Dementia, who are you and what have done with my mother?

PROLOGUE

The air was warm and thick with the scent of frangipanis; cicadas were singing their deafening tune. The kids were splashing around in the backyard pool and the early news had just come on the TV. This was my favourite time of year.

Wondering what on earth I had in the fridge that could possibly be fashioned into something edible, let alone delicious, to feed my hungry horde, I decided to give Mum a call. She had a recipe repertoire to rival the great chefs of Europe; every delectable dinner from The Margaret Fulton Cookbook was tried and tested by my mother and etched into her psyche. Mum was a veritable guru of home cookery, knowing the art of how to whip up something from nothing in no time and present it on matching plates ready for her hungry family to enjoy.

I loved these early evening chats with Mum. I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple of days, so we’d have lots to talk about. I poured myself a cup of tea, grabbed a snack, got comfortable and dialled her number.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi!’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Hi, Mum, it’s me!’

‘Who?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Oh, hi, darling.’

She seemed vague and didn’t sound herself at all. I asked about her day and she couldn’t recall what she’d been up to. It was her daily custom to ‘pop up to the shops’ so I asked her if she’d seen anyone she knew there, thinking it might jog her memory. No, she didn’t remember going shopping or, as a matter of fact, doing anything at all that day. This was strange.

I steered the conversation to food and asked what she and Dad were having for dinner – something Mum loved to talk about. She didn’t know.

Mum seemed uncomfortable chatting and clearly was in no mood for small talk. This was so unlike her. I probed her for answers and enquired about how she was feeling. Brushing it off and assuring me she was fine, she then uttered the strangest words of the evening: ‘Sarah, darling, I’m just going to pop Dad on the phone. Love you lots, bye.’

‘What? Dad? Why? But Mum, I rang to talk to …’

I was ready for one of our usual lengthy gabs. It wasn’t that I didn’t like talking to Dad. It was just that he and I preferred face-to-face catchups. Mum would give him all the news and keep him up to date. If I called and Dad answered, he’d say a quick hi and then hand the receiver straight to Mum. That was just what always happened.

Dad seemed as confused as I was, being thrust onto the telephone, thinking I had something of great importance to impart.

‘No, I’d just rung to say hi.’

We were both a little bewildered at this turn of events but decided not to make a big deal of it, chalking it up to a one-off, before saying our goodbyes.

THE REAL JEANNIE SOMERVILLE

As a toddler, my precious daughter used to say to me, ‘Mum, if I could walk into a shop and choose any other mum in the whole wide world, I’d still choose you.’

That’s exactly how I feel about my mother.

My mum, Jeannie Margaret Somerville (nee O’Dea), is the best mum in the ‘wold’, as I wrote to her one Mother’s Day and continued to write in her cards since then. I always thought she should write a textbook on parenting because I think – and I’m sure my brother Ben would agree – she did a cracker of a job bringing us up. Not to diminish the role our dad, Tony, had in our rearing, because he also played an important part and did a brilliant job. It would be fair to say, though, that Mum did shoulder the main task of raising the kids.

For Mum, every day was an opportunity to learn. Not only did she love learning herself, but she was passionate about instilling that love of grasping something previously unknown – the thrill of understanding a new concept for the very first time – in us, her kids. The world was her classroom and ours. Explaining something over our breakfast-time bacon and eggs, her face would light up when the penny dropped for us. ‘Isn’t that fascinating?’ she would gush. There was always a pen and pad close at hand so Mum could draw an explanatory diagram to add further meaning and bring some new concept to life for us. I vividly remember sitting at the kitchen table and chatting with Mum long after we’d digested the last of our dinner, including our ice cream (with chocolate sauce, crushed nuts, hundreds and thousands and a sprinkle of Milo for good measure, which we were NEVER allowed to mash or stir. That’s one thing I never understood and now, as an adult, feel almost compelled to do, just because I can – sorry, Mum!).

