My Nan, Peggy

My Nan, Peggy Matthews, came from a family in service. My very first memory is of her taking me to hospital to see my new born cousin, and I have many memories of drinking green pop on her doorstep on a hot summers day, eating freshly cut crinkly chips and egg, a 10p bag of sweets on a Sunday morning. We’d wait at the bus stop to go into town – “one and two halves please” – 50p in all – and while eating chips and curry sauce in Busby’s chip shop I’d look at the poster of the knickerbocker glory on the wall, wondering how old you had to be before you were allowed one. She’d bring raspberry pie for lunch on a Sunday, called bread rolls ‘cobs’ and took us around the flower gardens in Shrewsbury, umbrella at the ready. She was a witch on Halloween, cackling as she rode high above the town, a jazz singer in the clubs, a nurse, and she slept for a whole week in a bunker during the war. One day during the war, she even did the washing on the wrong day because they got so mixed up with the time. She had three sons, an adopted daughter, and proudly told everyone she met about her ten grandchildren. She hummed tunes called inky pinky parley vous, chattanooga choochoo, and many others that ended in dum di dum, and felt sorry for Freddie Mercury when he died.

As I moved through my early teens things started to change – I don’t recall the speed of decline, but I remember telling my friend on the way home that she was in a second childhood. Phoning our house fifty times a day, shouting at mum, who asked her to bring seven pairs of knickers to wash on a Sunday, and who was promptly given seven unworn pairs. Dr Hughes told Dad that Peggy knew John Major was the Prime Minister, so she must be OK and there was nothing he could do. My Mum worried that her relatives in Derby would think they weren’t doing anything for her. But there were falls, fall-outs, upsets and lots of worry. She still came on a Sunday, but the pies stopped coming with her. The words dementia or Alzheimer’s were never mentioned, nothing was forthcoming in the way of support or information. Eventually, one day when we came back from Wales, Dad found her on the floor of her bungalow. She hadn’t fallen, the ambulance man said, but had lain down on the floor, was dehydrated and severely confused. In hospital we showed her pictures of a lovely hotel – she could still read though, saw the words “residential home” and gave a cry of anguish.

We took her on outings to Lake Vyrnwy and around the countryside. Like all the other residents, she was usually sitting in a chair in the lounge, staring into the abyss, talking to no-one and no-one talking to her. I feel certain she was given medication to keep her quiet. In the corner a lady sat smoking – 100 cigarettes a day, she was an Oxford graduate who eventually was the engineer of her own fatal fire. At least she didn’t get lung cancer, we said. I remember seeing the smoke marks on the wall where she used to sit, before they had a chance to clean it up.

Peggy seemed to fade away – one last birthday gathering with 7 of the grandchildren and a cake, one last winter, and the phone call came after my Dad had left to come home, having sat with her for two days, a few months short of her 80^th birthday. Her distinctive smell was apparent to me for a good fortnight around the chair where she used to sit on a Sunday afternoon.

That was seventeen years ago. I often wonder now whether, with access to medication, day support, advice, guidance and support for my parents as carers, she would have made it to eighty. I’m sure it would have been a happier journey for everyone, and more dignified. Let’s be thankful for progress, and keep fighting to improve awareness, care, treatment and quality of life for those affected by dementia.