My mother’s carer is bringing me clothes,” I explain. “It was all a blur when the ambulance came this morning.”
“Quite,” she says. “Well, that’s good that you have help. You mother is suffering with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, is that right?”
“Yes,” I say. “Diagnosed a little over a year ago. She’s progressing very fast. She’s been quite confused lately. She has better days, though.”
“I’m sorry to hear that she’s progressing through the disease at such a fast pace. Unfortunately, it’s not an uncommon occurrence for patients with early Alzheimer’s.” She pauses. “Has your mother hurt herself in any way? Or shown a desire to hurt herself?”
“No,” I say. “Although I did find some bruising on her arms. She said she didn’t remember how it happened. Well, that’s not strictly true. She said it was a shadow. She’s been mentioning it a lot, this shadow. She says it hides in her room.” I try to let out a small laugh to lighten the mood, but it comes out callous.
“Right,” the doctor says. She glances down at her file and then back at me. “It appears that your mother drank some bleach. It wasn’t a lot of bleach, but enough to make her sick.”
“She… what?”
“Sadly, patients with dementia as severe as your mother’s do display strange or odd behaviour. It might not mean that she intended to hurt herself, but it could be cause for concern if anything like this happens again. You did the right thing. You acted with a cool head and saved her life. We managed to get to her before there was any permanent damage done from the bleach or from the lack of oxygen. Well done. You should be proud of yourself.”
I think of that terrifying moment when I stood there and watched my mother struggle to breathe. I don’t think I deserve any sort of praise. I should not feel proud. In fact, I want to throw up. I want out of this stuffy room with the flickering strip light and IV drip.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Masood asks. “You’re a little pale.”
“It’s been quite a morning,” I admit. I try to swallow, but my mouth and tongue are arid.
“Are you coping well? I know how hard it is to care for a patient with this disease.” She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s a small “there, there” gesture from a no-nonsense woman. “I’ll bring you some literature just in case. There are charities that can help.”
I accept her help with thanks, but I can’t imagine that she’ll bring me anything I haven’t read already.
As she leaves, she turns around and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll be discharging her as soon as her vitals are back up and she’s rehydrated. Your mum will be home with you soon.” She flashes me what I believe to be a rare smile and disappears into the long stretch of hospital
“Ms. Howland?” she says, emphasising the “Ms”. She seems like the kind of woman who has everything together. She’s probably five or six years older than I am—judging by the grey in her dark hair and the wrinkles around her eyes—but it feels like a generation. She holds herself with confidence. I imagine that she’s the mother of brilliant teenagers who will ace their GCSEs in a year or two. She’s the kind of woman I always assumed I’d grow up to be. Someone who doesn’t get overwhelmed by bills and dating profiles. “I’m Dr. Masood. I’ve been taking care of your mother this morning.” She glances at my pyjamas with a frown.
“My mother’s carer is bringing me clothes,” I explain. “It was all a blur when the ambulance came this morning.”
“Quite,” she says. “Well, that’s good that you have help. You mother is suffering with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, is that right?”
“Yes,” I say. “Diagnosed a little over a year ago. She’s progressing very fast. She’s been quite confused lately. She has better days, though.”
“I’m sorry to hear that she’s progressing through the disease at such a fast pace. Unfortunately, it’s not an uncommon occurrence for patients with early Alzheimer’s.” She pauses. “Has your mother hurt herself in any way? Or shown a desire to hurt herself?”
“No,” I say. “Although I did find some bruising on her arms. She said she didn’t remember how it happened. Well, that’s not strictly true. She said it was a shadow. She’s been mentioning it a lot, this shadow. She says it hides in her room.” I try to let out a small laugh to lighten the mood, but it comes out callous.
“Right,” the doctor says. She glances down at her file and then back at me. “It appears that your mother drank some bleach. It wasn’t a lot of bleach, but enough to make her sick.”
“She… what?”
“Sadly, patients with dementia as severe as your mother’s do display strange or odd behaviour. It might not mean that she intended to hurt herself, but it could be cause for concern if anything like this happens again. You did the right thing. You acted with a cool head and saved her life. We managed to get to her before there was any permanent damage done from the bleach or from the lack of oxygen. Well done. You should be proud of yourself.”
I think of that terrifying moment when I stood there and watched my mother struggle to breathe. I don’t think I deserve any sort of praise. I should not feel proud. In fact, I want to throw up. I want out of this stuffy room with the flickering strip light and IV drip.
“Are you all right?” Dr. Masood asks. “You’re a little pale.”
“It’s been quite a morning,” I admit. I try to swallow, but my mouth and tongue are arid.
“Are you coping well? I know how hard it is to care for a patient with this disease.” She places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s a small “there, there” gesture from a no-nonsense woman. “I’ll bring you some literature just in case. There are charities that can help.”
I accept her help with thanks, but I can’t imagine that she’ll bring me anything I haven’t read already.
As she leaves, she turns around and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll be discharging her as soon as her vitals are back up and she’s rehydrated. Your mum will be home with you soon.” She flashes me what I believe to be a rare smile and disappears into the long stretch of hospital
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