My nan’s name is Maree.
She is a tall woman who looks wonderful in capri pants. A mum of two to my mum and uncle, she used to be a nurse. Her ex-husband is my poppy, Bill. Maree has a penchant for cooing at small birds and buying lotto scratchies as birthday treats. She was a tennis player, ocean swimmer and avid garden potterer.
In her early retirement, Maree frequently attended the Forster Bowling Club for the Sunday Surf & Turf Raffle, although I doubt she ever won more than she spent. She lives four hours away in coastal Tuncurry, a caravan park-loving retirement oasis with a median age of 61.
She likes to eat carrot cake and drink tea with lots of sugar, and every time she hangs up the phone she says, “Ta-ta, pet.”
And then blows lots of kisses. Always kisses, even now.
My nan is also dying of dementia.
Baby brother Oliver with mum Wendy and Maree (67), 2002. Source: Supplied
I remember her in the beginning, in the early stages of the disease, misplacing the word tomato. Misplacing in the same way that I seem to lose my keys every time I drop them inside an oversized tote bag. They’re not really lost, just impossible to grasp hold of. We were at Nan’s little bungalow making a salad. I was layering butter lettuce and thinly sliced cucumbers in a vintage kitsch cabbage bowl when she gestured to me.
“Make sure to pop some of those on top,” she said.
The author with her nan, Maree, and mum, Wendy, at Tuncurry Care Home, 2019. Source: Supplied
“Some of what?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, some of those silly little things,” she cooed, waving a hand at me.
I asked her to be more specific, but she became frustrated, tumbling over the words, and then started to berate herself. My mum swooped in and defused the situation, presenting a bunch of the silly little tomatoes in question.
When I was young, Nan always said I’d be a performer, an extraordinary young girl “destined for the stage”. I’d put on hole-ridden pink fairy wings and a bottle-green woollen fedora, announcing myself from the hallway before strutting out across the dated beige carpet to perform a choreographed enactment of ABBA’s ‘Mamma Mia’.
Maree (37) with daughter Wendy on Christmas Day, 1972. Source: Supplied
Nan would cackle and hoot, clapping along as I spun in circles. She sat on a plush white sofa lounge, her slim, tanned extending from her turquoise capri pants. Her eyes bright like cellophane.
“Again, again!” she’d cheer, as if I hadn’t already performed the same routine four times in the past hour.
Maree with daughter Wendy and a collection of grandchildren. Source: Supplied
With the benefit of hindsight, I suspect most grandparents believe their grandchild possesses that special something, impressed by even the most uncoordinated of living room performances. I’d love to prove my nan right, blossoming from the awkwardness of early adulthood into comfortable success and creative fulfilment.
I choose to remember her as she was in the living room, full of life and pride. This memory of her, although unravelled by time, feels far more real to me than the present.
Mum and I visit Nan a year or so after the tomato incident. My bladder is small, and on the drive there we stop far too often. COVID has crumpled life as we know it. Maree no longer lives in her beige-carpeted bungalow, but in a lush care facility that’s won multiple awards (apparently). To visit the assisted living ward, we’re required to complete RAT tests and don full medical PPE. I can only imagine how disturbing we must appear to the residents – neon yellow-clad aliens with blue gloved hands arriving in the foyer at midday to interrupt them.
Ruby with Maree (87) by the water in Tuncurry, 2022. Source: Supplied
We collect Nan and head out for lunch and a drive. She does not recognise us, both with or without the PPE. We eat fish and chips by the water, and Mum tells stories about the old family dog, Buffy, dolphins in the harbour and performances in the living room. Nan doesn’t have much to say. Mum cries, which makes me cry, which makes Nan even more confused.
We drop her back at the care home, placing her in a chair by the window. We give gentle hugs and offer loving goodbyes, but when we go to leave, Nan starts to get upset. She reaches out for Mum, pleading with her to stay. Her eyes are wide and earnest, no longer vague or confused, but firm with fear. For one moment she’s flooded with sudden, terrifying clarity: the comprehension of who we are, daughter and granddaughter, but also the instinctual understanding that this memory will quickly expire.
Author Ruby Blinkhorn. Source: Supplied
She looks at us, now seeing us, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her look young. Mum cries for the second time that day, and I cry with her, blowing lots of kisses to my nan. She blows them back.
The drive home from Tuncurry is quiet. Mum and I both wear sunglasses, though afternoon has long crept into dusk. The situation makes me feel… I can’t seem to describe it. The word has escaped me. In a strange way, the misplacement brings me comfort, as perhaps it brings me a bit closer to her.
Ruby Blinkhorn is a writer and (sometimes) funny person, who lives and works on Gadigal land. She still enjoys dress-ups and dancing in the living room. You can follow her on Instagram .
