Forget me not
We’ll gather together and celebrate as usual – but for me every day is special
Olive Munro, 68, Ardtalnaig, Perthshire
Flapping my hands towards each other, then fanning them out to the sides, I shook my head in frustration.
I was trying to tell my hubby a story about a test I’d taken at a doctor’s appointment but I couldn’t find the words.
‘It’s a squeeze box,’ I sighed. ‘A musical instrument!’ Ronnie, 74, offered a guess. ‘Do you mean an accordion?’ he said, confused. That’s it!
I continued my story – but, deep down, I was worried.
Over the past few years I’d started to find my brain wasn’t working like it used to.
Words had started to get away from me.
Some conversations felt like a game of Articulate.
Even the simplest maths sums seemed impossible.
So in January 2015, I decided to get to the bottom of it.
Was it just old age getting the better of me, or something more serious?
My GP ran tests, said I only had a 10 per cent memory loss.
But, due to my family history of dementia, he referred me for an MRI scan.
Afterwards, worry made my stomach hollow like an empty pit.
Then the doctor sat me down and said, ‘I’m so sorry, but you have vascular dementia.’
Usually, I would be prepared with endless questions.
But I was silent, only able to scribble down the name of my condition.
I returned home with Ronnie, lost in my thoughts. Then I switched on the computer and went online.
I learnt the condition was caused by diseased blood vessels reducing the blood supply to the brain.
As a result, my brain cells were dying at an accelerated rate. Symptoms included memory loss, disorientation and an increased risk of strokes.
But what scared me most was not knowing which part of my brain would go first.
Our three children, Alene, 48, Douglas, 46, and Christopher, 43, lived in Canada with their families.
I didn’t know how to break it to them. Eventually, though, I dialled Alene to explain.
‘But I’m OK,’ I assured her after filling her in.
‘I’m coming to visit you at least once a year,’ she announced, her voice wobbling.
Despite the ocean between us, we loved each other dearly.
Ronnie and I already
visited the kids in Canada a couple of times a year.
But I understood Alene’s sense of urgency.
My great aunt had suffered from dementia. Our hearts broke as her memories slipped away over eight years. How many do I have left?
Even if my memory was going, I was determined some things would never change.
Come Christmas, Ronnie and I always dressed up as Santa and Mrs Claus. We’d been doing it for years. We popped up in local schools and hotels throughout December every year.
Ronnie made a fantastic Father Christmas with his bushy beard!
The kids loved it. And so did I.
It got me thinking, too, about all our family traditions...
When each of my kids had turned 21, we’d given them a key to represent their journey into adulthood.
I wanted to carry that on for our six grandkids: Andrew, 17, Colin, 12, Liam and Conor, 8, Luka, 7, and Isla, 4.
But what if I
didn’t remember anything about them by then? So I picked up six, black old-fashioned keys with lattice tops from an antique store in Edinburgh. One for each of my grandchildren. I planned to write a letter to accompany them, ready for their 21st birthdays in the decades that followed. I had so much to say! I hoped my heartfelt letters would show how much I’d always loved them. But every time I sat down with a pen in my hand, I couldn’t bring myself to write anything. In December 2017, I packed the keys in my suitcase and flew to Canada to spend Christmas at my daughter Alene’s house. I hoped that I’d find inspiration for my letters while we were there. With everyone gathered in Alene’s living room on Boxing Day, Ronnie and I came in, wearing our Christmas suits. The kids all gasped, then began giggling as they swarmed around us. That day, we snapped hundreds of pictures. And I realised how important photographs had become to me. I prayed they’d help me cling to the jolly memories a bit longer.
During our trip, Ronnie caught one of my grandson’s ice-hockey games.
I’d long since refused to go to them.
The sight of the young boys bashing each other against the barriers turned my stomach.
But Ronnie came home laughing.
‘That boy is so kind and sensitive, until he’s on the ice!’ he joked.
I knew I had to include that in one of the letters, so I made a note as a reminder.
When we returned home, I fished out the keys from my bag.
Spotted the metal in one had kinked somewhere along our flight home.
‘This is going to my mischievous one,’ I chuckled to Ronnie.
I planned to give it to one of my twin grandsons. Time moved on and I found I had courage and passion like never before. Ronnie and I completed a 780km walk from France to northern Spain for Alzheimer’s Research UK this July. We raised £3,000 during the two-month hike. I wasn’t a fan of walking, but I knew that staying active while living with dementia is so important. And raising money is my way of paving the way for generations to come. Next year, I’m planning to walk the historic Via Francigena from the Swiss Alps through Italy to Rome, with my husband. I’m grateful that I still have all my memories of my family.
But I’m starting to forget the smaller details.
So this Christmas, Alene and her son Colin will be celebrating in Scotland with us.
We’ll exchange presents and I’ll be Mrs Claus once again.
Instead of writing down my memories, I want to help create special ones of us for them.
Memories of eating mince and tatties on Christmas Day, like Ronnie and I have done for years. And I want to hear Ronnie reading them The Night Before Christmas.
Every second will count towards my goal.
For us, Christmas is a wonderful day. But I treasure every day with my family.
I found I had courage and passion like never before