Grandad's Great Escape

My mum as a child with my grandparents

Imagine all your memories, amassed over a lifetime, handwritten in tiny lettering on a deck of cards, neatly stacked in chronological order. Then imagine someone deftly shuffling this deck: fancy fingerwork as they expertly weave and riffle the cards until there is no order whatsoever. They replace the shuffled cards carefully on the table in front of you and look you directly in the eye, stony-faced. You're confused: why would they do that?

A sudden gust of wind from an open window blows the cards into the air, sending them in all directions. You scrabble to catch them, to gather your precious memories up and re-stack them as they were in the original pile, but it's no use: some have disappeared out of the window; one has gone, unnoticed, down the back of the sofa. A few have slipped under the television unit. The ones you have left are jumbled and, try as you might, you just can't seem to sort them into any logical order. Distressed and frustrated, you scatter them over the table, rest your head on your folded arms, and begin to cry....

My maternal grandfather has dementia.

As I contemplate the way the illness has robbed him of his memories, that's the image that I conjure up in my mind's eye: of an elderly man, sitting alone at the table in the modest council house he shared with my nan for most of their lives (before she passed away some years ago), desperately trying to remember things.

He is surrounded by nick-nacks and keepsakes and fading pictures in frames; stacks of old black and white films on VHS that he used to watch continuously but whose storylines he now struggles to follow. The decor is old-fashioned, the swirly carpet a nod to the Seventies, yet the house is neat and carefully maintained. Murphy, his faithful Irish setter, sits at his feet, his head resting on Grandad's knee.

For several years we would visit him; the trips to the house in South East London taking me back to my childhood, when Nan would serve up beans and sausages from her 1950s stove for my sister and I; my grandad smoking a pipe and twisting his pipe-cleaners into stickmen for us. In the summer my nan would show us how the snapdragons growing in their little back yard looked like bunny rabbits, whilst grandad tinkered away fixing things in his shed. When my mum came to pick us up they'd wave from the gate until our car rounded the bend.

Returning as an adult always felt strange as the house seemed to shrink: I felt like Alice In Wonderland after drinking the potion. Years later I'd visit him occasionally after work; Grandad preparing milky tea and a Fray Bentos pie for me, whilst Murphy the red setter casually released silent stinkbombs under the table.

Gradually it became apparent that Grandad would not be able to live alone for much longer. He started misplacing things; getting increasingly paranoid, confused and upset; calling the police to report perceived thefts of "stolen" belongings; starting his morning routine with a wet shave in the middle of the night.

Eventually he moved into a care home. The thing with dementia is that long periods of total memory loss, whereby the sufferer cannot remember what happened two minutes ago, are interspersed with occasional spells of complete lucidity. It's fair to say that many of the residents of the home have less frequent lucid moments than Grandad, so sometimes he gets bored. Recently, he spoke about "escaping" - breaking out of the secure residential building and making a break for freedom. My mum, who is also his main caregiver outside the home, brushed it off and changed the subject.

A strong-willed old chap, 89-year-old Grandad is in otherwise rude health. Never one to do as he's told (I wondered where I'd inherited that trait from), he hatched a plan - a plan so cunning that the local mischievous fox would've struggled to better it.

Waiting till the dead of night, Grandad got out of bed and dressed silently, putting on an extra layer against the December chill. Tiptoeing along the corridors, he ducked past the carers' office, slipping into the laundry room and out of the unlocked fire escape. Excitement building, he scurried down the path out into the crisp night air, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot in the rural setting of the Kent countryside. Freezing cold, but warmed by the euphoria of victory, he marched on...

Until some time later, when one of the carers noticed the open door and, panicking, alerted the police - who duly located him walking along a deserted street in the early hours of the morning and returned him safely home. It was the first time the home had ever had a resident "on the run." When my mum got the call in the middle of the night, she immediately feared the worst. However, upon arrival at the care home at 5am, she was greeted by the sight of Grandad, ruddy-faced with cold and excitement, sipping a mug of hot tea as he animatedly regaled the police officers with tales of his escapades in Kenya during the war.

When Mum rang to tell me about Grandad's little adventure it was hard not to chuckle, as we admired his sly determination and resourcefulness: "Good old G-Dad!" was my initial reaction (obviously after hearing that he was safe and well). "There's life in the old dog yet!" I joked, marvelling at his "great escape." Mum recounted how he'd told the officers with an eyeball roll that it was "like living in Pentonville."

There was a brief pause, as we both let that comment sink in. The mood turned sombre. In the cold light of day, Grandad had absolutely no recollection of the previous night's shenanigans, asking instead where various relatives were - all of whom have long since passed away.

We both know - we ALL know - the reality: that it's not the care home holding Grandad prisoner.
It's dementia.

My grandad and I

Dementia Facts:- 
- The number of people living with dementia worldwide is currently estimated at 47.5 million and is projected to increase to 75.6 million by 2030. The number of cases of dementia are estimated to more than triple by 2050. 

