KattyZee...

Katy grew used to the smells, the sounds.  She learned to read the residents, know when they were cogent and when they were lost somewhere within themselves.  She learned how to soothe and how to feed and how to bathe and turn those who lay so still that their skin had gaping holes.  She felt special when Joe called her Linnet, when he was caught up with the ghosts, and only she could chase them away.  Little by little, lucidity loosened from his brain, working its way out of cracks and crevasses, easing undone.  Dementia clothed his world in deepening shades of disconnection.  Katy held him when the other nurses weren’t there.  Entered his shuttered world as the lights were going out, luminous in false familiarity. 

This is an extract from a short story I wrote, drawing on some of my experiences working with people with dementia. I found it a huge challenge to describe dementia and the workings of the mind of a sufferer. This is probably my favourite passage I have written so far.

Author: KattyZee

Please don’t.

Don’t say hello.

Don’t smile at me.

Don’t smooth the hair from my forehead.

Don’t slip your palm into mine.

Don’t place your hand at the small of my back.

Don’t hold me at night.

Don’t kiss me in the morning.

Don’t do everything I’d gladly let you do.

Don’t do everything I long for you to do.

Don’t convince me to believe again, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Don’t ask me to open.

Don’t ask me to leave the ledge.

Don’t ask me to love,

Only to leave me again.

Because I don’t want to shut me away from you.

But I must.

So I do.

So please,

Don’t.

The question is: will she take the jacket?

In recent weeks, she has tested every myth her mother told her, every rule imposed arbitrarily. It began when she burnt the toast - and ate it. Cancer be damned, she thought. Then, the dishes left in the sink overnight; hard, encrusted in the morning. She scrubbed with satisfaction, the thrill of rebellion. She ignored the red man’s order and stepped brazenly onto the street. She went to bed with teeth unbrushed. But would she stray so far as this?

It moped, abandoned on the tram seat. It longed to be lifted, seams extended, buttons slipped through holes. To stretch over shoulders, arms, breasts. To warm, to hold, to comfort. To be hung at night; to be eased off by a lover. She felt desire.

Who would know? The old lady in the seat diagonally across, staring, knowing, judging. The old lady had seen her get on, and sit opposite the jacket. The old lady was suspicious. Enclosed in a woolen skirt suit and stockings, sensible shoes, even in the heady heat. Hands upon leather handbag. Bony fingers eliciting the truth, creeping to her thoughts even as they remained rigidly still. She glanced at the jacket. The old lady glared fiercely. Tension pulsed.

The old lady rose and pulled hard on the cord. Relief - persecution would be over soon. The old lady took a step closer, leaned down, and quietly, intently, said:

“I know what you are up to.”

And then the old lady was gone.

At home, she scrubbed the salt and sweat from her skin. She rolled the toothbrush over her molars. She stared at her mirror self, and it gazed back, asking:

Did she take the jacket?

(Original piece of creative writing. Author: KattyZee)