My Boy

This is a creative writing piece that was inspired by a youtube video I saw. It is based on the perspective of the family of those who suffer from dementia. I hope you enjoy!

'That's my boy!' she snorted, just managing to squeeze the words out between almost tortured laughter. The lady in question, my mother, was enjoying her favourite past time. Embarrassing me with an audience. As I glared across the table, I could see it, the look. The cogs in her mind were well and truly spinning and so was my head! Aiming to conceal my emotions, as to not provoke a continuation of "Story time," I contorted my facial expressions to attempt the portrayal of a stoic exterior. An imitation game was afoot, and I was trying to conjure the spirit of Tom Hardy. Squinting ever so slightly, teetering on the edge of a smoulder and pouting modestly felt befitting. Was it working? It seems in my attempt to masquerade as indifferent I had mistakenly produced a near faultless Zoolander tribute act. The dinner guests broke out into raucous laughter and it felt directed at me, I could feel it, it was coming. An unwelcome surge of crimson heat pooled in my cheeks, and that's all she needed. I'm afraid "story time" had just begun.

  Tom Hardy being Tom Hardy 

Zoolander not me.

As a child of Chinese descent, I have always battled with the language. It was never for a lack of a trying, we just don't see eye to eye and this was astutely captured in the story my mother told. I had been out with some friends in Chinatown, and we had what I could only describe as glorious scran.  As the considerate individual I am, at the forefront of my mind, was sharing this hidden gem. However, being linguistically challenged, I couldn't recall the restaurant name by memory. Instead, I rather scruffily jotted down the Chinese character which was on the door. Proudly displaying the note at home, I declared teasingly "Wow, this place's food rivals your home cooking, some may say, not me of course, that it's even better!" Snatching the note out of my hands and examining with an inquisitive eye, I noticed that after a stare of brief befuddlement, the corners of her mouth curled up like parchment scrolls. "You really are a doughnut, you know that right?" Bemused by her dismissive comments I retorted condescendingly with one of her favourite mantras " Tut Tut, comparison really is the thief of all joy, just do your best!" 

We are both strong believers in the old adage 'he who laughs last, laughs longest.' This was imperative and my confidence was crescendoing, it was written all over my (s)mug. However, my confidence dissipated as I violently tumbled back down to earth, it was the emotional equivalent of having the very rug I stood on yanked from underneath me. "Where did you find this word?" she stated, whilst forcefully repressed giggles spilled out every other word. Collecting myself and recalibrating my demeanour in retaliation to her line of questioning; "the door of the restaurant," I countered cooly. "That explains that then." She picked up a pen and started scribbling, pausing momentarily, "When was your last language lesson Nathan?" Grasping the paper I was met by what I could only assume was the translation... "Pull." It seems in the midst of my rush home, I had made note of the door instruction rather than the name of the establishment. I am not pulling your leg. This day marked the inception of my rivalry with every "pull" door, as when we would pass one my mother would always claim she saw my favourite restaurant. Triumphantly marching out the room, she turned back and mockingly voiced " Don't leave the paper on the floor, you can't be illiterate and a litterer, HA, my boy, the illiterate litterer!"

Tom and Jerry, Shaggy and Scooby and probably the most fitting, dumb and dumber, we had many names to many people. Our relationship roots were founded on constant jibbing and playful attempts to 'one-up' the other. Now it wasn't for everyone, especially the faint of heart, but I adored it. We were inseparable, partners in crime, thick as thieves, that was until we weren't. "You know, you gotta speak up kid, I'm as deaf as a bat and I have the memory of a goldfish," she exclaimed with jest. That was the fourth time that day, this wasn't normal anymore. She used to forget the odd thing, a date, a friend but more and more seemed to elude her. Visiting the doctors, the diagnosis echoed around the room, "dementia"  acting as a reminder in case we forgot. As we departed, we locked eyes and I couldn't help but thrust my arms around her as if to say I would shield her all I could. Conjuring her best 'goodfellas' impersonation she yelled "Forget abouuuut it, you know I will!" We laughed, that's all we knew how to do. But behind the facade, I could see the encroaching anxiety and fear of the unknown. She deteriorated, she forgot about it, she forgot everything. Her time mostly consisted of incoherent speeches and fidgeting with her trouser's right-sided pocket. She had developed an unusual habit of rummaging, seemingly frantically, searching for something before looking inside and breathing what looked like a sigh of longing and relief. It was a staple of every day. It was heartbreaking. We didn't joke anymore, we didn't talk, she couldn't. She did not remember me! All we did now was sit opposite from one another. 

