The Little Girl in the Radiator: Mum Alzheimer's & Me by Martin Slevin Page B

and it’s always a repeat.
    ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Mary, right
on cue.
    I looked at her and forced a neighbourly
smile.
    ‘She’s locked me out again, Mary.’
    ‘Shall I phone her again? That worked last
night.’
    Mary, playing her part.
    ‘Thanks very much, Mary,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry
about all this.’
    ‘Don’t mention it,’ she said. ‘At least it’s
not raining tonight!’
    I could hear the telephone ringing inside
our bungalow.
    ‘Hello,’ said mum, picking up the receiver.
    ‘Hello Rose, it’s Mary.’
    ‘Oh, hello Mary, how are you…’
    I felt like I could scream.
    ‘I’m fine thanks, Rose. Would you like to
come over for a cup of tea?’
    ‘Oh, that would be lovely Mary, when shall I
come over?’
    ‘Come on over right now, Rose. I’ll put the
kettle on.’
    ‘Okay.’
    The front door opened.
    ‘Hello son,’ said mum, as she passed me in
the doorway. ‘I’m just going around to Mary’s for a minute, I won’t be long.’
    I waved conspiratorially to Mary, and she
waved back. I entered the house.
    Final curtain falls, and play ends. Take a
sodding bow, Slevin.
    I took the next morning off work and waited patiently
for a locksmith to arrive so I could have the Yale taken off the front door,
and replaced with a lock that didn’t have that little snip. That had spiked
mum’s guns: she couldn’t lock me out any more. He was at the house for about 25
minutes and charged me £90, but it was worth every penny.
    I arrived home that evening with a spring in
my step. I knew the drama of the previous two evenings could not repeat
themselves. I was feeling very clever and pleased with myself, in a smug sort
of way. Without my guile, the whole business could have gone on and on until
either time ended or my head exploded, whichever came first.
    I put my key into the new lock, and… crash!
The door wouldn’t open. Mum had put the chain across and outwitted me. I felt
like running down the road screaming.
    ‘I can’t get in mum,’ I shouted through the
opening. ‘Let me in!’
    ‘It isn’t safe!’ shouted back mum.
    They say the line between sanity and madness
is a thin piece of string. It is, and I was walking its length like a man on a
circus tightrope.
    ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
    Mary was skipping her lines, but I was
grateful for it.
    ‘Thanks, Mary,’ I called back.
    It’s hard to explain to someone who has
never experienced it exactly what it’s like to go through this process. It’s a
bit like watching a movie you’ve seen before, only this is much more intense
because you’re actually in it, right at the centre of the action, and,
try as you might, there’s not much you can do to change the way the story
unfolds. Sooner or later, this starts to mess with your head, and you begin to
wonder where it’s all going to end. It’s almost as though you lose the right to
self-determination, you no longer have freedom of choice over your actions,
everything is pre-destined; your role has been written, and all you can do is
go along with it until the credits roll. As I think I may have said before,
Alzheimer’s makes everyone crazy.
    I was muttering to myself like some sort of
demented madman as I forced my little screwdriver to extract the two screws
holding in the safety chain on mum’s front door. There was a wild determination
about my movements. Just getting into the house after work had become a battle
of wills, and it was a war I was determined to win at all costs. When the
safety chain had been removed, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now there was no
way she could keep me out.
    But although the drama repeats, there’s no
law against ad libbing.
    * * * * *
    The next night I came home with a sense of
renewed vigour. I put my key in the door, no resistance, no chain, and I
smiled. I pushed the front door open, and… crunch!
    The door opened about three inches and
stopped abruptly. I couldn’t believe it.
    ‘Mum, the door’s stuck!’ I shouted