Nan

So this is my Nan. The delectable Joanie Louie Brickell.

Yep, she's wearing my sunglasses and doing her finest Stevie Wonder impression. 

18 months ago this strong-willed, fiesty woman began to fade a bit. Her memory was dropping in and out and simple day to day things started to become really hard work for her. Our little tiger got diagnosed with dementia and things have been a rocking roller coaster ever since. 

There are days when we panic within an inch of our lives that she's off out wandering in the night again or she's gone to eat the chicken she's left out for four days. There are days when we get so frustrated with the constant questions and repetition of the same made up story. There are days that we feel guilty for being short tempered with her.

 There are days when we get really angry at the world for a bit for putting her through it.

Then there are days that are pure golden. Without intent she will absolutely crack you up and pull a stunt that even the finest comedy writers couldn't put their hands to. The woman is a comedy genius. And completely oblivious to it.

Last week the oxygen thief that is Katie Hopkins came out and called dementia patients 'bed blockers' and complete half wits that go about their lives agreeing with the low life took to Twitter to come out with some real classics such as 'if animals had such little quality of life, we'd put them down'...if ever there was a target for trolling, that was it. 

To be honest the comments turned my stomach but in true Jo fashion I decided to look at things from the funny side.

I wanted to write this blog for a few reasons really. Firstly to stick a finger up at people with such awful views and to highlight that in their own little world, dementia sufferers are often having a ball and have a great quality of life. It makes no sense to anyone else but for the most part they are content. If and when the time comes that they require hospital care, they deserve just as much as the next well minded man. So here's the finger...

Secondly, I wanted to write this not as a way to laugh at this terrible condition but to provide a light hearted read for people out there that are dealing with a loved one who's suffering. I hope someone, somewhere will read this, chuckle and feel slightly better knowing they aren't the only ones dealing with the utter madness. 

Thirdly, I wanted to write it for my family. We are pisstakers by default and no ailment, illness or serious problem is exempt from the sarcastic retorts of the Irwins. This is our way of dealing with what is, in fairness, a really horrible situation.

So here it is. The comedy gold that can come from knowing someone with dementia. 

The World According to Joanie Brickell - The Highlights.

- That time she started using a jay cloth to blow her nose instead of a tissues because, well, why wouldn't you do that? 

- The invention of Teoffee - yep you got it - Tea & Coffee all in the same cup. She couldn't remember what you asked for two minutes previous so you are getting both. It's surprisingly not awful. Props to my Uncle for always necking it and not batting an eye.

- Whilst on the hot beverage front, that time that for no reason at all she put soap powder in the coffee jar, mixed it all up and tried to serve it as an appropriate cup of sauce to dip your biscuits in.

- Then there was the time she offered to make us breakfast. We accepted (to our peril) and were presented with three pork pies and a bowl of Haribo. And a teapot of TeOffee. Standard.

- The conviction that the cash point is actually the work of Wizards. It's like magic that! 

- The disdain at the woman on a voicemail. I mean she is, and I quote 'a snooty fucking cow' for telling Nan that my Mum is unavailable to speak. Yep you heard it hear first.

- The invention of Chicken Korma Pasta Bake. That was actually pretty fit to be fair.

- The time we arrived to find Nan's hair covered in what looked like breadcrumbs. After washing and conditioning it for her we realised why. She was finishing the at home salon job off with a bottle of deodrant rather than hairspray.  Give her some due, her hair smelt lush! Her underarms, however, were crunchy as.

- The sandal wearing in December. Fashionista. 

- The need to fry oven chips in butter to go with any meal. They are OVEN chips love. OVEN. 

- When you arrive to find her wearing every single bit of jewellery she's ever owned. My girl looks like a white Mr T...five rings on each finger, three necklaces and two watches. Just to sit indoors. Ballin'.

- When she tells you that all the doctors off Holby City were crowding round her bed the other night. Did you know they only 'fuck off home' if you push the big red button on the remote. True story kids. Listen and learn.

- Then there's the people that live upstairs and keep her awake all night. In her single story bungalow...

-...and the fact that my uncle keeps on making a 140 mile round trip to sneak in during the night to steal her bread, make her a sausage sandwich that she'll leave to go green and untune her TV. He is a bastard for that in fairness. Ever so light fingered when it comes to baked goods. 

- When she asks the meals on wheels lady if tomorrow's menu will include...wait for it...

Hairy Onion Baked Bullock Roll.

Head. In. Hands.

-  Or when she does the washing up with fabric softener. Lush. 

- Then there's the time that it's your birthday...in April...and my girl sends you a Christmas card.

& last but not least.

- That hard time when Pat next door died.

And she wondered why he wasn't very chatty. 