Lots of parents dread having the old ‘birds and bees’ conversation with their kids, putting it off until necessity knocks and their already pimply teenagers are hearing more than they need to know in the school playground. By the time their parents awkwardly open a copy of What’s Happening to Me? they are already painfully aware of what’s happening to them. Not so for Mum. As far as she was concerned, kids should be taught about ALL their body parts, regardless of whether they were classified as private or otherwise.

‘You teach your kids about their arms and legs and what they do,’ she would declare, ‘so why leave out a whole section of their body and what it does?’

Good point. She taught us about what everything did. It was matter of fact; medical, even. Nothing gross or icky. By the time I was in primary school I had a detailed knowledge of vas deferens, fallopian tubes, ovaries and all things reproductive. My nanna once complimented five-year-old me on a beautiful picture of a pear that I’d drawn. She nearly fell off her chair when I thanked her but politely pointed out it was ‘actually a uterus, Nanna, not a pear’.

Mum loved to point things out to us along the way as well. ‘Look at those exquisite hydrangeas!’ or ‘There’s a platypus – did you know that’s one of only two mammals that lays eggs?’ She’d give us maths problems as we were folding the washing: ‘How many times can you fold that hanky symmetrically?’; or on a long drive up the coast: ‘If we’re going at 80 kilometres an hour and we have 200 kilometres until we reach our destination, how long will it take us to get there?’ There was always something to learn – no matter how trivial – where Mum was concerned.

Speaking of trivia, Mum was a trivia champion. It was our lifelong ambition to secretly enter Mum on Sale of the Century. Ben and I had visions of being driven around our local neighbourhood in our newly acquired Merc, which Mum would have won, and I always longed to turn up to school sporting a ‘diamond-studded memento’ pinned to my uniform.

Every night without fail, from 7 pm sharp, Mum, along with the rest of our family, would be glued to the box, eagerly awaiting Tony Barber’s energetic, air-punching romp onto the set of our favourite show. It was a ritual and one that Mum was never happy about missing. Remember, back in the dark days before video recorders, you only had one shot at hearing each question, so silence was a prerequisite when the quiz show was in full swing. ‘Ssshhh!’

Now, perhaps my memory has embellished this over the years, but I seem to remember Mum getting every question right. There was scarcely anything trivial that was outside her realm of knowledge. She was truly amazing! It was in the ‘Fame Game’ that she really excelled. Sometimes she’d have an early stab at it when Tony Barber would excitedly pose the question, ‘Who Am I?’ Amid hand-waving to quieten Ben and me down, rolling her eyes when we shouted, ‘Tony Barber!’, Mum would already know the answer by the time he said, ‘I was born in Mildura in 1933 ...’ Long after Mum had confidently blasted it out, the contestant would finally echo her correct response and get a pick of the famous faces. Despite her obvious talent for tricky trivia, however, Mum refused to apply to go on the show and said she didn’t know what she’d do to us if we ever thought about doing it for her! Our diamond-studded-memento-filled-dreams, up in smoke.

* * *

One of the major things Mum and Dad taught us was the utter necessity of a sense of humour. Dad would kill me if I didn’t mention here his encyclopaedic knowledge of jokes and the fact that, given any topic, he can whip out a relevant gag (or two!) in under a minute flat. He’s a true master of the story-telling joke, as anyone who knows him will attest. Mum’s specialty, though, was The Pun. She was, in fact, the Queen of The Pun. Mum could pun with the best of them and would still be throwing up quality offerings long after everyone else had run dry. Ben and I were constantly being thrown into a pun-off and had to think on our feet, lest the Queen take us down. Mum could make a joke in, and of, any situation and was constantly cracking us up. She had a lightning-fast wit. I always admired Mum’s ability to make me (and everyone around her) laugh. She could’ve been a stand-up comedian.

