Auntie Lizzie discovered me by chance, wandering along the main street of my hometown, despondent and crying over... something. I don’t recall what but I’m sure it seemed world-ending to my fifteen-year-old self.
She took me into a little baker’s, bought me tea and cake and just let me talk at her.
When I’d finished moaning, and sobbing and snotting, she simply took my hand and gently told me that, ‘It’s only a moment in time, son. It’ll pass.’
We talked some more, had a laugh about some long-forgotten things and parted. It was probably one of the last times I saw Lizzie. Our brief exchange fortified me and gave me the one thing I needed very badly.
Hope.
She died several years later, having lived with Alzheimer’s for her final years.
Many times through my life – happy times, hard times, heart break and emotional despair – I’ve recalled and recited Lizzie’s words. To remind myself that it will pass, that it was only a moment.
Moments are something that defines Alzheimer’s, for those living with the condition and for those supporting someone they love through it. Moments of lucidity, or joy or anger or despair. Moments where the person is lost or trapped deep inside themselves under the weight of misfiring neurones and jumbled memories, when their very sense of identity seems a distant chink of light in a n endless dark tunnel.
A series of moments, where the present world seems alien, and unfamiliar and cruel… perhaps. Sometimes it seems wondrous, but not often. Moments also where they return to themselves and smile at someone who loves them in recognition. Just a smile, but that moment reminds you that they are in there and still love you. That moment returns part of your soul to you as surely as it does theirs.
Moments that pass. Moments that are excruciating but beautiful moments also that, despite the maze they walk in, makes you rediscover that part of them you thought may be gone. A squeeze of a hand. A wink, a smile. The words, I love you.
Moments. They pass even when sometimes we wish they wouldn’t.