Alzheimer’s is making it hard for Lena to name and place things, but there’s nothing wrong with her vision or imagination.
May 2015 – Our weekend in the Lake District
Coming down the country lane towards us, a silver-haired couple with all the right gear for the Lakeland fells: wind jackets, backpacks, walking boots, walking poles. Us? We were clearly amateurs. Shoes for city pavements, light sweaters, and a shopping bag slung across my shoulder. But we hadn’t planned to go hiking. It was just a spur-of-the-moment decision to follow a signpost.
GRASMERE – 5 MILES
Grasmere. The village home of one of our most famous poets, William Wordsworth. The place he described as “the loveliest spot that man hath ever found”. We probably wouldn’t go all the way there, but it was a perfect Spring afternoon for a stroll. And we were well-provisioned, with a couple of oranges and a packet of crisps in my bag.
After an hour on the trail, we’d learnt the country code. At about ten yards distance, a smile then a nod to each of the passers-by, always maintaining eye-contact.
— Afternoon.
— Afternoon.
They were past, and walked away out of my life. But not Lena’s.
— That’s exactly where we saw them yesterday.
A month ago, I’d have reminded her that this time yesterday we were a hundred miles away. And that we’d never been here before. And that we’d probably never seen the couple. But I’m learning it’s not worth arguing with Alzheimer’s logic. So I just agreed.
— Mmm. Yes.
She’ll probably see them in the same place tomorrow, back at home in Salford. Unless, by a trillion to one chance, we actually do see them. Then when I point them out, she’ll tell me I must be imagining things.
* * *
They could easily have called this beautiful corner of north-west England ‘The Sheep District’ – although perhaps that wouldn’t have the same tourist appeal. Sheep are everywhere, grazing mostly, or sleeping. Lambs too at this time of year, bleating piteously half-way up a hillside, or vigorously pushing at a mother’s teats, little tails twirling.
All of them white, black-faced. Except for one, who stood watching us cautiously, wall-eyed, a few feet away. She was brown – and Lena called out:
— Baa baa brown sheep black …
If only I could come up with a tune.
* * *
There’s something about walking that seems to set the creative juices flowing. Not walking from A to B, just walking for the sake of it.
Every few minutes on that four-hour walk, Lena spotted something that reminded her of her brothers, her parents, the family summer-house in the Swedish countryside. A bluebell-carpeted bank, a glimpse of the stream below.
She struggles sometimes to name and place things, but there’s nothing wrong with her vision or imagination.
— Look at those trees.
There are a hundred trees. What’s she looking at? I followed her outstretched arm.
— Where? Over there?
— Yes, two together … Look. My brothers made one like that.
Two together? Ah. Now I saw it. Two low-lying branches, coiled together, tensioned, a natural catapult at the side of the stream.
— So was it somewhere you played?
— Yes they were so nice to me. They always let me play.
I had a vision of little sister Lena being pitched high up into the air.
— Tell me about the games you played.
— I was with Bosse and Janne.
— Your brothers, yes. But what did you play?
My question wasn’t answered. We’d turned a corner on the track, and Lena gasped, standing there stock-still.
— Look at HIM!
The path ahead was empty. Was Lena suddenly delusional, hallucinating? I’d been warned this was a potential Alzheimer’s symptom.
— Who? There’s nobody here, Lena.
— No. Him! Look at his face.
— What are you talking about? There’s no face.
— No, here. Come here.
She pulled me to her, pointed. And now, from Lena’s perspective, I saw him there in the bank, rough-hewn, hollow-eyed, deep in thought and lichen. Just waiting for us to pass. Silently recording our passing.
I greeted him.
— Afternoon.
This time there was no response.
Because of course he wasn’t a walker, and we won’t see him in Salford tomorrow. He’ll stay right there with his memories locked in forever. Everything he’s seen on this path over centuries and everything he’s heard, all perfectly preserved. Secrets he cannot share. And invisible to everyone — except those who have the imagination to see him.