- Dementia is the biggest killer of women in the UK, and the third biggest killer of men. 

- A new case of dementia is diagnosed every 4 seconds around the world.

- There is currently no cure for dementia and far more research is needed. You can help by signing up to Dementia Research UK to help with studies as a healthy person, as someone with dementia, or on behalf of someone with dementia. 

- For more information go to Alzheimers Research UK, Dementia UK and Dementia Friends.

This article has also appeared here in The Huffington Post UK. 

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com

www.mummymission.blogspot.com

www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76

Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh

Instagram: wanderingblonde76

Old Skool Vibes : Children of the Eighties

My earliest memory of life is being held aloft aged three by my father to peer through a round cabin-hole hospital window at my mewling newborn sister, delicate as a baby starling, freshly laid that morning by my mum.

Having been the sole previous tenant of her womb, I was a tad miffed from the outset that I was about to be gazumped by this scrawny purple-hued imposter for her affections.  Already, my beloved mother was otherwise engaged with this new kid on the block, hence the clashing brown pinafore and pea-green jumper ensemble that my dad had hastily slung on me that morning. It was the Seventies, but still...

  

A year later came my first experience of school. In some cases, ignorance is bliss. This is one of them. Can you imagine the horror if, at the tender age of four, we had any concept of time and were able to grasp the fact that we'd be spending fourteen long years at school, being choked alternately by rules, neckties and the sneering school bully?

At that age when everything is huge and new and terrifying, a day can seem like a lifetime. When a friend's child started school last year, she asked her whether she'd enjoyed her first day. "It was okaaaay," came the uncertain reply, "but I don't think I'll be going back, thanks."

The first stand-out memory of primary school for me came when I was five years old. Another child asked me how many exercise books I had in my bag and as I answered "two" I held up 2 fingers completely innocently, having no idea what the V sign I was inadvertently making meant. That snot-nosed kid began shouting loudly to "Miss" that I was swearing, and before I had a chance to protest my innocence Mrs Coles, the teacher, flew across the classroom, grabbed me off the chair by my wrist and held me up as she used the wooden ruler in her other hand to smack the backs of my skinny bare legs.
I cried hot tears of indignation, exasperated and confused at the injustice of the situation. The punishment was meant to teach me not to swear. Since I hadn't been swearing and didn't even know the meaning of the word, it taught me something else instead: Life isn't fair. Which arguably is a much more important lesson anyway. So thanks Mrs Coles. Thanks a f@cking bunch.

Like most kids, my favourite part of the school day was playtime, when we'd charge out onto the tarmac to let off some steam, tearing about the schoolyard playing games such as runouts or British bulldog. The boys would be panting like overheated pitbulls, tongues lolling, hair plastered to sweaty foreheads, whilst the girls sat sedately on the concrete steps plaiting each other's hair, playing hopscotch or elastic, turning the occasional spontaneous cartwheel or handstand. To the untrained eye, we'd often appear to be engrossed in a serious game of poker, huddling round in tight circles each clutching a spread of cards and studying them closely, eyebrows knotted in concentration...although on closer inspection by the dinner lady we were just exchanging our Garbage Pail Kids collectables.

On the many rainy days, we'd have to stay inside for 'wet play' which sounds sexier than it was: steamed up classroom windows and the aroma of soggy dog, as bemused teachers attempted to keep the hyperactive children under control whilst visibly annoyed that they'd been kept away from chugging black coffee and chain-smoking in the safe haven of the staffroom.

Occasionally a few of us kids would be plucked from class of an afternoon to clean the staffroom, granting us the dubious privilege of seeing this inner sanctum close-up: overflowing ashtrays, lipstick-stained coffee mugs stuck to a stack of magazines, washing-up piled high. At the time we were honoured to be selected; now I realise it was free labour, we were exploited skivvies. Hardly a sweatshop in Bangladesh, but a liberty nonetheless.

When the school bell rang we'd line up and slink reluctantly back to lessons: attempting to solve mind-boggling maths problems copied from the blackboard, reciting our times tables parrot-fashion, reading aloud from English classics, clumsily crafting Viking longboats from balsa wood for our history project. We knew we were in for a treat if the big brown TV on stilts got wheeled out.

I also looked forward to the periodic visits from the nit-lady, finding the experience a pampering moment of relaxation as she raked through my scalp. It really appealed to my inner baboon. It was like a complimentary spa treatment. You pay top dollar these days for a half-decent Indian head massage.

There would be regular classroom disruptions from the rowdy crowd who would be flicking ink from their fountain pens, stabbing each other with compasses or covering their hands in Copydex glue for the simple pleasure  of peeling it off again. They would be sent individually to repent their sins 'under the clock' outside the headmistresses office, or made to stand on their chairs as punishment.

