Picos Gemeos

It's been just over a month since I retured to Brazil with my dad. During the first couple of weeks, my mom was not happy ("I want this strange old man out of here!") and my dad missed his wife and complained the food was making him go to the toilet all night long. Things have settled down a bit and we have finally fallen into some kind of routine:

During the week, I wake up at 5am, when it's still dark outside, cold (we have entered autumn/winter) and "the children" sleep. I feed the cats and let them outside, prepare coffee and lay out breakfast. I move around and eat as quietly as possible, hoping not to wake them up. Turn on the computer as I (thankfully) am still temping for a large educational company in Britain (who are four hours ahead of us) and start work at 6am.

The children get up soon afterwards. I take a small pause to fry them eggs or cook oats, get them settled. I continue working until 2:30pm, taking a half-hour lunch break at 12 noon. We eat brazilian take aways as we don't have time to cook.

Throughout the morning I may get interrupted to help with the television, or I might need to put laundry to wash, or hang it out behind the house. I also get constantly interrupted by mom and dad with various random, repetitive questions. My brother will show up at 8am and start work around the guesthouse - either in the garden or prepping the guestrooms. At 10am, he gives my mom a shower and encourages my dad to take one too. They resist, fight, argue; I listen to it all as I work, sometimes interjecting or helping a little.

Once I'm done with the temp job, I hang out with my parents and serve them an afternoon snack or light supper at 4.30pm. My brother then arrives at 5pm to stay with them so I can go for an hour walk around the guesthouse. I would ideally like to be doing something more vigorous - strength training with calisthenics or weights, or a run - but at the moment that's all the energy I can muster. So I listen to music or a podcast as I walk, photograph the cats I encounter on my way, the birds on the trees, the setting sun behind the mountains. When it's almost dark, I return to the house and take a shower. My brother hands out the evening pills to the children and returns to his home. I choose something on the telly for us to watch: Chef's Table, brazilian news, a YouTube documentary, Netflix's WWII in Colour and, more recently, Downton Abbey.

Around 7pm their eyes start to droop, their chins touch their chests. I show my dad to his room and remind him again which bathroom is his, then lead mom to her bedroom and help her brush her teeth and put on her pyjama. I then drop some eyedrops in her eyes, part of the preparation process for her cataract surgery, say goodnight and turn off the lights. I may then return to the living room to watch a bit more TV (Apple TV's "Silo") or retire to my bedroom to try to read a bit. I fall asleep around 8:30pm.

During weekends, I help serve breakfast in the morning, interact with the guests and help clean up afterwards. I also spend the mornings cleaning the garden, hanging up hammocks, opening parasols, generally trying to make the guesthouse seem inviting and welcoming. On Saturday afternoons I have a few hours to myself when my brother takes the children to his home. I am overwhelmed with options of what to do - play my nephew's Zelda game on the Wii U? Study french? Listen to music really loudly? Read a book? Watch a film? Meditate? - but my freedom seems over too soon when I spot my brother's car coming up the hill, bringing the children back home.

I have tentative plans to return to London this September. Either I go for a couple of weeks, to see my dad and friends, or I go for a few months (4-5) to work as a temp and send money home.

My brother didn’t like the idea at first. ‘Are you going to leave me alone with mom?!’ But a few days later he said it would be good as I could then see our dad, who has now been diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s. I need to sit down with him and his wife and look at what’s planned for his future.

The exchange rate is good. If I could send home 1000 pounds per month, that would be around 6 to 7K Brazilian reais for my brother, which is plenty to pay for all bills plus a companion for my mom during the day. The guesthouse is really quiet at the moment. Inflation last year was 20% and, so far this year, 30%. Some things, like petrol, have gone up over 100%. The first thing to go when a recession bites is tourism...

I contacted my old recruitment agency in London and they said they’d find me work, no problem. My main worry is housing and that it’s cheap enough so I can save money. I hear London is even more expensive now. I’m considering house and cat sitting, or one of those agencies that places you in a building that needs a guardian to stop squatters.

When I read my old Livejournal posts from back in 2004, all I did was complain about temping... I guess this time around things are different: I’m more experienced, and I know it would be for just a short time until I could fly home again. I could probably ask for a higher rate.

In an ideal world, I'd spend half of my year in London working, and the other half in Brazil with my family.

It sometimes feels like I spend half of my life washing, drying and putting away dishes. Not only the ones used for the pousada but also the ones used just by mom and I.

As most of you know, my mom has Alzheimer’s. She tries to help with the wash up but often I have to go through everything and wash them again: I spot smears of butter, coffee stains, etc, which she misses. I’ve even had to pull all cutlery out once when I found some dirty ones tucked amongst the clean ones.

A few months before leaving London I joined a Monday evening meditation group for gay men near Trafalgar Square. It was a lovely, welcoming space. One evening I got chatting during tea break to an older man. I told him I was moving back to Brazil soon to take care of my mom. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I once did the same for mine.’

‘How long did you live with her?’

‘Ten years. I was very good at taking care of her,’ he said prophetically.

It’s been now over a year since I’ve returned to Brazil to be my mom’s carer and help my brother run our family’s guesthouse. Mom has been easy to take care of; she does most things by herself. Her main struggle is remembering short-term things but her old memories are fairly intact. The main skill for caring for someone with dementia is patience. Patience with getting them through daily tasks; patience with the same questions every day, every hour; patience with them getting up throughout the night and telling you “don’t worry, it’s just me”. Every day you are reminded that this person needs your help and support in ways that you would otherwise take for granted.

I have vivid memories of my “previous life” in London. Recently, I was lying in the hammock after lunch (where I rest for an hour) when suddenly I saw myself on the Overground train. I saw the commuters around me, I saw myself taking the stairs down Camden Road and joining the throng heading for work. It dawned on me that when my mom repeats one of her memories (usually from her childhood) that’s what she’s also experiencing: she talks as if she’s back there, and it always ends with a sigh and a lament for happier times.

My mom doesn’t miss the memories she has lost; people like me are here to remind her what she has forgotten. She takes in that knowledge with some surprise then promptly forgets it. She lives in a world where she can’t remember anymore her sons’ birthdays, her favourite books or films. I once asked her what it was like and she said it was as if her life was a movie, where a piece of the reel had been snipped off and the remaining bits glued back together. She experiences the jump cut in her movie, the confusion of suddenly going from one scene to the next, but never knows what has been removed.

In 2014, when we first suspected she had Alzheimer’s, when I returned to Brazil for a year to help her get diagnosed and to save the guesthouse, I wasn’t happy. But today… I can say I am happy. Right in the middle of a pandemic, isolated in the Brazilian countryside, away from friends, with our family business temporarily shut down again. But, most importantly of all, I believe my mom is happier too – despite daily complaints (which I take to be normal ones for an elderly person).

They say it’s hard for dementia patients to take on new activities. That’s why it’s important to keep them engaged in enjoyable activities they are familiar with, for as long as possible.

My mom doesn’t read or crochet anymore – two activities she enjoyed. Interestingly, though, she’s taken up ironing clothes!

We tune into Magic FM in the morning, a smooth classics station. She sits by the laundry basket while I prepare lunch and, iron in hand, gets to work. The Beatles, Motown, Whitney Houston – so many songs she enjoyed when she could still drive, when she still could create memories.