on a regular basis, I feel so much better. My life has improved dramatically in the last – week, two weeks?
I open my eyes and squint at the clock, looking for the date. Friday August 28th, so thirteen days. I might not remember very much but August 15th is ingrained in Title: The Breakdown ARC, Format: 126x198, v1, Output date:08/11/16
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my brain as the date I had my breakdown. It was also Mum’s birthday. I only remembered once Dr Deakin had left that night, and when I realised I hadn’t gone to lay flowers on her grave, I became distraught all over again and blamed Matthew for not reminding me.
Which was hardly fair, as I’d never told him her birth date, something he refrained from pointing out, telling me instead that I could go the next morning.
I still haven’t been because, physically, I can’t. I take two pills before I go to bed so that I sleep all through the night and each morning, before he goes to work, Matthew – taking to heart Dr Deakin’s admonishment that I should rest – brings me another two along with my breakfast tray. It means that the anxiety I always feel once he’s left for work has dulled by the time I’ve showered and dressed. The downside is that, by mid-morning, I feel so sluggish that it’s hard to put one foot in front of the other. I spend most of my days drifting between wake and sleep, sprawled on the sofa, the television switched to the shopping channel because I can’t summon the energy to change it. Sometimes, in the background, I’m vaguely aware of the telephone ringing but it barely pierces my consciousness, and because I never answer, the calls become less frequent. He still calls, just to let me know that he hasn’t forgotten me, but I enjoy imagining his frustration at not being able to get hold of me.
Life is easy. The pills, powerful though they are,
allow me to function on some sort of level because the The Breakdown
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washing gets done, the dishwasher gets loaded and the
house gets tidied. I never really remember doing any doing of it, which should worry me more than it does because it means the pills are playing havoc with my already failing memory. If I were sensible, I would half the dose. But if I were sensible, I wouldn’t have needed the pills in the first place. Maybe if I ate a little more the pills wouldn’t affect me as much but it seems that I’ve lost my appetite as well as my mind. The breakfast Matthew brings me goes into the bottom of the bin and I always skip lunch because I’m too drowsy to eat. So my only meal of the day is the one I make in the evening to have with Matthew.
He has no idea how I spend my days. Because the
pills wear off about an hour before he gets home, I have time to clear my head, run a brush through my hair, put on a bit of make-up and get something ready for dinner. And when he asks, I invent work that I’ve done and cupboards I’ve tidied out. The way I see it, ignorance is bliss.
I want to shut off the whole outside world. I’ve been getting so many texts, from Rachel, Mary, and Hannah, inviting me for coffee, and John, wanting to chat about lesson plans. I haven’t answered any of them yet because I don’t feel up to seeing anyone, even less chatting about lesson plans. The pressure I’m already feeling increases and I suddenly decide that the best solution would be to misplace my phone. If I’ve lost it, I won’t have to get
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back to anyone. And as it barely works in the house, it’s not as if it’s much good to me anyway.
I fetch my mobile. There are a couple of voicemails and another three text messages but I turn it off without opening any of them. I go down to the sitting room and look around for somewhere to hide it. I walk over to one of the orchids, lift it from its pot, place my mobile in the bottom and put the plant back on top.
In case the pills should make me forget that I have dementia, there are always little reminders to tell me that my brain is slowly disintegrating. I can no longer remember how to work the microwave – I wanted to make myself a cup of hot chocolate the other day but had to resort to a saucepan as the various buttons no longer meant anything to me. And things I remember seeing on the shopping channel but have no memory
of ordering keep arriving in the post.
Yesterday, another parcel arrived. Matthew found it on the doorstep when he arrived back from work.
‘This was on the doorstep,’ he said calmly, even
though it was the second one in three days. ‘Have you ordered something else?’
I turned away so that he couldn’t see the confusion in my eyes, wishing I’d ordered something that would have fitted through the letter box so that I could have hidden it before he came home. Coming so close on the heels of the spiralizer that arrived on Tuesday was humiliating.
‘Open it and see,’ I said, playing for time.
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‘Why, is it for me?’ He gave the box a shake. ‘It sounds
like some kind of tool.’