D Is For Dementia

Darkness Encroaches On The Human Mind

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

He was about a month away from his fourth birthday. He and his older sister were in the back of the car as their father drove them home late on a spring evening when the cherry trees were in full bloom. It was as if Nature was saluting the little boy’s grandmother, for it was her birthday.

The two children had spent the evening with their grandmother. They had taken her a cake, they had sung to her and they had cut the cake for her, because there was very little she could do for herself now, since Alzheimer’s had steadily eroded the power of her considerable brain.

More than four years earlier, when one of her sons flew halfway round the world to see her, she embraced him warmly, with a bright smile on her face. When he softly asked if she remembered him, her face clouded over. ``I don’t know your name,’’ she replied tenderly, ``but I know I love you very much.’’

But even the power of speech had long since deserted her now. Her mind, once so quick, so vital and so sharp, was like a towering skyscraper at night, where the lights were being switched off one by one, in a steady but irreversible sequence.

In the back seat of the car, the little boy pondered this aloud. He turned to his sister and asked why his beloved Gran couldn’t speak. Gently, the little girl explained that their grandmother was ill and had lost the power of speech.

"Her mind, once so sharp, was like a towering skyscraper at night, where the lights were being switched off one by one."

The children asked their father if he was sad about it. He thought carefully about his response and told them that his mother had first been touched by dementia in her early forties. He told them, with a smile on his face, about how she would always lose things and how, as an inveterate letter writer, she would write aerogrammes to family and friends but the letters were always punctuated by blank spaces because she could not remember words, names or details.

And the father explained to his children that while he was indeed sad to see his own mother unable to speak or carry out basic everyday tasks, he was thankful. Yes, he was thankful because dementia could have claimed her while he was an infant. Instead, by some strange and inexplicable process, it had never progressed. Then, when she was in her late seventies, the condition had suddenly put a roadblock in her life. This time, it attacked her with a vengeance.

The father explained to his children that it was almost as if God had decided to give her a chance to embrace life for another 35 years.

There was a long silence in the back seat of the car. Then the little boy spoke. "I’d love to hear Gran talk just once," he said fervently.

Slightly more than three months later, the various members of the family were spending Christmas together. The little boy walked into the room where his grandmother sat. She smiled at him and put out her arms, as she always did. Children had always brought her special joy, and she had been a surrogate mother to so many children across half a century.

Her arms still had strength where her mind had been so vitally sapped. She picked up the little boy and put him on her lap and he nestled against her.

"Hello," she said clearly and loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear.

She died in 2001. That solitary greeting, which the little boy still regards as an unforgettable Christmas gift, was the last time we ever heard my mother speak.

For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

Alone Ranger

S Is For Solitude

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

This shot of the Rialto against the Melbourne sky was taken in 2006 - and I guess it’s a good way to depict this week’s theme of solitude. Until Eureka Tower was opened just across the river, the Rialto was the tallest building in Melbourne and this frame of the distinctive building was my way of capturing its lonely splendour against a striking sky.

When I was a cadet journalist in Calcutta, I worked under the editor and author M. J. Akbar, who began editing "Sunday", the national magazine, when he was still in his late twenties. The magazine was slanted to politics, news and current events, a perfect mix for a vibrantly democratic media in the post-Emergency era.

On one memorable occasion, Akbar decreed that the magazine was to be edited, in his absence during a brief overseas trip, by his good friend, the poet and film producer Pritish Nandy who would later move to Bombay/Mumbai to successfully edit The Illustrated Weekly of India. After that success, he moved on to the role of publishing director of the Times of India group before founding Pritish Nandy Communications.

Nandy declared that "Sunday" would be running a cover story on the theme of "loneliness". I blinked. I was surprised, but I was not alone. Every member of the editorial staff seemed puzzled. Why would a magazine, whose readers expected a weekly diet of politics and news, suddenly deal with what seemed to be such an ephemeral subject?

But I was a cadet, remember. And this was a learning curve, remember. Nandy asked the brilliant New Delhi-based photographer Raghu Rai to send him a selection of black-and-white images to go with the cover story.

The upshot? Simple. The magazine's mailbag was overflowing. The cover story touched a chord in the hearts of hundreds of readers from all round the country. I guess that was the day I learnt that there are other things – apart from headlines, deadlines and breaking news – that matter to the readers.

Solitude is an amazing thing. We all crave it sometimes - but we never crave too much of it. So often, in everyday life and in corporate halls, we hear the phrases "give me some space" or "I need time out" or "I’ll get back to you". So many of us seek "our space".

But do we truly revel in being alone? Truly? Probably not, but I'd like to know what you think.


