She says, very politely, to the carer, for whom English is not her first language: ‘I don’t quite understand what you are saying.’ We could be in a lady’s drawing room. Later she says of me: ‘He hates me. He wants to kill me.’ Well, that is more direct, I can understand that.
Earlier, Lynn came to see Anna. I wanted to tell her that we had made a little progress with the wheelchair, going to the car. But Anna did not remember, recognise any of that. She was on her feet, outraged. ’I am not ….’ I named her illness – during the week she had found that helpful: ‘I need to know the truth.’ But, as happens now, each time it comes as a great shock, as if she is hearing baldly for the first time. She stood in the centre of the room, shaking with rage. ‘Why? Why me?’
Lynn carefully talked her down – ‘It’s an illness – it affects your memory – it’s not your fault – we don’t have a reason – a sad thing that happens to people …’
Later Lynn and I talked. Was it right to talk the truth? Sometimes. But sometimes, perhaps not?
Sometimes she talks of how she is thinks she is dying,. Sometimes she is cheerful. I asked: ‘You saw too many people today?’
‘No – the lady here, she’s lovely.'