The day of the Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) scan for aphasia arrived. Rather surprisingly, I didn’t go to hospital for it but to the AMEX, home of Brighton and Hove Football Club.
It was very efficient. My scan was on time. I lay on the bed, trying to seem nonchalant. I was given earpieces because of the noise, then a headset so that I could hear what was going on. Then I was rolled into the tunnel.
It was mostly loud, but sometimes it was calm. Some of the noise was like the London Tube (particularly when going round corners). I got a bit dizzy when I came out of the tunnel, but that wore off after about two minutes. I reckon it was 25 minutes in the tube.
That’s it. Until the diagnosis.
The real story of my mum
For weeks now I have tried to do justice to my mum.
Mum had cancer. She made a full and complete recovery. Then two or three years later she died at the age of 76. She had a stroke and was unconscious. She died after four days, one minute into Mothering Day. Her last breath was peaceful.
Mum showed me how to be born.
Mum showed me how to live.
I hadn’t seen anyone die.
My mum showed me how to die.
I miss her. I will always miss her.
Take a breath.
This needs something else.
I want to change the story.
So…
The real story is that my mum was a spy from the day when she left school at the age of 14. Like a good spy, she had several different names. Florence. Jean. And the shadowy Mavis who operated undercover from 1970 to 1980.
She only once slipped her alter ego when, in broad daylight, she threatened a Tory canvasser. It was around about 1974. The Tory asked Mum what she thought of the family recently moved next door. The Bambi family. Mum said, “If I had a gun, I would shoot you.”
It’s such a pity that mum forgot her Walther PPK that day.
Not all of the above is true. But one of them is absolutely true. You really don’t have to ask. There is no prize.
The three names were:
Florence was her first name. She didn’t like it.
Jean. Middle name, tolerable.
Mavis. More difficult to explain. So I won’t.
Mum would have been a good spy. I am sure that she had secrets.
Dad’s army life
My dad was finishing his education when the second world war started. He joined up for the army immediately after leaving school. When he was demobbed he joined the Metropolitan Police.
Dad was in the army, rising to the rank of Captain. He only once spoke to me about the war (1939 to 1945). We were walking across Wimbledon Common. I was about 20. Dad would have been about 18 when he volunteered. The typewriter that was his, and which he gave to me, he used to write letters of condolence to the families of the soldiers who he had sent into battle and didn’t come back.
After the war, he was a policeman, and later Sergeant. I think that was as far as he wanted to go.
Dad had some foibles. But when it was needed, dad became sharp, focused, loving.
Things I find difficult
A few things I find difficult. Let’s start with ordering drinks and cakes in a café when you go to the counter. The maximum I can remember is about three things. Sometimes less. I have a friend who usually has the same each time – caffè macchiato, water with ice, and “you know what I like for cakes”. I don’t. I might have it one second ago, but….. gone.
Yesterday I was with my wife Chris in a café. All I had to do was to go to ask for latte and an Americano. Mostly, I can manage this. But Chris’s one shot coffee, skimmed milk, cold milk was beyond me. It was like Sally from Sally Meets Harry (not the pudding scene, it was the salad, early in the film).
It ended well. Chris got the coffee, and paid.
I go to the King Alfred Leisure Centre, and Regency Swimming Pool, twice weekly. Most of the receptionists know me. Sometimes I speak, sometimes I get muddled. They know what I am booked for. Sometimes I start to speak, then I change track, start again, and it all ends a mess. We get through.
A couple of days ago, a new receptionist was confronted with a spluttering attempt to get out what I wanted to do. She said: “You have a badminton racquet. Could it be a clue?” Brilliant. I loved it.
Waiting for the scan result
Today Chris rang the Memory Clinic to ask if they had the MRI scan. They said they had it. Chris was told that the doctors look at the scans, but only on a Tuesday. They haven’t seen the scan yet.
What if the Memory Clinic lost the scan?
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