Page 32 - She's One Crazy Lady!

Not long after“
before he died in 2007 having had to go into care.
Two days before he died Mum, Jimmy and I went to see him in his care home in Stanwick, where he really was well-looked after and loved by the nurses, who called him ‘Georgy-Porgy’, and still remember him today. For a few years, Dad was unable to communicate with us and never talked as such but would make sounds to show he was pleased – or not. He was always happy when we took in picnics of his favourite treats – a ripe banana, a chocolate milkshake, prawns and a bar of chocolate or chocolate buttons. On this particular day, Dad was, surprisingly, waiting for us, when normally the carers would have to bring him to us. Sitting next to Mum he started to stroke her hair, then her wedding ring, showing warm affection. Suddenly, he said, quite coherently, “You won’t leave me, will you?” Oh, my goodness, where had this come from? We were stunned. It was very emotional. He then started laughing, pointing at Jimmy, and laughing loudly at the clothes she was wearing. In her teens Jimmy always wore bright-coloured, trendy clothes and on this occasion, she was wearing a bright orange jumper; we were all laughing. His mind was transported back to her youth. If only he could have told us what he was thinking or remembering. He then started to get a little agitated, so I suggested we had a dance. Dad loved ballroom dancing and used to be good, as was Mum; a passion they both shared. After a while he tired so I caringly told him we needed to sit down. No, he was having none of that! He looked me straight in the face. “No, you sit down!” The strict Dad of old! I froze! He turned me round, put his hands on my shoulders and directed me to his chair and gently pushed me down. As I sat, he leaned over and laid his arms across my chest and, with his head resting on my head he said how lovely I was. It was a surreal and
he retired, came his clinical diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. We called it the ‘long goodbye’ – we’d lost the Dad we knew and loved many years
befo”
re.
unforgettable, treasured moment.
On the day when I told Mum and Dad I had breast cancer, Dad didn’t
really understand and just kept saying: “No-one tells me anything.” To this day I like to think that last embrace from Dad was him telling me he did understand, he did know, and that all would be well. Had Dad really understood at the time I’m certain my pathway through treatment and beyond could have been very different. Oh, there were so many times that I wanted to talk to him; to hear him telling me (“Chick-chick” – his pet name for
me) everything would be OK.
But what a wonderful, memorable
goodbye!
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