Time to Let Go (2 page)

Hanna would point out again and again that Biddy’s case was different to his own and talked about the chemicals in her mother’s brain, but only gradually did he accept that his wife had a clinical disease, which had nothing to do with his o
wn retirement disease. Still – he insisted – the same principles applied and it could not hurt to give her psychological strength by means of a time table she could rely on every day.

Imagining her parents in their daily routine made Hanna’s eyes teary. Her parents were
both almost 80 years old and would not be around forever. Yesterday’s drama on the plane had been a cruel reminder of how quickly a life could be over. To see a woman alive and kicking in her seat and then participate in the hopeless battle for her life not even an hour later was something that affected her deeply. This was the first time Hanna had witnessed a death so sudden and unexpected. She realised she would have to cherish every moment she could grasp with them while they were still around.

At the wrong side of forty
, Hanna had missed her chance of having children. Many of her friends were still trying to have babies whereas others were already becoming grandparents. Even if she could find the right man to have children with, she doubted she would want to now but it was not for the lack of offers. Hanna’s tall and beautiful Scandinavian looks still turned a lot of heads, her warm and caring smile and blue eyes were often complimented on – and not just by men. Yet, a love like her parents’ had not materialised in her life.

She stopped day dreaming, switched the radio off and grabbed her gym bag. On the way out she winked at herself encouragingly in the mirror. Now that she had places to go and a plan for the day she felt a little more hopeful that she could move past her traumatic ordeal and
get on with her life; at least for today. It was funny how the approaching dawn suddenly made everything bearable. Once she had had her endorphin rush from the exercise she would call her father and see if it was convenient for her to visit.

A
s his daughter had surmised, Walter was indeed up at the same time and he had made his way to the bathroom in his famous Scandinavian looking furry loafers for a quick cat wash. A daily shower, as his daughter kept suggesting, was an outrageous waste of water and money. People did not seem to understand the basics about the environment and the waste of the limited resources the planet held and nobody ever seemed to listen.

He brief
ly shaved and then he headed downstairs to the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker and kettle. He was unsure whether Biddy should be drinking coffee on her current medication but he made her some anyway to help her kick start the day. It was painful to see her begin every day so slowly, his wife who had always been so fresh and full of beans, who had relentlessly worked hard every day of her life.

Walter set the table, then went to the lazy Susan and counted out the tablets that had been prescribed for his wife. He used to prepare them ahead of time in specially labelled containers for each day but he soon had to put an end to this helpful pr
actice. In a rare moment of semi-clarity Biddy had come across one of those containers and - not being sure which day of the week it was and convinced that she had forgotten to take her tablets for the last few days - she had thrown away several days’ worth of medication to hide her forgetfulness.

Hanna
suggested that Walter should continue to prepare the daily rations beforehand but hide the containers but he pointed out that Biddy could easily find them, too. That he was worried of misplacing and losing them was something he kept to himself. His daughter didn’t need to worry about him and his fear of his own forgetfulness on top of everything else. Walter actually found comfort in the routine of counting out the tablets on a daily basis but he did not want to admit this to her either. Yes, he was behaving like many retired men his age: rigid, repetitive and addicted to routine. It may be true that he was getting on a bit, but it still hurt to be treated like a cliché by his own flesh and blood. Despite his age, his muscles were still pretty well defined and his body fat was minimal; if only he did not have that little tire shape around his waist. At almost 6 foot he made a fine and fit impression and he moved with the confidence of a man in full possession of body and mind. His leathered skin was tanned and maybe a little dry, yet free of broken capillaries and age spots that so many of his friends had in excess. It might well be that his sticking to a regular schedule was what had helped him maintain such excellent health, so there was no reason to ridicule him for it.

With a cup of coffee for Biddy in his hand he stormed back up the stairs and woke up his sweetheart.

“Biddy, darling, get up, it is almost 7am!”

Slowly his wife opened her eyes and took a long look at Walter. Abruptly she sat up and asked him, “What day is it today?”

“It is Wednesday, sweetheart!”

“Do I have to get up?” she asked him with surprise in her voice.

