Rainbow Bag — a short story about caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s
She’s here in our living room with her rainbow bag – the one she used to take to the beach when we were young. It’s stuffed with a week’s worth of mismatching clothes, looks like it was done in a hurry. She needs new socks and knickers. Mum used to be a great packer. When she sent me off on my first solo trip with my primary school she helped me fit everything into my suitcase by meticulously folding and rolling. Everything was so well planned. She never forgot a thing.
It’s our first morning together and she’s looking at me with those childish eyes. What are we going to do today? I’ve got to leave you here this morning mum, it’s my last day at university before our holidays. Just stay at home, OK? You can watch the TV, there are a few English programs if you look hard enough. Just don’t go out, OK? New city, easy to get lost and we will never be able to find you. Now I’m imagining her tackling the markets, taking photos of the Azalias in full bloom in the parks, meeting up with us in a place we arranged and telling all about her day out-and-about in Taipei. An autonomous mum. A mum that looks after herself. And looks after me sometimes, too. No point imagining that stuff.
We’re at the grocers now, buying oranges. Mum’s a little constipated because she hasn’t been eating as much fruit as she’s used to in Australia. She peels and downs five oranges in succession, marvelling at how juicy and sweet they are. Yes, Taiwanese people are always boasting about their oranges. I’m chatting at full pace now. Try these Rose Apples, you can’t get them in Australia and they’re the most delicious fruit ever. She is impressed. Try this Durian, most foreigners don’t like it but I think it’s nice. She swallows the custardy flesh and smiles politely, but I can tell she doesn’t like it. Same expression when we try some Stinky Tofu. Maybe tomorrow we can go to the markets and get a cactus shake. Mum looks quizzical. A what? You’ll see. I’m grinning a big grin now.
It’s night, and it’s sweltering hot. Mum thinks she can handle a Taiwan summer just like she could a Brisbane summer when she was young. No worries mum, but if you get too hot you can come into our bedroom where it’s air-conditioned. Sweat is dripping from her forehead as she lies valiantly on her bed, window open, fan blowing hot air around the room. I kiss her goodnight and tuck her in. She closes her eyes. A few minutes later there is a tap at our bedroom door, mum opens it and stands sheepishly in the door way. We move her fold-out into our room and she goes to sleep peacefully at the foot of our bed, snoring softly.
We’re on an electric motorcycle. It’s a slow-moving one we’ve hired to drive around Sun Moon Lake. The lake is clear and there are big, colourful fish swimming around close to the shore. Mum looks so funny in her big helmet. She is holding my waist as we set off, but not scared, she always loves adventure.
We’re talking alone over breakfast. My wife is sleeping in. We’re talking about the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, about how it was her worst fear come true, and how she broke down and cried. About how cool and clinical the neurologist was when she delivered the news. About how she is looking for a new job, and I’m secretly doubting she can ever work again. I tell her a bit about my life here, too, and she tries to pay attention for a while. She’s got a lot on her mind, though.
We’re at the airport and I’m worried sick. She’s thousands of miles from home and has to manage a transfer at Hong Kong airport. Why didn’t we just pay a little more for a direct flight? We’ve asked the airline staff to keep an eye on her, but what if they forget? We’ve packed her some freshly developed photos of her trip to jolt her memory when she gets home. We wait until everyone has boarded the plane and suddenly it’s time to say goodbye. What more is there to say? We’ve spent every meal together this past nine days, spent almost every hour of every day together. She’s being led away and I’m checking she hasn’t left anything behind. Numbness is setting in. She disappears around the corner and then I catch a last glimpse of her through a glass panel, eyes ahead like a solitary traveller looking into the distance, like she doesn’t know what to expect, and I start letting go. She’s out of my hands for a while now. Suddenly I’m so tired. Hot tears are running down my cheeks and I’m trying not to let other people see. I’m watching the plane leave, and I keep seeing that image of mum being led away down the passage, eyes forward, not knowing what’s next. I’ve got my hand on my face, pretending I’m holding my head up but really I’m hiding my tears from strangers.
