Summary

Philip examines the importance to be “present” in life, not only for your own life, but for those around you.

And the importance of “banking” memories and discusses the idiosyncratic traits that makes some memories stand out from all the rest.

Transcript:

I'm 60 years old. My mum, bless her, was 86 when she died. So you could argue that, on average and barring accidents, that I have twenty or so more years of life left. That’s not much.

And for much of my life I felt as though I was getting on with the job in hand, rather than counting the days. The obvious time-markers being school, Polytechnic, work, married life, more work, and then…here we are.

At least Mum, in addition to biological markers, had me and my Sister. Saw us grow from newborns, yet she never commented on the passage of time, and in truth aside from jokes here and there about my parents shrinking, neither did I.

As my life experiences changed, so my outlook on life must have altered, but slowly over the course of those sixty years. But I didn’t really pay attention that time was passing. We know we all get older, but suddenly Mum was old and now, at this moment of reflection, I look back and wonder “What happened?”

It’s the same way the world changes but while you live it you don’t always fully appreciate it until you stick a stake in the ground and say we are here, then another metaphorical stake in the ground of the past and say we were there. And marvel at the changes in-between.

The world turns, hopefully moves forward for the better. Growing up I played in a garden, in the safety of a cul-de-sac street to the front of the house, a cornfield to the rear. Mum grew up on a terrace house, played in a similar dead-end street, maybe on the railway embankment, a bombed out building, the remains of the Grange, which a patch of scrubland, grass and forests of nettles where a great house once stood, a half mile away from where she lived.

Relative to now both worlds were safe, if you discount Hitler lobbing the occasional “doodlebug” bomb.

But much had changed; proliferation of cars, decimalisation, higher profile of consumer goods’ safety, the media explosion, internet, climate emergency, and so on. A lot of changes, far more than I’ve listed. And although nostalgia is nice in small doses I believe the world has to move forward, so I’m not afraid of change and I don’t think Mum was either.

And although not the most tech-savvy she would make copious notes and armed with these she would have a go; use her mobile, operate the DVD player, and even surf the internet.

Even when she had Dementia Mum tried new things; like a painting-by-numbers picture of penguins. She would work at it with the same quiet determination she tackled most things, allowing it to be framed and hung when completed. But she didn’t want another, it was as though having completed one she had succeeded in her challenge, so it was time to move on.

I’m pleased to say I never lost touch. We talked every week and I called in several times a year; not now I realise as many times as I feel I should have, but we were all living our lives, aware what was happening with each other; sharing holiday information. In essence we were Family, but independent. And there's nothing wrong with that.

And if we felt the need we could always arrange additional visits, as we often did.

Covid-19 changed all that. Had we known it was coming, of course we’d have installed broadband, hooked them up with Zoom, suggested other members of the family besides me and my tech-savvy Sister install it also. But we had no idea lockdown was on the way any more than anyone else did. There was no reason the next few years wouldn’t carry on the same as the last.

And that’s the big deal here. The fact that sooner or later life doesn’t carry on as normal. Sixty years and it’s gone in a flash. We all wish we had more time, yet few of us do anything about it.

Growing old is for the most part a slow gradual process. It creeps up on you. But not so with dementia, one moment Mum was fine, the next Dad is concerned and then you get a diagnosis and the person you knew before is different.

All I can say is, I’m thankful we didn’t grow apart. Sure we lived our own lives, and the dynamic of our family evolved, but that’s the way of things.

We knew we would always be there to help out each other, in whatever direction. Most telephone calls ended with the line “let us know if you need anything…” and whether that’s Mum or Dad saying it or me saying it to them, it maintains the bond and affirms the commitment.

In the end, the important thing is to keep in touch. Let them know you still love them, that you’re “there” for them as they have been, and still are, for you. The time you have with them goes so fast, don't get caught out.

Mum, perhaps because of losing her own mother at a young age, knew this more than the rest of us. She spent her time where it mattered most to her, raising me and my Sister. In essence she maximised this time and banked the memories.

Which meant, I believe, her years living with dementia were happy years, full of happy memories thanks to the re-run reminders of old television programmes like “The Last Of The Summer Wine”, projecting her back to the late seventies when we were all together as a family unit when possibly she was at her happiest.

And those memories were not just confined to Mum, I had them too.

Watching Mum near the end, watching re-runs of the “Last Of The Summer Wine” with her reminded me of that time; all together watching television. Not something I suspect happens much now with everyone having a media device capable of numerous channels in their pocket.

And there are other memories, too many, I’m happy to report, to recount here. Neuro-scientists believe that memories are not there purely for the nostalgia trip, but as the brains way of problem-solving my using past experiences. But some are pure nostalgia.

Like an early walk to school, when I was four or five. Alongside the pavement was a banking, held up by two-foot square concrete slabs placed on their side. I would walk on the edge, holding Mum’s hand for stability as I desperately tried to look over the fence. I was ever so pleased when I’d grown enough to do it. I smile because years later, as a teenager, I could walk on the pavement and look over the fence without any trouble whatsoever.

One time we were on holiday in Italy. Again, we were kids, climbing this big wide stone staircase up to see whatever building was at the top. Midway we were accosted by street traders who  thrust merchandise into our hands then refused to accept them back. We didn’t know what to do but Mum did. She took them from us, marched up to the top of the steps and deposited them on the ground and we watched the Traders scramble to pick them up before someone else did. Problem solved in a very Mum-like way.

Another time I was looking for accommodation in Manchester ahead of starting polytechnic. In the days before the internet you relied on the poly’s preferred lists. One such room was by a Mrs P. I shall not use her real name though I suspect she’s long gone by now.

It was an attic room, at best I would be standing stooped but near the window I would be bent double. And Mrs P kept referring to her tenants as “my boys”. Mum stayed polite but I could see her heckles were up and when we got back to the car she quietly but firmly crossed it off the list.

Mostly my Mum was quiet, unassuming, but she knew her own mind and when the mood took her, quite stubborn. I believe this came from a need to do the right thing.

And lastly. I'll share something that when I found out made me smile because it was so Mum.

In the preparations to get married my Mum suggested she come through and help my wife-to-be with her wedding dress and that of her bridesmaid.

About twenty minutes in Mum let loose a barrage of questions she wanted answers to, placing my poor wife-to-be under a metaphorical spotlight. And when the questions were answered to Mum’s satisfaction she went back to her sewing, all meek and mild as if they’d been discussing the weather.

That memory always makes me smile, it sums up Mum in a nutshell, so unassuming on the outside but knowing exactly what she wanted.

Such lovely snippets of wonderful memories, of a time, place and character, all precious. My advice to you is to gather as many memories as you can because one day you won't be able to make anymore.

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