I took this shot (above) in a Montreal park in late 2005. I used a Canon EOS 3000 and it’s interesting, in retrospect, to note that I only shot one frame. Across the street from where I stood was a man on a bench. He sat alone, and whether or not he had a companion elsewhere in the park, I could not tell.

I didn’t want to encroach on his space as he delved into a paper bag containing his lunch. His clothes were well worn but not threadbare. He was unshaven and his hair was long. Like most human beings, he probably had a poignant story to tell. But all I did was frame him on film, enshrined in a cathedral of ancient green trees. Maybe if time wasn’t so tight, I would have said "G’day" and asked him if he was lonely and sat and chatted to him for a while.

Many times since I was blessed by becoming a parent, I have played the card game Uno with my children. Solitude is a fleeting theme in this grand game, where the object is to get rid of all your cards before anyone else, and where the word "Uno" (Italian for "one") must be spoken aoud before playing your final card.

But there are many types of solitude, most of which we do not seek. There is even medical solitude, which I would not wish on anyone. I saw one of my parents ravaged by Alzheimer’s. That’s not solitude. That is loss. Everybody’s loss. And I really mean everybody.

For the home of ABC Wednesday, go to Mrs Nesbitt's Place.

One Single Greeting To Cherish

Treasuring The Spoken Word



Sometimes we treasure one spoken word more than any other. Permit me to digress for a moment. The feedback I had when I wrote the Alzheimer's post In Memory last week included some wonderful comments from around the world.

One of the comments was, ``I'm amazed at how some things draw blanks and yet other things stay fresh and ready for recall'' from Brian in Oxford.

That is so true, Brian. Alzheimer's is a roulette wheel of random loss. My mother, who was also fluent in Latin and French, had her effervescent personality slowly eroded by the disease. When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, we were told that the one, inescapable fact is that Alzheimer's patients or those who suffer with dementia never get better. Never.

So we watched as our mother slowly lost many of her powers. Most poignant of all was the way she lost the power to communicate. Having written letters, immaculately constructed and presented, to family and friends for decades, this great communicator found herself unable to remember simple words. Spoken sentences were suddenly punctuated with silent gaps when she could not remember words like ``clouds'' or ``cars''.

Our son, now a strapping teenager who is built like a quarterback, was never blessed with a real conversation with my mother, simply because she could no longer speak by the time he was a toddler.

He was kindergarten-age when we drove home one evening after celebrating Mum's birthday at the aged care home. He asked his older sister, ``How come Granny never answers when I speak to her?''

Our daughter explained gently that Granny had an illness which meant she could not speak. But she pointed out to her younger brother that Granny showed her love by stroking his cheek, kissing him and hugging him in those strong arms of hers.

``I wish I could hear her speak just once,'' he said solemnly.

Three months later, against all odds, his wish came true. We all walked into a room and my mother fixed her eyes on him, held out her arms to put him on her knee and said, loudly, strongly and clearly, ``Hello''.

He has never forgotten that, and probably never will. It was 25 December and a woman who gave so many people of so many generations so many meaningful Yuletide gifts, had kept the most memorable of them all for her tiny grandson.

It was a Christmas gift he will never forget. Even though it did not come gift-wrapped, in the traditional sense.

In Memory

How Alzheimer's Touched My Family

Image: Clip Art

My attention was caught by a news report today, about Scottish scientists who claim to have stopped Alzheimer's from killing brain cells in laboratory tests. About three weeks ago, the `Herald Sun' reported, ``Melbourne scientists have discovered a drug compound that radically improves memory, and they hope to transform it into an anti-dementia and memory loss drug.''

All I could do was think back ....

My life and the lives of all my blood relatives was touched by Alzheimer's, but we didn't know it at the time. When I was still in primary school, Mum would lose her keys and her glasses several times a day. They were the earliest signs that she was in the grip of a condition that would gradually erode her memory, her power of speech, her grasp of Latin and French, and her vivacious personality.

Yet, as she lived until the age of 88, it was a seemingly capricious condition. Occasionally, it seemed, the mists would clear to allow moments of clarity.

On one occasion, our eldest daughter was doing her homework and she needed to name a fruit or vegetable that began with the letter Q. I turned to Mum, who by this stage couldn't remember whether she had eaten breakfast or not. She nodded. ``Quince,'' she said, without missing a beat.

On another occasion, my brother Mike, who was based in Paris at the time, flew to Melbourne to visit Mum for a few days. That morning, he mentioned that the French were blessed with a stirring national anthem. Mum responded by singing the first verse of La Marseillaise - in French.

When she embraced my brother that day, he asked her gently if she knew who he was. Her eyes clouded over and she stumbled slightly over her agonised reply.

``I don't know your name,'' she admitted, ``but I know I love you very much.''