“Yes,” Walter confirmed, then handed her the coffee. “When you are ready come downstairs with me and have some breakfast.”

She took a sip from the mug, sighed with pleasure, then put on her morning robe and came out of the bedroom with her husband.

Biddy was considerably smaller than her husband and her head fitted perfectly against his shoulder as she leaned against him and took hold of his hand with hers. Her once brunette hair was pure white now but it still had great volume; she had put on some weight around her waist since she was no longer so active but she was still slim and appeared tiny. She had a round and naturally smiley face. Walter thought he could feel her warm smile and sweet hazel eyes even though he could not see her face below.

As they came out of the bedroom
, the bathroom door was opposite but there were parts of the hallway and doors on either side; the place where the stairs led downstairs was not easily recognisable from this spot.  

“Which way do you want me to go?
To the left here or to the right?”

“Left here, to the stairs.
The kitchen is downstairs,” Walter said warmly. “You must know the way. This is your house, darling. It has been for decades. Try to remember. Come, I’ll show you.” Walter gently led her towards and down the stairs.

His son Henrik had nagged Walter many times to make big signs everywhere. Since Biddy could still read he had sugge
sted that the doors should say ‘Bath’ or ‘Bedroom’ in big letters and large paper arrows should point towards the stairs.

Walter hated the idea. He was far too p
roud of the house to spoil it with such unattractive signs. It had a lovely crisp interior, it was spacious, detached with surrounding gardens, and built with the lime stone look that was so typical for the area. It was part of the charm of the town and Walter was very pleased how his relatively modern home blended in so nicely, looking genuine and classically English, and so much larger than the many ‘two up two down’ terraced houses. However, because of the unusual layout of the house and the hidden stairs, it was a regular occurrence for Biddy to get lost upstairs, especially in the mornings. Many times he had found her sitting in his study or the guest rooms, wondering where she was. Hanna had joined her brother’s plea and pointed out that he should at least secure the house in other ways, like a gas detector, so that Biddy could not come to harm. Walter, however, insisted that all of those concerns were premature and ridiculous.

“What do you want for your breakfast? Toast or cereal?” he asked his
wife once they were in the kitchen.

“I would love some toas
t.” Biddy said and sat down on the wooden bench by the kitchen table.

Walter went to the
cupboard for the bread and put it in the toaster. As he turned around he found Biddy lying on the bench, already nodding off again.

“You have got to get up. Biddy! Wake up! Come on. Let’s not have the same silly game every morning!” he called out to her, shaking her and lifting her back up. “You’ve got to sit upright!”

“Oh, I am sleepy,” she said sheepishly. “What day is it today?”

“Wednesday,” he said with a hint of irritation. “I just told you. Drink your coffee. That will wake you up.”

“Could I have something to eat? Just tell me where everything is,” she said looking around the place with wide, child-like eyes.

“I have just put some bread in the toaster for you,” Walter told her.

“What an excellent idea. I like toast.”

“Yes, I am good like that!” he said under his breath.

Biddy took the knife by her plate, reached for the butter and started to spread it on her hand. When Walter
turned back from the work surface with her toasted bread she looked at it with amazement and said: “But I already have some, look!” and she showed him her hand.

“Oh, you s
illy woman!” Walter put her toast on the plate and gave her a kitchen roll to clean her hand. “Of course, you could not wait, could you! Oh dear, the things you get up to!” he scolded her but when Biddy started to giggle he had a little grin on his face as well.

“What do you want to do today? Do you want to go into town? We could take the bicycles and get some exerc
ise,” he suggested.

“Which town are you talking about? I hope it is not too far,” Biddy said.

“I mean our town, Biddy, the town centre. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. How far is it?”

“It is very close to here. Twenty minutes.”

“That’s handy,” she said enthusiastically. “Let’s do it.”

“First we finish our breakfast and get you washed,” Walter said.

“Of course,” said Biddy and started to butter the toast. This time she got it right.

Satisfied that his wife would now be able to carry on with her breakfast without his supervision he went to pick up the newspaper which was delivered to the house every morning. He was not really interested in the world of politics any more, not even the local developments, but Biddy could still read and enjoyed doing so very much. At times, when he needed her to be occupied, the newspaper could act as a pacifier of sorts, however much he hated to see it that way.

