Like an organised criminal, my mother no longer communicates by phone. Visiting her can be convoluted, but it beats the days when I thought I might never get away. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Her, I tell very little, until I arrive. Plans and possibilities weigh heavily on Mum’s mind, raising questions whose answers she cannot remember, stranding her in her own inquiries. Now I plot my appearances carefully with her live-in care worker so that everything deliberate can seem like a nice surprise.
When my father died in 2021 I thought my mother might thrive on her own. Instead, it was as though her concern for – and consternation with – him were the last thing on her mind’s to-do list before it tendered its own resignation. With a mild but manifest case of vascular dementia, Mum will hopefully turn 96 this year, though she now merits round-the-clock surveillance. A team of care workers ensure she is safe at home, an arrangement that releases me, my sister and brother into the ambivalent privilege of not being around.
