Saturday 27 May 2023
My mother and I shuffle slowly along the trails through the woods at the back of her house. Our time together is precious and yet I don’t mind that we spend it in this way. In fact, I can think of few places I’d rather be than arm in arm with my mother in the English countryside surrounded by the glorious full bloom of a sunny day in May.
The slow pace allows me to tune into nature and gives me time to appreciate the beauty around me: the vibrant green of the beech and silver birch trees in their explosive growth phase; buttercups, daisies and bluebells lining the path. Bursts of brilliant white cowslip everywhere. I listen to the soft festination of my mother’s feet against a backdrop of melodic birdsong. Dappled sunlight adds a constant change of view as we meander along the path hardened by the recent clement weather. The only downside is that I haven’t been able to smell any of it for over six years, though my mother can still enjoy the aroma of Spring: the difference in our olfaction is one of the many mysteries of how Parkinson’s affects everyone differently.
53 years ago, my mother became a devoted, selfless parent. She nurtured me through my baby years, my first words, my first steps, my primary school years, and my teens, before finally stepping back and watching from a distance as I set sail on my own voyage. Now that odyssey has come full circle and I find myself playing the parent. When I do my monthly visit, a 7-hour round trip from my home in South East London, I cook lunch for her, take her for a walk, and occasionally do a couple of small errands around the house. We spend a few hours playing Scrabble or doing the cryptic crossword in the local paper together, chat a little about our Parkinson's, and of course I give her a back massage.
She is desperately frail, her body contorted and atrophied. She sleeps much of the time and needs frequent rests. But her eyes still sparkle with humour and grace, and she is still just about able to get out for a short walk every day.
All too soon, it is time to leave and I reluctantly head out to the taxi waiting for me at the end of the road. We embrace. She clutches my tightly. and tells me she will be lonely when I’m gone. I assure her I will be back soon and that one of my siblings will also be with her before long.
As I speed south on the train writing this blog post, I am filled with happiness at a day well spent. I already looking forward to coming back again next month. But there is also a tinge of poignancy. I don’t know when it will happen. It may still be several years away. I may not even realise it at the time. One time when I do this trip, it will be the for the last time.
