Birling Gap

THE APPOINTMENT

“It’s degenerative,” states the doctor, lips firm and tone professional, but with a kindness in the eyes. The fingers holding mine tense and I turn to my granddaughter, who desperately tries to look hopeful before I catch the fear on her face. She might as well attempt levitation.

“Did you just call me a degenerate?” I sternly respond with a slight tilt of the head to really lay it on.

“Uh-” Dr Singh is taken aback. His kind eyes flutter between the two of us in confusion at my feigned umbrage.

“Grandad!” Laura admonishes, “Sorry – he’s joking, he knows what it means.” She’s smiling, at least, and the doctor’s rigid shoulders have slacked an inch or two. He settles back into his chair. Dr Singh is at a good age for a doctor. Old enough to inspire confidence in his experience but not so old he struggles with emails or prescribes leeches.

“So how long before I should book a flight to Switzerland?”

“Well….each case is unique,” primes the doctor, suppressing a delayed smile as the joke lands. “There are approximately 7 stages. The first is often called ‘Pre-clinical’, where changes in the brain occur without any obvious symptoms. Stage two involves basic forgetfulness – you may misplace your keys or have trouble recalling names, but you can still drive to work and make mashed potatoes.” Mashed potatoes, indeed. I start to wonder what my brain looks like.

“The diagnostics place you between stage three and four...” Stage four. Cancer comes to mind. “Stage three presents noticeable memory difficulties and by stage four, the increasing damage to the brain causes other cognitive issues – problems with language and organisation. At this point daily tasks are more challenging. You may hold on to memories of the distant past, such as your wedding day, however forming new memories will become increasingly difficult...”

A mist begins to drift across my senses, like lace weaving its way amongst the folds of my brain. This happens sometimes. I feel my brow furrow.

“…characterised by decreased independence – hallucinations, delusions, paranoia. You may experience difficulty remembering those closest to you. It is important loved ones do not take this personally”. Another squeeze of the hand and a sharp intake of breath to my right. The mist parts somewhat and Laura is beside me. She nods attentively, and the low sunlight beaming in through the window glances off her wet cheek. A wave washes over me and I see her on the beach at Birling Gap, 8-years-old and collecting pebbles in green dungarees. Is it morning or evening?

“By stage 6, symptoms are severe.” A pause – perhaps out of respect for the phrase – and my attention crystallises. “There may be significant personality changes. Communicating simple thoughts or expressing needs – discomfort, hunger,” he gestures and so on, “will gradually become more challenging, until stage 7, where there is loss of physical control, reduced mobility, and vulnerability to infections.”

“I see.” My voice is distant. “Thank you for all those helpful, rather awful details. And which stage am I at, Doctor?”

Dr Singh goes to answer, but stops in his tracks with a sidelong glance at Laura, probing. She rolls her eyes and they both laugh.

“Very good. I see your personality has not left you yet.” I haven’t a clue what joke they think I am making, but save myself the embarrassment and smile along. “This…” his desk creaks curiously as he reaches across to hand me something, “...is your little black book.” The doctor explains that from today this notebook will be a friend – a tool, a medicine, a lifeline – that should stay with me at all times. As I thumb the matte-black cover, its grooves as unique as those of my own fingertips, it seems rather familiar already. None of this has felt very real so far, but this little black book is solid enough to hold.

The first page is for me to introduce myself and write emergency contacts, in case I wander off; further pages for pictures of loved ones, for when my marbles are fewer; calendars for appointments, diaries to track the dark descent; and blank pages. Pages to fill as my mind gradually leaks away. I can use these for whatever I want, but Dr Singh suggests that I note my activities and make a habit of revising them daily. This will provide a sense of continuity and in moments of confusion, when my memory fails me, my little black notebook might not.

After laying out the next steps in my treatment, the kind doctor draws the appointment to an end and offers a card, “If you have any questions, don’t forget you can call any time”.

“That’s asking a lot, Doctor.”

#

THE CAR

“£20,000, I reckon”.

“What’s that, Grandad?”

“£20,000 is how much we’d need, love. The neighbour’s son went there for work last year. That includes flights, accommodation and the procedure.” It’s been rather fun plotting my route off this Earth. Through the glasses perched on my nose I peer down at the little black notebook, open on my lap, proudly surveying my calculations.

