My Bonnie: How dementia stole the love of my life. John Suchet

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СКАЧАТЬ they got the wrong person—and when I look at the very smart gold and engraved glass award sitting on my grandparents’ glass-fronted cabinet, I regularly say to Bonnie that when they realise their mistake it’ll be too late, they’re not getting it back.

      Back at the beginning of 1970, with my career in tatters, my first wife Moya and I moved into a Victorian cottage at the end of a cul-de-sac in leafy Henley-on-Thames and I took on a crippling mortgage. The house was cold and damp and parts of it were at risk of falling down. It needed a lot of work, and I had never held a drill in my life. A small slope went up into woods opposite our house. Three new houses had been built on it, red brick, boxlike, unattractive. In the summer of 1970, Bonnie and her husband moved into the house at the top of the slope.

      I am writing this at the large oak dining table in the old farmhouse Bonnie and I bought 20 years ago in Gascony in south-west France. Bonnie is walking slowly around the house. It’s what she does now. She can’t settle. She stands at the kitchen door, squinting at the brightness outside. She walks the length of the kitchen, then into the sitting room, which we call the séjour, where I am writing. Hello darling, I say, I am writing about you. Good, she says, without questioning me any further. On the table is a large brown envelope with my name on it. Inside are sample chapters of a forthcoming book in which carers tell their stories of caring for a loved one with dementia. The author has asked me to write a short paragraph endorsing the book. Bonnie picks up the envelope, but I am not worried she will open it or even ask what is in it. Have you seen this, she asks?

      Yes, I say, affecting a slight weariness in my voice. It’s from a charity I am doing some work for. They want me to read it and give my comments. Lot of stuff to get through. She smiles and puts it down, and walks back to the kitchen, where she stands at the door and squints her eyes again at the brightness outside.

      I haven’t lied to her, I have told her something which is very close to the truth and which I know she will be comfortable with. I am getting better at entering her world and only saying things I know she will comprehend. I mustn’t try to take her outside her world. The tragedy is that that world is slowly shrinking, so something she may grasp today may elude her tomorrow. I have to be on the lookout for that.

      I said she doesn’t settle. It is strange, and at first—for some time, in fact—I found it irritating and rather wearying. Why don’t you sit down, love? Sit in an armchair and relax. All right, she would say, and continue her gentle pacing. Do not try to take her outside her world. So now I say nothing. She is content. But I do have the power to alter things. If I close the computer now, get up, say I have finished writing, and go and sit in an armchair, she will come and sit in an armchair with me.

      She has been patiently pacing for the last couple of hours while I have been filling you in on my unillustrious past, so the time has come to stop and give some time to her. So if you’ll excuse me…

      My first wife Moya and I had a volatile, combustive relationship. Although from totally different backgrounds, our temperaments were rather similar. We were both highly strung, emotional, quick to judgment, with a temper. She came from a Scottish family and was proud of her Celtic blood. I came from, er, lots of different places. Yet we were both, to simplify, ‘artists’ rather than ‘scientists’. We liked books, theatre, films, music. Only problem was we liked totally different books, theatre, films, music to each other. There would be fierce argument about the merits or de-merits of a particular work of art, with measures of intolerance and ridicule thrown in. There was rarely a meeting of minds.

      I was 19 when we met and 24 when we married. Ridiculously young, really, but I was the product of a ‘boys only’ education. At prep school the most popular boys were the ones who had a sister who just might come to visit, which would mean a rare sighting of a sublime creature with long hair wearing a skirt and maybe—god, the thrill of expectation —a touch of lipstick. At public school we were expressly forbidden from talking to girls who lived in the town. A boy who had the temerity not only to do that but to date her as well, was expelled between making the date and keeping it. How then to get to know these wonderful creatures? How to approach them, what on earth to say to them? For me even at 18, girls were mysterious and desirable creatures from another planet. I had no idea how to talk to one, let alone how to embark on anything more daring. And so practically the first girl who (finally) allowed me to kiss her became my wife.

      My parents could see that, in marrying Moya, I was about to make the mistake of my life. Both tried hard to talk sense into me, to make me change my mind. Does a very young man who has secured an Honours degree in Political Science and Philosophy, who has landed the job of a lifetime at the first attempt, listen to his parents? Some may, but this one did not.

      Problem was, Moya knew full well the lengths my parents had gone to in their attempts to stop me marrying her, and so once we were married she insisted I was to have nothing more to do with them. Nothing. I wasn’t to see them, or try to make contact with them in any way. I had a new life now, with her. Even I could see that was a bit extreme, but I let it go. Emotions were running high. I thought in time they would settle on both sides, and life would get back to normal. But it didn’t. She really meant it. I soon learned that even to mention my parents was to invite trouble. Still I did nothing to correct the situation. The birth of our first son, Damian, did little to calm things down. I threw myself into my work, and when we moved out to Henley it put physical distance between me and my ‘old’ family. Always at the back of my mind was the belief that one day matters would correct themselves, but in the meantime it simply became easier to carry on doing nothing. It made for an easier life.

      Two more sons, Kieran and Rory, arrived, but I wasn’t allowed to tell their grandparents, never mind take them for a visit. How much longer would this new way of life last? I clung to the belief that it might end at any moment. My worst nightmare was that one of my parents would die before it was rectified. I felt guilty that I was allowing it to happen, but couldn’t think how to resolve it without damaging my increasingly strained marriage.

      Meanwhile, my attention had been caught by the young blonde woman who lived in the house at the top of the slope. I had found out her name was Bonnie. She was stunningly beautiful and around her shone an aura of calm. Even before I had exchanged anything more than social pleasantries with her, I knew profoundly, totally, with not a shred of doubt or hesitation, that this would be my ideal woman. Sadly, a woman who could never belong to me. Too bad. I wouldn’t be the first man to find himself in such a position. At the very least, I thought, I would enjoy getting to know her, and derive pleasure from that.

      Dreams are cruel and memories hurt. Just before waking this morning, I had the most intense dream about Bonnie. The old days were back. You can imagine. I awoke to feel her getting out of bed and knew I would have to lead her to the bathroom. Black dog depression on my shoulders. I got her dressed, and saw hanging up one of her favourite tops, colourful, beautiful, elegant. Boy, she used to turn heads when she wore that. It has been untouched for years. There is no point in reminding her of it—she would just smile and say yes. I touched it, as I used to, and stroked the buttons I was once so expert at loosening.

      At breakfast she stood and walked to the kitchen door. She chuckled and said in a mock Cockney accent, ‘Is that your car?’ ‘Sorry?’ I asked. She repeated it, adding, ‘You know, that’s what those people say, those people, you know the ones, they just came in.’ I laughed and agreed. In fact, it is an annoying ad running on UK television at the moment, and she has memorised the catchphrase.

      Good start to the day, triple whammy depression. I snap myself out of it, repeating the mantra—no self-pity, John, no self-pity. But it is so difficult. Here she is again now, just walking in and out of the séjour, while I tap-tap away, conjuring her up in my mind as she was in those long-gone, distant days, when I responded to her every word, every casually administered gesture. In my mind there is one person, in front of my eyes another, different person. It is impossible to stop the tears.

      Bonnie СКАЧАТЬ