And then they had that party for him when he got taken off in a big old crate on the back of a van.

Poor bastard.

LL

x

Texting Back

I often listen to my Nan talk about the days when she would write to my Grandad when he was out at war. She would write him a note about how London was, how she was, let him know she was safe. He would write back, sometimes weeks later, and share stories of life on the front line.

A real romance. A real story. 50 odd years married. Years and years apart with nothing but a letter now & again.

I’m sure my Nan would check the window for the postman and would have butterflies if something were to land on her mat with my Grandad’s distinctive writing scrawled on the front.

I’m also sure that she was more than happy to wait the weeks. The more weeks, the more special the letter seemed. She just couldn’t wait to have him home. No matter how long she waited. They were only “courting” at the time. This was their way of chatting each other up.

I often wondering what it would be like if my Nan and Grandad were "courting" now. I reckon things would be going a little something like this

.

Grandad would text Nan after having met her in the pub, having had a bit of drunken banter. Met her Friday, Sunday text. Standard two day turn around.

Nan would give it about forty minutes to an hour before replying with a cool, calm, contrived response, accepting his invite to go for a drink. Nan would not put a kiss at the end of the text. Grandad hadn’t put one on his. She wouldn’t want to seem too keen.

So Nan and Grandad have gone on a few dates. Nan’s been well behaved and not got stupidly drunk, not spoken about her crazy ex who once got a kick out of joyriding milk floats, not sworn too much, kept good eye contact but most importantly she played it cool.

 Grandad, cool as ever, is really keen. Nan's like no other girl he knows. She drinks gin like a sailor in head turning dresses. Her laugh is contagious and she likes a good gangster film. Get her talking about football and he's ready to get down one knee.

 After a month or so he can see this going places and reckons he wants to see a bit more of Nan. He’s going out for his birthday in a few weeks and has already bought her a ticket. He means it.

Nan reckons she can sense this and let’s be honest, he’s a catch so she’s beyond keen back. Grandad’s done the running, sorted out the cool east London bars to go too and treated Nan to a couple of cinema trips. It was her turn. 

Nan’s a modern woman. She works, she drives. She knows she needs to be making the moves back. She doesn’t want Grandad thinking she’s not keen. He’s been pretty hot on the texting thing. Most days a cheeky one liner will come through, perhaps a wink emoticon. There’s been texts back and forth. Nan’s confident on this one. After years of bad All Bar One experiences and sketch situations with blokes at work, she’s landed the guy that does the right thing. He replies!

So casual as, Nan sends a text. A cheeky offer of a few drinks and a bite to eat on Friday night. It’s Monday so plenty of warning. Grandad will love this, a confident woman, a woMAN with a plan. Send text.

The standard forty “I’m not going to instantly reply but I want to still appear keen” minutes goes by. No response. Nan gets home. No response. Hair wash. No response. Dinner. No response. The absolute killer…the next morning. No response.

The entire next day in the office is spent in blind panic. Nan’s head is filled with scenario upon scenario about what could have happened. By her afternoon cup of peppermint tea, Grandad is either dead or has fallen head over heels in love with a woman on the bus.

Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning is dedicated to Nan constantly refreshing her Facebook feed. 1am Wednesday morning and Grandad checks in at the pub and likes a few comments. 'Checked in using Android'. The “he’s been mugged so couldn't possibly reply” option is out of the window.

Wednesday is spent heartbroken that Grandad hasn’t been involved in a fatal accident and is in fact ignoring Nan. She spends the day re-reading the text. Wondering if the smiley face and the wink was a step too far. Maybe she wasn’t direct enough? Maybe she was too forward? 

5pm Wednesday and the sending texts to herself thing begins. Poor Nan just wants to ensure that her phone is actually working. It is.

By the end of the bus journey home Nan has decided to join the gym, dye her hair and eat salad only for a month. He clearly is so repulsed by the sight of her name, let her alone her face, that he can’t bring himself to reply to a god damn text.

"That’s It!", Nan thinks. She’s moving on. She didn’t like him anyway. Another shower. Her phones on silent and in the bottom of her bag. She’d rather Aunty Rene didn’t send a text, she hear it and get her hopes up.

Gets in to bed. Making a mental note to smile at every bloke on the way to work tomorrow. 48 hours is plenty of time to secure a date for Friday night. She has after all already told her Mum she won’t be in for dinner. The potential humiliation is too much to bear.

11.15pm Wednesday.
1 message received
Grandad;
yeah sounds good ;) what time?

Nan blushes even though nobody’s there. She falls asleep wondering what to wear and giggling to herself at the jokes she knows he'll already make. 

Bloody Grandad.

 Imagine if he’d have left it 3 weeks to reply like he did in 1941….

LL x