Alzheimer’s, my dog and me Valerie Blumenthal’s
In a moving testament to her beloved dog Mozart, Valerie Blumenthal explains how his devotion lifted her when she was at her lowest ebb, and adds a heart-rending postscript
Moving tale about how her dog has saved her
My german shepherd,
Mozart, and I had landmark birthdays recently. I’d not been looking forward to either of them – another year older for both of us. My canine son has overtaken me, and is now eight years older than me, in human years. I dread the day he goes.
mozart is unconcerned by such semantics. He is not troubled by the future; he’s still a free spirit, as I once was.
He does not have Alzheimer’s. In the morning, when my husband gets out of bed, mozart springs on to it. Recently, he has become less athletic, so it sometimes takes several attempts. The usual ritual of squeaks, tummy rubs and licks ensue; then he settles in his preferred spot, wrapping his paw round
my arm. His beautiful eyes shine with a cataract gaze. I hug him to me; he smells of biscuits and earth.
I am a novelist, so writing has been my life and livelihood for many years. Five years ago I was diagnosed with PCA Alzheimer’s. This stands for Posterior Cortical Atrophy, and affects the back part of the brain, which is responsible for vision and motor skills.
For me, the worst thing of all is the fact that PCA renders me illiterate.
It is a cruel trick to play on an author.
I can recall my bewilderment during those lonely, dark days before I was diagnosed. I could not comprehend why I had apparently become so inadequate at performing the most basic tasks. living with PCA is akin to living with a poltergeist; you might put down an object for a moment,
only to find it after an exhaustive search in a totally different location from where you thought it had been.
Since then, with the passage of time, I have undergone various stages. There have been tears, laughter, sorrow and swearing. In my late fifties, I felt far too young to have Alzheimer’s. I should have had another 20 years in which to enjoy a full and active life. But, as the disease progresses and the familiar becomes foreign to me, so I have re-evaluated my life accordingly. music, painting, singing and gardening keep me occupied – but it is my dog who has saved me.
Time for our walk. mozart watches me expectantly as I zip up my jacket. His eyes become wild and he emits a series of yelps. He then grabs his toy duck, tears outside with it and at breakneck speed makes three circuits around the garden with the toy between his jaws. He drops it then and pretends to be a sheepdog, trying to round me up. I have his lead with me, but it is for emergencies only, as we are straight onto a track adjoining the nature reserve.
Small victories
likewise, I do not take with me the white stick that usually accompanies me everywhere. I know every inch of this terrain. In towns, because I cannot judge distances, I become stressed and I feel vulnerable and confused.
I do not know where to place my feet; shadows and reflections distort reality. Crowded places homogenise into a single ambient pattern.
Sometimes I find it tempting to look back with nostalgia to the person I used to be, and to hanker for what I cannot have, and what I cannot do. It feels like a game of subtraction as my perimeters shrink and words elude me; but I have come to realise it is healthy to grieve, and normal to become frustrated. After the tears, my small victories are all the greater.
Back to the present. mozart rolls in a puddle, in a moment of sheer happiness, then shakes himself and bounds backs towards me. I look at him, as he busily sniffs a scent that only he can smell.
It is a cold morning, and a golden sun glares down. The trees, too, are gold. It is a golden landscape. It is truly beautiful and hints of optimism. There is nobody else about, but overhead a red kite soars and plunges, and I can see its eyes and powerful beak.
On such a morning, I cannot be sad or regretful. I can pretend, and even believe that there is nothing wrong with me; it is an elaborate trick. That hideous, archaic word ‘dementia’ does not apply to me.
Days of relentless rain means that mozart’s thick coat is caked in mud; his paws resemble bars of chocolate. Back at home he knows the score and lies
‘Music and singing keep me occupied – but it is my dog who has saved me’
in wait as I unravel the hose, which is jagged with bite marks from his teeth.
Finding peace
As I turn on the hose, mozart lunges at it. As he leaps and dances about, we go round and round in a tangle of hosepipe. I end up as drenched as he is, and turn off the hose. He is instantly calm, and holds out each paw in turn to be dried.
The exertions have exhausted him, and he follows me into my study. I go to sit at the piano, and he flops onto the sofa. Aptly named, he loves music. As I play the first few notes, his eyes close in obvious bliss. He is my audience, and though I can no longer read music, I can improvise for hours at a time, oblivious to everything, interrupted only occasionally by mozart squeaking as he dreams.
All is well.
POSTSCRIPT
since writing this article, the thing I had most dreaded became reality: my beautiful boy has died. he had been my saviour; I knew all his quirks and different barks. My whole routine feels so strange and lacking. people might say ‘he was only a dog’ and yes he was – but what a dog. I miss him every day.
✢ Valerie now has a gorgeous puppy called Elgar. Her latest novel, the Lupo stick, is available from Amazon.
✢ Find out more about Alzheimer’s at alzheimersresearchuk.org w&h