Can’t find Toppo.
Call the kid.
This number is unobtainable.
The internet can be a wonderful thing, but sometimes it sends your brain into meltdown.
Type “Alzheimer” into Google, and once you’ve been told by the machine how to spell it, you get about thirty-four and a half million options.
About.
It’s too many for even the world’s most popular search engine to figure out the exact number.
So where do you start?
Should I even be looking at it?
Maybe Gran’s just getting older and needs a bit of help.
Reading this stuff is scary.
“The period of time between diagnosis and the person dying varies from three to 20 years”.
Three years?
And when I tell Mum about it, about the cat and the plates and the notes, she just goes off on one.
“Don’t talk to me about those damn plates, I’ve had her on the phone three times this week, accusing me of going into the house and taking her plates. As if I’d want them, I haven’t even been over there for nearly two years.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have talked to her about them, maybe found them if they’re still around.”
“They sold them to pay for a cruise, years ago, when Dad was still alive.”
“Well it would have helped to know. I didn’t know what she was on about.”
“Who does?”
Mum’s upset, it’s not nice to be accused of stealing plates by your own mother, but I’m the one here, on the ground, and she’s just admitted not visiting for nearly two years.
I decide to go for the jugular,
“Why don’t you come over and check her out? You might notice more than me if you haven’t seen her for a while.”
“I can’t be popping over every five minutes, not with Patrick and the business and the dogs and the cats.”
It’s not meant as a criticism, but she takes it as one. I persevere,
“Surely you could manage a long weekend. Get Patrick to feed the cats and bring the dogs. You can stay with us.”
“I’ll talk to Patrick, see what he’s doing over the next month. And I can’t bring the dogs, they don’t like travelling. Got to go now. That’s Patrick back for lunch.”
