Small feet, processed food, VIPs and bras

 

Mum always had a sense of humour . A stock phrase of my mum’s when I was growing up was, “Oh you’re very funny!” said in a very sarcastic tone of voice.  This was her response to numerous incidents in my childhood.  I  often wondered about her interpretation of reality even before the onslaught of Alzheimer’s. One of my earliest memories of her is her explanation of the ancient Chinese habit of foot binding.  The Chinese (and apologies in advance to the Chinese for her rather politically incorrect statement), according to her,  had to have small feet so that you could fit so many of them into the country.  I still don’t know if she was serious. It was said with such a straight face.

The fact that she was a primary teacher for years is a bit worrying. Goodness knows what she was teaching. I grew up surrounded by bits of projects that she happened to be doing at school. That year must have had something to do with China. One year it was the Mexican Olympics therefore me and the boys had to learn all about Mexico.  Another year it was the Kon-tiki expedition  therefore we had various raft building attempts scattered round the house.

 Alzheimers doesn’t tend to be the funniest of things. But occasionally her sense of humour still surfaces. “Well that’s one problem I’ll never have,” she declares sitting next to me on the sofa. I’ve been engrossed in some mundane office work on the laptop so am completely oblivious to what she could possibly be referring to. "What?" I ask.  “That,” she responds, pointing to the TV. “That” turns out to be the BBC news which is doing a piece on processed food making people die young.  “I’ll never die young!” she says.  “Neither will I!” I respond and for some reason we both found this hysterically funny.  

Another giggle resulted from my unusual dress one morning.  I was en route to the president’s having been invited to the launch of a new educational product of the Presidential Office.  Not a very formal person, a jacket is not usually part of my work clothes.  When I donned one on my out to work that morning, she asked why. I responded, ”Got to go to the President’s house this morning, mum.” To which she replied, “Why? What have you done?”

Last weekend we were driving along the highway in broad daylight when coming in the other direction was a procession of military vehicles guarding some fancy black cars with some no doubt equally fancy VIPs ensconced inside definitely not respecting the speed limit.  All of them were sporting headlights -  beams full on. “Look at that”, says she, ”Can’t they see where they are going ? Oh maybe they have all been drinking!”

The most recent giggle revolves round bras.  Bras have been an issue for a while now.  It  started when she broke her shoulder shortly after I broke my leg and ankle whilst in the UK a couple of years ago.  We were a fine pair. In the kitchen she could reach cupboards with one arm and I could just cook while balancing on crutches – transporting meals or cups from A to B was an issue – she could do it with one hand; I could do it with neither.  Bras were another issue. With her broken shoulder she just could not put on a bra. The problem was solved temporarily by buying her front fastening bras. 

When she came to stay it became my problem again. It’s not very easy to put a front fastening bra on someone else. It’s a bit of stretch in more ways than one. She does not like taking off her bra at night and there’s no point arguing.  (Anyway she’s in good company;  Marilyn Monroe also slept in her bra.)  I usually give her a cup of tea while I have my shower in the morning. By the time I get back to her she has magically managed to remove the bra without removing her nightie and it lies folded beautifully on her bedside table. 

I decided to ease the bra situation by buying some regular back fastening ones. I reasoned that although she would not be able to fasten them,  it would make my life easier.   So I took advantage of a friend going to the UK to order some new bras from Marks and Spencers  (M and S don’t deliver to Sri Lanka) and got her some back fastening bras. They arrived and are a dream to put on. What I hadn’t anticipated was getting them off.  The first morning she had one on I went in to give her a cup of tea.  She was looking incredibly worried and I wondered what was wrong. “I can’t get it off!” she said in a completely perplexed tone.   It took me a minute (it was first thing in the morning) but the penny dropped and I realized what she was taking about.  She couldn’t remove the bra.  I had to laugh and soon so was she. I had to remind her about the new bra and that it was back fastening.  

Unfortunately Alzheimer’s being Alzheimer’s she often fails to remember this.

This little piggy went to market

 

One of my early memories is me and the boys climbing onto my mum’s bed before she got up and coaxing her to endlessly dramatise  the classic nursery rhyme  “This little piggy went to market” accompanied by the obligatory tweaking of the toes. This resulted in hysterics all round after the classic line “and this little piggy went wee wee wee wee all the way home,” which prompted her to abandon the toes and tickle us all over.  I had to ‘Google’ the rhyme. It turns out it was first heard in 1728 but not published till 1760. I always thought she had made it up.

