HEART
From the
WORDS:
DEBORAH
MOGGACH©DAILY
MAIL/SOLO
SYNDICATION. PHOTOS: SHUTTERSTOCK. *THE CARER, BY DEBORAH MOGGACH, IS OUT NOW (£16.99, TINDER).
dressed her, while recognising I had no
right to criticise, no right at all.
Needless to say, I felt chronically
guilty. I was her daughter, and
I should be doing this rather
than sitting in my house
opposite, trying to write a novel.
Sometimes I resented the
huge amount of money they
cost — in cash — and the daily
trips to my local hole-in-the-
wall. And sometimes, I felt
jealous that my mother seemed
fonder of them than of me.
I was locked into a relationshipthat’s
becoming increasingly common asthe
elderly population explodes. Werely
more and more on these strangers to help
us, people who enter into the heart of our
familiesandgettoknowalloursecrets.
SoI decidedtowritea
novelaboutit –TheCarer.
There’splentyofcomedy
in thebook,astherewasin
myownsituation.I recall
mymotheroncetellingus,
withgreatsolemnity,
‘Thereweretwomeninmy
bedroomlastnight.One
wasin thewardrobeand
theotherwasundermy
bed.I haveneverbelievedin threesomes
andI’mcertainlynotgoingtostartnow.’
I learnta lotfrommymother’scarersabout how
to cope with
dementia.
Sometimes, she
thought she was
living in a hotel
and she started
complaining about
it. So they packed
her a suitcase, took
her around the
block and arrived
back home. ‘This is
a much nicer hotel,
isn’t it sweetheart?’
they said. She’d nod
happily and settle
back in. I didn’t like
them lying to her,
until they explained
that telling the truth
just adds to the
feelings of distress
and confusion, and
I realised that they
were absolutely right.
Best of all, they treated her like a
human being. It helped that she was in
her own home, one filled with photos and
memories of her hugely interesting life.Precious memories
Her personality was changing so
profoundly that, by now, I couldn’t even
recognise her as my mother. Her very
face had changed shape. Nor, indeed,
could she recognise me as her daughter.
Those last few months were pretty
terrible. She became obstreperous,
incontinent and utterly miserable. Then
a series of strokes left her bedbound.
Several bouts of pneumonia nearly killed
her, but she was always hauled back by
the miracles of modern medicine.
I realised that this could carry on for
years. It was only too obvious that my
mother wanted to die. In the end, she
passed away peacefully with her Jack
Russell next to her in the bed.
Afterwards,whenI wasclearingout
herthings,I readsomeofheroldletters.
Shewasa wonderfullyfunny,vividwriter- and,suddenly,I couldhearhervoice,
theoldCharlotte,asif shewerewithme
in theroom.Inthatmoment,I hadher
back,andthatis thememorythatI will
keepwithmeforever.Notthelastfew
years,buttheyearswhenCharlotte
wasreallyCharlotte.
AndI’llalwaysbegratefultothose
threeIrishwomen,whocaredforherin
a wayI nevercould,andwhohavelong
agodisappearedfrommylife.I never
evenknewtheirsurnames.
Charlotte’s journey
inspired her
daughter’s novel‘There is
plenty of
comedy
in the
book’