Work in progress. I’m as yet unsure as to what form it will take. Snapshots of ideas. Small, intimate stories.
My father, 89, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2012. Seeing a fixed image of my dead mother in the distance and trying to make his way to her. Every hour. Every day. Relentlessly. Taking his pictures to show her.
His history. Their history. Our history.
All the fragments which make up his world.
A journey with no resolution. No happy ending.
A journey borne of anxiety, confusion, sorrow and the deepest grief, leading to an repetitive existence of unremitting frustration, despair and vulnerability.
And yet, curiously… a purpose.
A journey in search of Home.
He sits by the door, staring out into the distance. He believes the white water butt is my mother. He wonders why she is out there in all weathers. He gathers up biscuits and photos and newspapers to take to her. Once he is outside, she is of course, gone.
Whilst he has eyes on her, she is still with us. He is reluctant to shift his gaze and his focus wanders back to this view relentlessly.
He waves goodbye, stands and watches and waits until he can see me no longer and I am out of sight. Only then does he go back into his empty flat. There he packs his ‘essentials’, ready to go looking for me or my mother. A never ending cycle of vulnerability.
A trolley basket piled high with precious belongings. Enough clothes for a week. A plethora of the ever-present picture frames. Newspapers. Bills. A clock. An odd sock. Beneath these essentials, lay (astonishingly intact), a full cup of coffee, a cup of hot water, the drinks he would make for the two of them), a bowl of sugar, crackers (evidently the chocolate digestives had run out) and a plate with an orange, cut up into quarters. The cup of coffee nestled directly into a bowl of chicken soup.
The feast of the elderly.
A lifetime of looking after my mother has created a deeply-ingrained habit and so the routine continues. Although now the refreshments are carried in a trolley on his quest to find her.
I bring my father to ours for Sunday lunch. After days of relentless rain, the sun shines brightly and I pretend all is well. It’s a beautifully, energising day. I’m determined to make it a good day. I will fight for it. I try to distract him. I try to steer his conversation to a different topic. I don’t want to talk about where my mother has gone. About when and why she died. Today, at least in this brief moment, I would like to leave grief behind. But he cannot. He remains stuck in his perpetual sorrow and I end up cross and frustrated that I can’t even construct the pretence of the perfect, happy, family lunch. Not for the first time, I wish reality would fuck off. Some days I’m quite happy to sit nicely with my dear friend Illusion.
It really is relentless.
COMING SOON.
Exclusion. Disengagement. Outsider syndrome. An exploration into the burgeoning identity of young men including those who find themselves on the wrong side of acceptable societal norms. The project will examine inner conflict, the reasons we’re failing our young men, disappointment, fears, regrets, loss and parental guilt. I also want to explore OUR disengagement with them. But it’s not all grim. Hopes, dreams, mentors, passions… all human life is here.