* * *

From an early age, Mum would tell me how very much she loved me, not only on a daily basis, but sometimes on the hour, every hour. There was never a skerrick of doubt in my mind that Mum loved me (and Ben) with her whole, overflowing, unconditional and fiercely loyal heart. If ever there was a question over our suitability for a task, even if we doubted our own ability for the job at hand, Mum would loudly proclaim our credentials and insist that we could do anything we put our minds to. She was a self-esteem builder of inordinate proportions. Continually hearing that we were ‘gorgeous’, ‘beautiful’, ‘clever’, ‘funny’, ‘capable’ and ‘talented’, among countless other adulations, built in us a certain confidence and resilience that I’m grateful for to this day.

Although her constant praise was biased and some might say over the top, she made us believe we were worthy of her love, giving us total security in who we were. I can’t speak for Ben here, but it gave me the sense that I didn’t ever have to prove myself to anyone. I was loved unconditionally and totally just the way I was. No matter what happened, we knew Mum would always remain our biggest fan. That’s such an incredible gift!

Along these lines, Mum taught us it was always better to be a leader than a follower and in this she led by example. She implored us not to be sheep and encouraged us to have the courage of our convictions. Even if we were alone in those convictions and the hum of the madding crowd was suggesting a plan of action to the contrary, Mum wanted us to be sure of what we believed and to stick to it with confidence. Standing boldly and resolutely in the face of peer group pressure was never a big deal for me. I am grateful to Mum for equipping me in this way.

Mum’s fierce loyalty and abundant love were also poured out upon her wider family. She adored her three siblings Patty, John and Donny, and was equally enamoured with her nieces and nephews, forming a particular bond with Patty’s girls, Andrea and Meredith, with whom we spent a lot of time when we were growing up. Both Mum and Dad embraced as part of the family my husband, Ross, and Ben’s wife, Julie, from the minute they came on the scene, always showing them love and support. As breeders, Ben and I certainly did our bit (so to speak) in increasing the Family Dynasty. With our partners we produced seven grandchildren for Mum and Dad. Our son Sam was the first grandchild on the scene, his adoring grandparents enduring hours in the hospital waiting room eagerly (read: impatiently) awaiting his much-anticipated arrival. Our daughter Molly, equally adored, was born two years later, followed by Toby, our gorgeous third child (potentially named ‘Tarzan’ had his doting siblings had their way), who was born three years later in the year 2000. Just as we had given away our pram and found good homes for all our various baby paraphernalia our precious little Maisy brought us great joy by gracing us with her presence six years later, to complete our bonny, bouncing brood.

By the time Cathy Freeman and Ian Thorpe had streaked to gold-medal stardom at the Sydney Olympics, Ben and Julie had welcomed their beautiful first-born, Sophie into the world. Sophie was blessed with her little cherub cheeked sister, Emily a couple of years later, followed by their new playmate and darling brother Will, born just four months before our Maisy. I’m delighted to say that all seven cousins (along with Sophie’s husband Tom and daughter Rachel) are all super close friends and enjoy one another’s company regularly.

Mum relished time spent with her grandchildren, involving herself completely in their lives, just as she had with us. Until each of my four children were school-aged, Mum looked after them on Fridays – a day they always looked forward to. She and Dad came to Presentation Days, sat through ballet concerts and cheered loudly and enthusiastically from the sporting sidelines, always beaming with pride over what their grandchildren were achieving.

Another of Mum’s great qualities was her ability to have fun. Walking hand-in-hand with her raucous sense of humour was her natural tendency towards being the life of the party. It would always be fun if Mum was there. She could turn every occasion into something memorable. At my twenty-first birthday party she taught a crowded dance floor how to do ‘The Pony’, frolicking around, hooves aloft, stopping every now and then to toss her imaginary mane. It was hilarious! She was always a woman of very few inhibitions. Video footage from our wedding has Mum arm-in-arm with a couple of our friends, belting out an AC/ DC classic at high voltage, complete with the requisite head-banging moves.

While her inhibitions may have been few, her integrity was high. Mum was something of a morals warrior, ensuring that Ben and I were well-versed in right and wrong. She drummed into