A review of Sally Magnusson’s book about her mother Mamie
and dementia.
Dementia is a degenerative brain disease that affects
850,000 people in the UK and over 44 million people worldwide. Research is
ongoing, but neuroscientists know it is caused by plaques and tangles in the
brain that damage the connections between neurons.
With one new case every four seconds*, it is highly likely
that you will encounter dementia in one of its forms either as a sufferer, a
carer, in a professional capacity, or simply in your local supermarket.
I wouldn't wish dementia on my worst enemy, however that the
disease is increasingly becoming a part of our lives and communities is a
reality that we have no choice but to face up to.
Aside from the facts and figures, dementia has a very human
face. It is the daughter watching her mother decline, it is the wife nursing
her husband, it is the questioning looks in the café, it is the grandchildren’s
memories that need replenishing.
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What sets Sally Magnusson’s book apart is that it is neither
entirely memoir, nor scientific manual. The beauty of Where Memories Go is
how the author combines both personal reflection and factual details about this
unique of brain diseases. The book is both a question- where indeed do memories
go?- and an answer. The answer is at once scientific (Magnusson has clearly
done her research) and deeply personal. The story of her mother’s life is
interspersed with chapters that explore the history of research into
Alzheimer’s as the author discovers what is happening to her beloved mother. No
amount of research or drugs, however, can (as yet) slow the disease for Mamie
or other sufferers.
Magnusson explores her mother’s decline, but the book is by
no means all doom and gloom. On the contrary, the author delights in her
mother’s moments of lucidity where Mamie’s loving, intelligent personality
comes through. Family moments and happy holiday memories are described
beautifully and relished.
A further unique feature of the book is the way in which
Magnusson writes to her mother. It reads almost like an extended letter as the
author discovers ‘it happens that I find myself talking to you’. Mamie remains
present and a part of the conversation. It is a book for her, rather than about her. I also think that this technique
grants Mamie dignity in the face of a cruel, ‘identity melting’ disease.
I was particularly interested in the effects music had on
Mamie Magnusson. Even in the darkest depths of dementia-induced bewilderment
and anger, we hear how tunes and ditties from her past had the ability to calm
and reassure her. On the strength of this, the author set up a charity,
Playlist for Life, to encourage the use of music therapy in dementia care.** The
idea is simple: ‘a lifetime of memory and feeling and rootedness evoked in
song, symphony or TV theme tune, captured on a tiny device and available at any
time of the day or night’.
Where Memories Go is about so much more than dementia. It is
a moving, poignant story of love, loss, pain, joy and ultimately the bonds that
connect us to family and to ourselves.
Reviews of the book have suggested that it should be on
reading lists for Medicine, Nursing and Occupational Therapy students. I’d have
to agree.
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I set out to write a book review but there’s no way I can
write about dementia without mentioning my own personal experience. Active,
organised, loving, intelligent, my Granny has been suffering with dementia for
the last 10 years. Whilst Sally Magnusson’s book is a beautifully crafted
personal memoir, it is not a representation of every individual’s journey
through dementia. Because the fact is that it affects people differently.
Language, memory, mobility are lost at different rates.
It makes me a little sad to admit that my Granny deteriorated
more quickly than Mamie in Where Memories Go and has been nursing-home bound
for over 5 years.
As I write this, I’ve just got back from visiting her.
Picking 4pm to go means that I can spoon feed her tea and take comfort in the
knowledge that she still eats well.
After reading Magnusson’s novel, I was keen to try her
music-related theories on Granny.
Post tackling a dish of trifle (that went a little more on
her jumper than in her mouth) I got my ipod out and put the earphones in, one
for me and one for her. I played a few different tunes, scrolling through my
playlists to find something that might spark recognition.
I tried some Tchaikovsky and Beethoven. There was no change,
for better or worse. No visible calming and no sign of recognition. Just the
same vacant look in her eyes.
Then I tried ‘Sur la Pont d’Avignon’, a French favourite of
my family and one Granny used to teach. Now, I could be mistaken but it looked
to me like Granny was trying to get out of the chair she was strapped into and
dance. I played the track on repeat and a little later Granny sang. She
actually sang! So it wasn't the words of the song or any intelligible words,
but she definitely sang.
I failed to mention that whilst we were listening to music,
a nurse came over.
‘We’re just listening to some French music, aren't we
Granny?’ I crooned.
‘Does she like French music?’
‘She did…does. Do you recognise this one Granny?’
‘Oh she doesn't recognise anything anymore, there’s no hint
at all’.
Hint of recognition? Of cognition? Of personality?
Something kicked back inside me and I vowed to find more
music from Granny’s rich life and to come back with a personalised playlist.
I can’t see past that curly, soft grey hair, past those
plaques and tangles to Granny’s cerebral cortex and those mysterious control
centres of memory, language and consciousness. But if I could, I’d like to
think I’d see a tiny golden flicker in a tiny brain cell. A flicker of memory,
of a classroom and happy children, a brightly coloured skirt and a young woman
dancing on a certain bridge in southern France…
* World Health Organisation
** See http://www.playlistforlife.org.uk/