Walter loved reading the weekly local paper for its obituaries and other social and community announcements, but that was not out until tomorrow. His family had established itself here over several decades and was fairly well known in certain circles. That brought with it a responsibility to keep an eye out for announcements of births, marriages or deaths.

Biddy had never failed to write a card or show up at a funeral to represent the family. Now that she was no longer able to do this, he wanted to keep up the appearance of a caring and community spirited family.

Attending funerals or a christening ceremony
was tricky for Walter because he would have to organise someone to look after his wife. The last time he had taken her to a funeral she had been on particularly bad form and her behaviour could almost have been described as disruptive to the ceremony. The deceased had been a friend of Biddy’s, a woman from her outdoors bowling group, who had succumbed to breast cancer. Walter had to explain to his wife three times why they were at the cemetery. Each time Biddy burst into tears for her friend, only to forget about it and ask again who was being put to rest.

She relived the pain of losing her friend several times that day and Walter worried that her outbursts and agitated state may have upset the bere
aved relatives. Were it not for such behaviour he would have preferred to take her with him to these events to keep a sense of continuity for her. He was convinced that the longer she did the things she had done all of her life, the better it was for her condition. Of course, he had to draw the line where other people were affected, like bereaved families.

The newspaper today had nothing to say that concerned him, he found out from a quick look th
rough the pages. Arsenal, his favourite football team had lost, but he had already known that from the radio. He had just wondered how the journalists would take the news and how harsh they would be on the coach and the players for the few missed opportunities during the match. Displeased with the level of criticism and unfairness in the review he put the paper away and after Biddy had finished her second slice of toast he ushered his wife back upstairs into the bathroom for her morning ablutions, as Walter still liked to call it.

“Thank you!” she said as she entered the bathroom. “Did I bring a toothbrush or can I borrow one?”

“You can borrow one of mine,” he said. “Look, take this one. You had it the last time you stayed here with us,” and handed her her own.

“Great. You have thought of everything,” Biddy said happily.

Walter left her in the bathroom and went across the hall into their bedroom to make up the bed and tidy the room. His daughter Hanna had told him many times he should not bother and that there were enough other and more important chores to be done in the house; besides, no visitor was ever going to enter the master bedroom. To Walter, however, this was a matter of principle; whether you carried yourself with dignity or whether you let yourself go in old age: “If I wanted to live slovenly like a gypsy I would have bought a caravan a long time ago instead of this house”, was his usual replied to her criticism.

When he got back to the bathroom he was pleased to find that Biddy had managed to switch the shower off and was standing on the bath mat and drying herself. He felt a surge of gratefulness that despite the many trials her disease brought to their lives there were often moments of clarity and his wife could surprise him with the immaculate execution of routine tasks and moments of some kind of normality.
It was another bone of contention with his son Henrik, who had warned him never to leave Biddy alone in the bathroom or the kitchen. Henrik should be here, now, to see how well everything still went. Biddy had even put her dirty clothes into the laundry basket and was now hanging her towel in the right spot to dry. She had not recognised the family home earlier but she was mechanically following a kind of morning routine. Walter watched her as she put on the clothes he had put out for her the evening before and the slightly irritated mood he had been in earlier disappeared completely.

“Well done, Biddy!” he said apprecia
tively. “You are a star today!”

Biddy came out of the bathroom, eager and energetic, and without help found her way downstairs, whistling a Cliff Richard song.

“You are in a good mood!” Walter said cheerfully.

“Yes. I am. I can’t wait to see the town,” she told him.

Sometimes her attention span could be shorter than that of a goldfish but at other times, like now, she could hold on to the same thought for much longer and almost become obsessed with it. The inconsistency in her memory loss was hard for him to bear: he felt more comfortable with clear and constant parameters in his life.

Before Biddy had been diagnosed he had read the odd article about the disease in the papers and he knew, vaguely, that there were progressive stages. He guessed there was no denying that his wife had passed the initial stage and was probably somewhere in the early middle or moderate stage of the disease, but he preferred not to know anything else about it.