Waiting for a Serenade
The diary of an Alzheimer's carer
‘Do you live in England, Oliver?’
‘No, I live here with you, mom. It’s been five years now.’
‘Are you leaving soon?’
‘No. But If one day I do, Martin will stay with you.’
The mobile phone is opened on my hand and shows an e-mail from R. at the recruitment agency, with a new role for a not-for-profit organisation in London. The role hasn’t gone live yet, his e-mail says. Are you interested?
I could do it with my eyes closed, I reply. Sounds great. Except... I wouldn’t make enough money to survive London and send to my brother.
Mom coughs in the living room. Her face blows up red.
‘I’m drowning! I’m drowning!’ she gasps.
I order her to raise her arms while I get a glass of water. She’s starting to forget how to swallow; it grows worse by the day. Sometimes she’ll choke all night long, as if there were a lifetime of tar in her lungs coming up. I hear the choking and gasping through my bedroom wall; there’s only so much I can do to help.
My brother helped her quit cigarettes last year. Alzheimer’s erases not only lived memories but body functions too.
I hang a load of washed blankets to dry behind the guesthouse. At the end of the day, I go through them, picking guest hair that survived the wash cycle. I drop them on the grass.
It’s late summer; the heatwave won’t break. My brother stays with mom for an hour so I can go for a swim. I fish leaves and insects out of the water with a long pool net. Then inside, I scoop the ones still alive with my cupped hands and drop them on the warm stones around the pool. They soon recover and limp away.
Iron four pillowcases, two bath towels, one floor towel and two hand towels. Fold them.
Grab roll of toilet paper, bottle of water and plastic bag for bathroom bin. Also grab bucket, cleaning product, marigolds, broom and squeegee.
Open bedroom windows and balcony. Sweep floor then mop it. Sweep bathroom, wipe all surfaces then mop it.
Prep bed, prop pillows by headboard, and wipe away creases from duvet cover.
Thunder in the distance; watch the mist rolling down mountains, heading for guesthouse.
Check room is OK before placing all cleaning material in bucket and rushing through the rain, back inside.
Did you see where I put my lighter?
What day of the week is it?
What day of the month is it?
Really? I thought we were close to Christmas!
Oliver! No, nothing – I just wanted to check if you were here.
I’ve never watched this soap opera before.
What’s the name of the black cat? And the yellow one?
Do you ever think about returning to England?
Who keeps my bank card? You or your brother?
Selling my car was the biggest mistake of my life.
It’s so dark outside.
Can you make sure you lock all the doors?
He messages me on the gay hookup app Daddy Hunt a few months after my arrival in Brazil.
He says he’s looking for a meaningful connection. Sex is great and everything, but he’d rather have a cup of coffee and get to know someone. Would I like to go see a movie with him? The 21-year-old and the 44-year-old.
Tuesday 8.30 p.m., his day off, we’ll meet outside the cinema. We’ll have half an hour before the movie starts. I don’t know what to expect; it turns out to be dubbed Star Wars.
We hardly watch any of the movie.
My Ashtanga yoga teacher in London gave me a recording by David Swenson before I left that talks you through a 45-minute routine. I do it sometimes in my bedroom. The recording emphasises close attention to one’s breath.
My mom sometimes walks in on me doing shoulder stands, bridges, fishes. The corpse too, when I’ve let go and focus solely on air going in and out.
When I walk through the property, climbing the hill that leads up to the guesthouse’s chalets, I notice my breath. When it rains at night and the humid heat clears, I notice my breath.
Before enlightenment, sweep leaves and feed mother.
After enlightenment, sweep leaves and feed mother.
I climb up the property’s mountain close to sunset. I walk into the pool; the water is lukewarm. I dive in and swim across it.
Clouds in the sky like giant spacecrafts – eyeless and static. Birds shake a nearby tree. I’m all alone; I’ve been all alone.
I swim back and forth, languid in my solitude. Pretty evening lights, the stars will soon rise. How long can we keep the world at bay? For how long can we survive with an empty guesthouse?
One cloud looks like an upside-down skull. Another is straight out of a Turner painting.
Just silence.
The 21-year-old who went to see Star Wars with me stops replying to my messages. Have I been ghosted?
Maybe he was put off by my brother driving me to the cinema, then collecting me afterwards. I was more of a Zero Calories Daddy than a Sugar Daddy.
So many profiles on hookup apps seem as distant as apparitions, immaterial and hard to pin down. I refocus on planting native trees in our property just before the rainy season. Some are prehistoric in nature and will be fully grown when I’m near my tomb. Will my ghost walk through them?
I used to attend a meditation group for gay men while living in London. One of the regulars, Chris, was a warm and friendly presence.
On my last visit, I told him I was returning soon to Brazil to help care for my mom.
‘I also left London years ago and went back to my mom’s town, to care for her. I stayed until she passed away.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Ten years. I was very good at it.’
A few years later, a friend forwarded an e-newsletter from the group: Chris had suddenly died of a heart attack.
Rice with fried onions and salt. Green onions sometimes.