I only remember being sent there once, having done my Oscar-worthy Baron Greenback impression (the toady villian from Dangermouse) a little louder than intended. I never have been able to whisper. I had to write one hundred lines:  "I must be quiet in class." I wrote each line in the voice of Baron Greenback in my head, just to have the last (croaky) word.

At lunchtime we'd flip open Smurf or Transformers lunchboxes and tuck into squishy warm sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil or clingfilm; starchy white bread with a generous stroke of jam or marmite oozing out, hastily slapped together by frantic frazzled mums.

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My favourite was cheese and pickle, a packet of Space Invaders or pickled onion Monster Munch and a Kit Kat or Club biscuit if I was lucky. Occasionally we'd have spam slices with a pig's face on it in varying shades of pink from Safeway, as a treat. It was like 50 shades of pig. The face went all the way through the meat roll, like a stick of rock - presumably there to inform parents which unidentifiable animal this processed rubbish came from.

Fruit was greeted with disdain and tossed in the bin without a second thought, despite endless lessons about the pitiful plight of starving children in Africa. These moral issues were wasted on us; at our age we had no concept of another county, let alone continent.

Come hometime, we'd rush out of the schoolgates, eager to get home for kids' TV: Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds, Grange Hill, Thundercats,  The Moomins, Top Cat, Rentaghost, Scooby Doo. Any warnings that we'd "end up with square eyes" fell on deaf ears.

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When we got bored of staring goggle-eyed at the box, my sister Karen and I would batter each other for a while to pass the time, until one of us invariably got hurt (or pretended to) and we were sent to our rooms, where we'd amuse ourselves amongst a mountain of careworn My Little Ponies, Cabbage Patch Kids, Care Bears and Sindy dolls, some with missing limbs, all in various states of undress. Then Dad brought home a BBC computer one day complete with a huge boxy monitor. It was a game-changer, quite literally, and henceforth the toys were discarded and we instead spent countless silent hours playing Chuckie Egg, Space Invaders, Blagger, et al.

The temporary silence would be broken by one of the kids from down the street ringing the doorbell to see if we could "come out to play" and we'd scamper out until dusk with our Rayleigh Grifters,  cycling unsteadily round to the corner shop to stuff our cheeks hamster-style with penny sweets: palma violets, hubba bubbas and flying saucers crammed into a little white paper bag, cola bottles so sugary they made us wince, our milk teeth melting as we shovelled sherbet dip-dabs into our mouths on swizzle sticks.

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Biting the pastel-coloured candies strung on elastic necklaces, blowing Chupa Chups whistles and making Kinder egg toys, we loved the dual-function sweets the best. You could play with it and then eat it. Genius. We'd spend a good portion of our pound note pocket money on this sugary goodness, the remainder being saved for the odd splurge at Nuxley's, the toy shop on Welling High Street, and then a few years later on records at Woolies, my first vinyl purchases being Whitney's "I wanna dance with somebody", and "A different corner" by George Michael, when he was still straight.

Last thing at night, just as she was switching off the light, we'd casually remind mum that we had something of great importance happening at school tomorrow which required a Blue Peter-standard home-made costume, and she'd let out a pained wail and half-heartedly set about cobbling together a suitable outfit fashioned from various household objects, some loo rolls and an old pair of tights.

I got ushered to a fancy dress party inside an old cardboard box once, string holding it up like a pair of braces, skinny legs dangling out the bottom, brightly coloured squares hastily coloured in felt-tips on the sides. I was a Rubik's Cube, apparently.

I wasn't a particularly sporty child, but being built like a beanpole had it's advantages; scissor-kicking the high-jump was a breeze, I practically stepped over the pole that came up to the other kids' chests, whilst long jump sent me sailing to the far end of the sand pit with ease. My lanky stride was double that of the other girls in my year, so when it came to the track events on sport's day I was like a rat up a drainpipe.

Birthday parties, to which we'd be formally summoned by way of hand-written invitation with a tear-off RSVP slip, were a seemingly weekly occurance and were often held at various neon-lit fast-food joints. Wimpy was a cut above in terms of class, they even gave you cutlery to eat your burger and chips, and a plate. A china plate! This was impressive stuff, practically Michelin standard to a bunch of nine-year-olds, so we dressed up for the occasion in our finest C&A ski pants or tiered ra-ra skirts with batwing sweaters from Tammy Girl, accessorizing with brightly-coloured plastic jewellery, ankle socks and a slick of rollerball cherry lipgloss.

Everything was going swimmingly. Or so we thought. Then something terrible started to happen. Puberty. Suddenly we weren't swimming, but drowning. In a sea of our own hormonal soup. Like the famous transformation scene in An American Werewolf in London: hairs started sprouting at an alarming rate, inconveniently and publicly, our faces contorting in angst as these shocking changes took place before our eyes.

Soon, we were behaving increasingly erratically, howling at the moon...and then the transformation was complete.

It was 1989.

We were teenagers.

Things were about to get VERY complicated....




Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76