Retiring Mr Hyde

My mum's decided that there's two of me.

Mum has Parkinson's Disease. We've lived together since my dad died a little over a year ago, and I combine caring for her with building my coaching and consultancy business.

As well as the limiting physical symptoms (it takes her 45 minutes to get dressed in the morning because she's too proud to let me help her), Mum's now becoming mentally confused. To my sorrow, I can see dementia developing.

I find knives and forks in her underwear drawer. I shelled out a fortune in fines for late library books that she'd carefully hidden away until I put my foot down and insisted that they're kept in one place. She gazes at the television without really taking in what's going on, laughing a second after I laugh, agreeing with my comments about what's going on in Coronation Street without knowing what the heck I'm talking about. She'll lie to my face like a three-year-old. It's desperately sad, sometimes infuriating, and sometimes very funny.

Yesterday, I returned home from my monthly respite weekend and flitted around the house unpacking, doing laundry, and catching up on my keyboard after three days with barely a mobile signal, never mind wifi.

I heard crashing and rattling in the kitchen and scuttled along to see what was going on. Mum had taken most of the plates, pots and pans out of the cupboards and was sitting surrounded by them, tugging frustratedly at the oven door.

Instantly, the benefit of my respite weekend vanished.

'What are you doing?', I snapped.

Mum looked up at me mildly. 'I need to cook beef and chips. How do you open this oven door?'

I hauled her to her feet and steered her firmly to her usual place on the sofa, where the cup of tea she'd said she was desperate for half an hour ago remained untouched.

'Why don't you drink your tea and read your book whilst I clear up the mess in the kitchen. I do the cooking mum, you don't need to cook anything.'

'Why are you always telling me off?' she said.

'Because you behave like a toddler sometimes', I retorted, stomping back to the kitchen.

When it got towards bedtime, mum appeared from cleaning her teeth. 'The other one's left me a note. She said I have to clear away my Horlicks cup'.

'What other one?', I asked, puzzled. 'What note?'

'The other Becky. I never know which one's which. You're the nice one.'

Kapow. Boom. Bang. Kablooie.

My different moods confuse my mum. She's operating in a realm of logic that I'll never understand. And as the adult in the relationship (it makes me so sad just to type that), it's on me to adjust to her and not expect her to understand why I'm cross about something. It's on me to not get cross with her, to vent my frustration elsewhere. None of this is her fault. She'd far rather be living without Parkinson's Disease and making the most of her final years.

'Can I see the note?' I asked mischievously. 'And don't worry, I'll clear away your Horlick's cup'.

'The note... oh. I'm not sure what I did with it', said mum vaguely.

'Never mind. She's a bitch, ignore her. I'm looking after you now. Come on, let's get you into bed.'

Mum giggled like a conspiratorial child who's been given chocolate at bedtime by her cool aunt and warned, with a smiling wink, not to tell.

'Oh, she's not so bad when you get to know her', said my mum, allowing me to lead her to her bedroom.

So I'm retiring Mr Hyde and promoting Dr Jekyll.

I'm not a saint. I'm sure Mr Hyde will still pop up from time to time. But I'm going to try my darndest to keep him away from my mum in the precious few years I have left with her.

Who do you have in your life who sees a bit too much of Mr Hyde?