Apart from that early memory I have never really given toes a lot of thought. In fact, can’t say I’ve ever seriously considered them.   I can see why fingers and fingernails are necessary but toes and toenails – that’s  a bit of a mystery. In the last 6 months though toes have been on my mind a lot. My mum has two rather problematic big toe nails. They have completely different issues. Both of which probably stem from her previous long term and long distance walking habit. She used to go walking round the village, walking to Tesco and back (quite a walk), walking round Strathclyde Park (I could barely keep up), walking into the next town and back, walking anywhere and everywhere.  She couldn’t stop either – she has a condition where if she stands still she wobbles and falls over so it you met her while walking you had to walk with her if you wanted a chat. She had a thing about walking and I seem to remember her going to a chiropodist on a regular basis. Now that may have been for her strange toe nails. I have no clue and she can’t remember.

Both toe nails were a bit dicey when she arrived over a year ago.  Both very much thicker in places than they should have been. One was growing at a slant and looked completely askew. The other was prone to infections and was beginning to curl inwards.  After looking for a chiropodist and being told that they didn’t exist in Sri Lanka by my local hospital, I reluctantly succumbed to cutting her toe nails fairly often in order to combat the peculiarities that were the 2 big toenails. Despite my attempts the big toe nail became ingrown and infected  which was very painful and therefore had to be faced up to and acted on.

I dreaded the whole doctor thing. I reckoned the nail would have to be removed.  Visions of torture scenes in the movies loomed large in my brain. I typically imagine the worst possible scenarios. (I’m very good at risk assessment).  I imagined my mum screaming  while the doctor struggled to pull her nail out  while she was held down by numerous nurses;  this was followed by a heart attack because it was all too much for someone her age. If I could get beyond the actual pulling out of the nail, then I had the resultant wound being infected, going all horrible, then getting gangrenous and the whole foot having to be removed. Like I say, I seem to be a pessimist.  I think I ended up being closer to a heart attack than she did. And this was even before it was confirmed that it had to be removed.

The pain continued and we did end up at the hospital. Strangely enough we ended up at the same doctor who supervised the healing of my ankle and leg after my op in Scotland. This was good as he had proved sound on my healing so I reckoned he could probably deal with a toenail.  Just as I had imagined it, he confirmed that the toenail would have to be removed;  but he said that he might be able to just cut the sides of it and not have to take the whole thing out. And this could be done under a local anaesthetic. This hadn’t been part of my horror scenario – either the part removal or the anaesthetic!   Mum was put on two very large tablets which became known as the toe tablets  the week before the op. 

I worried about it all week. Mum forgot about it completely. She was only reminded about her toe when she accidentally touched it with something and it was sore.  I wasn’t sure how much she was understanding exactly what was going to happen but we had had a rather coherent conversation at the beginning of all this because of the pain. We turned up and she had to get a test to make sure she wouldn’t react to the anaesthetic. This involved the nurse taking some blood and then writing on her arm round the needle site. This intrigued mum and we spent a good while trying to figure out what it said. Her writing wasn’t very clear.  Then she was taken away into an inner room.  All I could hear was laughter which turned out to be at her attempt at climbing onto the rather high bed. She couldn’t do it so she came back out to where I was and I was kicked out of that place.  I tried to focus on Facebook on my iphone while waiting for the screaming. There was none. The doctor came out and said ‘come and see’.  My immediate reaction was that I really didn’t want to see a bloody toe and could happily live without that particular experience.  Of course you can’t really say that to a doctor so I followed him and looked. No blood – there must have been some earlier but not when I looked.  He’d managed to just cut the edges down the sides off. It actually looked like a normal nail for the first time in over a year.

She got a huge bandage on her toe which continually surprised her whenever she noticed it. She didn’t remember the small op or the whole hospital experience. Sometimes Alzheimers comes in handy.  The toe nail has now healed beautifully.  We visited a beauty salon today for her to have a pedicure. She loved it.  Hopefully regular pedicures will keep the other big toe nail under control and we won’t have to go back to the hospital.  I doubt though that I will be tweaking her toes anytime soon to the accompaniment of “This little piggy went to market.”