— You’re doing a great job!

How many times have I heard that in the last few years? These days I just smile when they say it. And think … if only they knew.

 

Nobody praised me like that when I was a new father. To be fair, I didn’t do a great job, although nobody could accuse me of being short on imagination. There was that time when Edwin was just a couple of weeks old and Lena put me in charge so she could take a break and go out for a couple of hours.

— Will you be OK, älskling?

— What do I do with him?

— Nothing. I just fed him, so he’ll probably sleep till I‘m back.

— What if he doesn’t?

— Just sing him one of your songs. I told him you’re really good and your singing always sends me to sleep.

— Thanks for that.

But clearly little Edwin wasn’t impressed. When he started whimpering five minutes after Lena left, I took out my guitar, sat next to the cot and sang Hush-A-Bye.

When he started crying five minutes later, I lifted him out of his cot, careful not to drop him — I’d heard dropping was bad for babies — cradled him against my shoulder, and started walking him around the house, singing Mockingbird. Just softly, and I guess he couldn’t hear me, because now he was bawling.

What was I going to do?

What would Lena do? She’d give him the breast, that’s what she’d do. I didn’t have a breast. Not a functioning one, anyway. But … I had a nose.

As the little mouth locked into position, I had a moment’s misgiving. They didn’t have teeth, did they, these babies? No, of course they didn’t, or there’d be no breast-feeding.

Miraculously, it worked. Without an available nose I couldn’t really sing, but my baby was content, sucking occasionally, until he drifted off to sleep just a few minutes before Lena was back, mercifully much earlier than she’d said.

— What happened to your nose? It looks like a strawberry!

— I …er…

As I explained my new method of parenting, she laughed so much she was crying.

And the next day at work, I told the guys it was a squash accident — the ball had hit me in the face. They didn’t look convinced.

 

 

After this brief foray into motherhood, I gradually got the hang of being a father. Was I a good dad? I suppose you could say I always showed up. I was always there for the kids’ parties Lena organised, learning that to be a good entertainer all I had to do was let the little horrors throw a bunch of wet cloths at me till I was soaked. When Lena baked her special Swedish cinnamon rolls — bullar — I was always first in the queue, showing the kids how to enjoy them. And when she brought the three of them back from their summer holidays in Sweden, I always stopped work to meet them at the airport, delighted to see my beautiful wife leading her three ducklings through the throng.

I see them now. Lena, serene and unflustered, pushing the baggage trolley; then Edwin, manfully hauling another suitcase and anxiously checking back to see that the sisters were still following; then Josie with her pink My Little Pony lunchbox in one hand while the other held onto little Annelie, who stomped fiercely along to show that nothing or nobody could scare her.

The thing is, it was easy being a dad when Lena was the mamma. She built a family while I, less successfully, built a business. We never talked about it — it was never a plan. We just slotted comfortably into our roles, doing the things we loved, what came naturally. For me, in the early years, that meant frequent trips away, flying back to the Mid-East, sometimes for weeks at a time. Later I launched my own business ventures, working day and night to get them off the ground and then keep them in the air. I did so with the warm certainty that Lena had everything under control back at home, that I had her support no matter how things turned out, that they’d all be happy to see me when I got back to them.

I thought I worked hard. But it never occurred to me that Lena’s job was even harder. Or at least it never occurred to me until I started taking care of a person instead of a business. That person was Lena, now our kids were young adults and she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I was completely unprepared for the change, and maybe even less capable than I had been as a new father.

 

Spring 2014

 

 

Lena’s sitting hunched over at the edge of the bed, muttering at her feet.

— What’s the problem?

— These shoes won’t come off.

She moved her hands away and I could see the problem. The laces on both her shoes were double-knotted. And then double-knotted again. And then again. I laughed. She wasn’t amused.

— How did you do that?

— I didn’t!

— Oh, so we have a little knot-gubbe running around the house somewhere and causing mischief, do we? Just wait till I get my hands on him!

— It’s not funny.

— OK. Let me have a go. I’m good at knots.

Unfortunately in my distinguished career as a Boy Scout I never learnt the art of unknotting. And these knots were challenging. That rascal imp had pulled the laces so tight that it took me a good ten minutes to untie them.

— There. That better?

She smiled, happy again now and kicked the shoes off.

— Thank you. And sorry.

— Apology accepted. So is that a confession?

— What do you mean?

— Are you telling me you tied all the knots.

— No, I didn’t. Why would I want to?

I don’t suppose she wanted to the next day either. Or the next. Or the next. And then twice a day. And again and again and again. And now she’d given up trying to unlace the shoes herself. She just sat there, looking unhappy, not asking for help but just waiting for me to come and fix them. And each time I did, a little knot of anger and frustration began to grow in my head. No, it wasn’t funny any more. Why couldn’t Lena unlearn her new skill? Why was she unravelling? I knew it was Alzheimer’s of course. But didn’t she want to fight it, like I did? Was she just giving up?

 

Eventually it was Josie who fixed me.

— Well if it’s such a problem, why don’t you get her some shoes without laces? Hasn’t she got some anyway? She always used to have lots of shoes.

— She has. But she never chooses them, only ever her trainers.

— Maybe she doesn’t like heels any more, with all the walking you’re doing.

— Maybe.

— And why is she wearing shoes in the house anyway? Hasn’t she got slippers?

— Yes, but I can’t find them. I don’t know where she’s put them.

— OK. Why don’t I take her shopping and we can get some? Shoes and slippers. And no laces.

 

 

Lena’s little duckling was now my grown-up sensible swan.