Sitting at the diner that day I thought, the lady in front of me seemed almost hollow: a candle with no flame, a vessel with no crew. She was present, but I could no longer feel her presence. She resembled my mother, the way she talked, her lavender scented perfume, even her penchant for a good "Yorkshire brew", but she was not her. Although it's difficult to confront and exposes my selfish mind-space, I cannot shake off the immense feeling of burden. Yes, my mother was diagnosed but I am the one symptomatic, I carry the repercussions of disease squarely on my shoulders. And for what? What is the currency of the fruit of my labour... blank faces and vacant expressions. These days the only respite I find is also my harshest adversary, hope, the double-edged sword. Perhaps it is unwarranted and fleeting at the best of times, but it is my crutch and without it, what is the point? A full recovery is inconceivable, but maybe the ray of a singular memory could illuminate her clouded mind, if even for a moment. Just maybe. 

As she scooped away at her ice cream sundae, wrapped in a blanket of blissful ignorance, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of irony. In the end, all that remained of her were my memories... Sitting lifelessly, reminiscing on the not so distant better days, I couldn't help but crack a wry smile. These memories, were no longer momentarily passing thoughts, they were my safe haven, my most prized possession. Perhaps, this was an attempt at escapism, but you would forgive me for being fonder of the past rather than the present. I feel I am not all there anymore, this disease has not only snatched her mind but has forcibly demoted me to a glorified care worker. I miss her fierce loyalty, I miss her unwavering care, I miss her knack for inappropriately timed humour, heck I even miss her nagging. I miss her. I miss my mother. 

It was just the two of us, exchanging glances. When she smacked her lips together, her jaw began to slacken, her hunched back stretched upright, like a sunflower reaching for noontime rays. Her eyes had returned, as absurd as it sounds they had been absent for quite some time. They say the eyes are the window to the soul but all I used to see was a brown bricked blockade. This time was different.  A warmth was emanating, the marriage of honey hues and emerald flecks spun and swayed invitingly. It was as if she was gradually regaining control. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing to attention, she was back. What was the expiration date on this new lease of life? I awaited with bated breath. Then out came the most delicate of utterances, almost as if she was ensuring safe passage for the very words themselves. "I miss him." 

Piercing silence befell the diner, so that the only sound emitted was the metronomic 'tick tock' of the clock. "Who?" I puzzled as my eyes began to mist over, she was finally back!  "I miss my boy." These words would have once been sweet nothings softly caressing my ear but they were bitter, acidic in tone and in outcome. Biting my bottom lip, I tried to compose myself, but I couldn't. My eyes flooded like a log had been brutally dislodged from a dam, I was inaudible, but this only amplified the pitter patter of each tear on the diner table. She still couldn't remember me, her own flesh and blood, but she would, she would remember. "I am here, you are my mum, I am your boy" I pleaded brokenly. Her hand delicately traced up and down my arm, almost drawing me closer. She glanced an all too familiar look towards her right-sided trouser pocket and with her other hand she ruffled the insides. Hesitantly sliding the contents across the table, it was what looked like an almost historical crumpled photograph. Pixelated and blurry, I almost didn't recognise myself in the picture. I was beaming, a genuine, heartfelt smile occupied my face. My arms were wrapped tightly around the woman sat in front of me, mum, my mum. Almost emulating me, she wore a radiant smile that reflected the flash, a twin smile, one which I had long forgotten. We were both happy. My eyes were fixated on us, so much so I almost didn't notice my mothers hand shakingly approaching.  Her finger stretched over the photograph and she faintly tapped over my smiling face. The words which proceeded from her mouth, will never leave me, they are etched in the deepest recess of my mind. She sighed and finally replied to my plea, "I know sweetheart, but I miss my boy."