Pinto beans left in water overnight, then pressure cooked with salt and fried garlic. One bay leaf.
Eggplants sliced and covered with salt, to lose water. Then placed in a tomato and red pepper stew (with onions, oregano and garlic), and covered with mozzarella. Straight into the oven.
White flour and chia seeds. Three loaves of bread. Butter and white cheese. Endless coffees.
A box of chocolates hidden away, otherwise they’ll disappear like a magic trick.
Melon, papaya, banana, avocado, a spoon of peanut butter, milk and water. Blended to perfection.
My brother and I build an outdoors calisthenics training area next to the breakfast room. I skip rope, do leg raises, push ups, and pull ups on my gymnast rings. I train like I haven’t trained since 2019, when I lived in London and regularly met gay men through the apps or bars.
After a snack and a shower, my body tingling with energy and fatigue, watching TV with mom, I receive a message from S., who I haven’t heard from in ages.
I’m horny and thinking of you right now. Got any recent photos?
I let him know I’m returning to the UK soon, that we can finally see each other again after a five-year-gap. My hair is dishevelled in recent photos, my eyes serious.
I don’t open the apps anymore in this small town; I stopped using them after the 21-year-old. Most men are faceless, married, or even cousins of mine. Where would I meet them anyway? Nobody can host, and I wouldn’t want to bring them to the guesthouse, past my brother’s house by the entrance, to one of the spare rooms, while mom sleeps alone, and the cats wait by my window to be let in.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I tell mom. ‘I won’t be late.’
Just an hour-long walk down a quiet country road. Nothing extravagant for this, my regular need to get away and breathe.
Earphones in place, podcast chosen, blue sky, late afternoon. A few “good afternoons” to people that cycle or walk past. Determined steps, fresh air, needed exercise.
Suddenly, dark clouds move in from both the east and west. Behind me, a rain cloud rolls down the guesthouse’s mountain.
I rush back home, dripping wet. As I step past the entrance gate, a luminous rainbow opens above the world.
Amora’s yellow cat eyes peering at the ceiling, waiting for the moth to fall.
My mother’s walk around the bonfire pit each morning, smoking a cigarette, not remembering the cat’s name.
Our childhood pictures on the mantelpiece — one of us now gone.
The smoothy I blend every night with bananas, soja extract, water, honey, melon, papaya and avocados.
My teen years’ music collection.
The crime, sci-fi and fantasy novels, yellowed and spotted, still clinging to our library, their fonts now ever so small for my eyes.
The shower’s water hitting my head after a full day of gardening and cleaning.
I spray my arms with mom’s Estee Lauder “Beautiful” just before a couple arrive by surprise, requesting a tour of the guesthouse.
They are getting married in May and want to see the accommodations. The bride wants a room she can get ready before the ceremony.
They heard of the chalets with the bathtubs and mountain views, so I give them a tour. I apologise for the state of the garden, which I haven’t been able to keep tidy thanks to ten uninterrupted days of rain. We dodge quite a few piles of horseshit.
Their faces ooze kindness and understanding.
They say it’s hard for dementia patients to take on new activities. That’s why it’s important to keep them engaged in enjoyable activities they are familiar with, for as long as possible. My mom doesn’t read or crochet anymore — two activities she loved. Interestingly, though, she takes up ironing clothes.
We tune into Magic FM in the mornings, a smooth classics station. She sits by the laundry basket while I prepare lunch and, iron in hand, gets to work. The Beatles, Motown, Whitney Houston — so many songs she enjoyed when she could still drive, when she still could create memories.
My brother announces that him and his wife are separating and he’s moving in with us.
‘You can now go back to the UK if you want,’ he says. ‘I’ll take care of mom.’
We borrow money from the bank and buy a one-way ticket for me in September.
‘What time is it?’ mom asks as I lead her to her bedroom.
‘10.30 p.m.’
It’s always 10.30 p.m., regardless of the hour.
‘Leave your walking stick by the wall and give me your coat. Now follow me to the bathroom.’
I squeeze toothpaste onto her toothbrush and then hand it to her. Afterwards, when she lies down, I ask her to keep her eyes wide open so I can squeeze eye drops. They are meant to slow down her eyes’ degenerative disease.
‘Will they make my eyes turn blue?’ she jokes.
‘Good night,’ I say as I turn off the light.
‘Will there be a serenade tonight?’
‘Yes, probably. Keep your ears peeled by the window.’
She giggles and I close her bedroom door.
This article was written in collaboration with
at CarerMentor. Click here for a link to her Collaboration request. Thank you Victoria!You can also click here to find out more about 'Who Started Carer Mentor and Why'.
Hey Ollie, it’s hard not to reply to this piece with something that risks sounding glib, or - even worse - patronising.
I thought this was written so clearly and with a kind of breathtaking honesty; so it has an unusual quality of being a great piece of writing, and a statement of yourself from the various different angles of your life.
I hope you found it rewarding to write, and to re-read, and that the ability to write continues to support you.
Beautiful account, Ollie - thank you for sharing it.