“Oh, that again.” Laura says in that tone the young use to tell old people they aren’t interested in hearing any more. Her fingers drum nerves against the steering wheel. Recently the simple decisions required to drive from place to place – which lane to use, when to turn – have been too stressful for me, so Laura drives me to her matches now, even though I live miles from her campus.

“You played well today.”

She scratches the dried mud on her cheek and tentatively agrees, “Yeah, I guess. We should have won, but we don’t work as a team...half the girls don’t make any effort to defend. It was different at Loughborough.”

She had transferred to a local university last year after my diagnosis. I don’t know much about football but love to watch her play, so I come along each week and offer words of wisdom in the car.

“Your generation are afraid of hard graft – we used to work much harder than you do now” I tease, hoping she’ll bite.

“Yeah well your generation had cocaine in their cola, you dinosaur!” We both laugh from the heart and our breaths fog the windscreen. The laughter settles into a comfortable silence.

“Remember when we took you to Dover to see the cliffs?”

“I think it was Birling Gap, Grandad.”

“That’s the one. You loved exploring even then.” It has been on my mind, so I ask, “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“How can you even ask me that, Grandad?”

“We can make a trip of it. You’ve always wanted to try skiing and apparently there’s a riverboat ride that passes under all seven of the city’s bridges. We can look at a map together and choose some villages to explore. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

“You expect me to enjoy any of that, knowing how the trip will end?”

“It will end peacefully!” My voice is louder than I expected, but I have a right to be angry. “I’ll even book a return flight in case I change my mind, if that makes you happy.”

“You’re not going.” It’s more of a plea than a demand; but by force or by guilt, who is this person to coerce me? To deny me my right so wickedly?

“All I need to withdraw the money is my bank card and my passport – neither you nor anyone else can stop me!” It feels natural and brave to bellow my defiance.

The cruel girl has stopped the car

“And who will drive you?!”

“I’ll walk to the bloody bank. My legs still work just fine!”

My life is being stolen away from me. What is left is mired in inevitable decay and now even my death is to be relinquished?

The crowds brush past me as I walk, colder than bitter wind. Everything is moving and the hum around me grows to a roar. Strangers avert their eyes. The fire in my chest has no way out and there’s a fog across my face again. My jaw aches. My fingers throb. Blurs pass and fade, and through the mist stands an old man in the window, fists clenched and venom in his eyes. He looks so small and so angry, staring at me. I wonder why.

The old man’s fists unclench and the pain in my hands subsides. I take a step closer and so does he, the fury falling from his face and the ache in mine falling away with it.

Suddenly I recognise him – recognise myself.

When did I get so old? My skin droops like sunk leather over clouded eyes; wispy hair white as snow.

The roar dwindles to the routine chatter of traffic at my back and the murmurs of nosy passersby. A reflection in the window of a charity store shows me as I stand: in the cold without a coat, shivering and alone. Vinyl letters on the window read, ‘Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can read’. Jill loved Mark Twain.

“Are you alright, mate?” I turn to see a young bearded man looking rather concerned. “Is there anyone with you?”

“I think…” I start to reply. Where’s Jill? “...my wife”. Over his shoulder a young woman with mud on her face is rushing towards us.

“Grandad, come back to the car, it’s so cold out here.” The woman takes my hand gently and smiles at the bearded man. I know she is a friend and, though the confusion remains, the loneliness abates. “You dropped these, silly,” she says tenderly, holding out a pair of glasses and a familiar little black notebook.

#

THE KITCHEN

Knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

Knock, knock.

Friendly knocks, I think. A key finding its way home.

But where did the money come from? I look down at the pile of cash on the kitchen table and my mind is blank. I try to count it but find myself lost in thoughts of how it came to be there, and have to start again.

“Christ, Grandad, it’s bloody freezing!” The girl is through the front door and shaking off her boots, dwarfed in a puffy red coat. “Tea please!”

“The strangest thing has happened. I don’t know where it came from or whose it is.”

The girl enters the kitchen and gasps, feet frozen at the doorway, wide eyes fixed on the tabletop. I follow her devastated gaze. The rich red of a passport pops against the crisp white pages of a little black notebook. She rushes over and stifles a cry in my chest, her arms wrapped around me.

“What’s wrong, love? There’s no need to get in a tizz. Nobody’s in trouble.” She doesn’t answer, but her grip tightens so I hug her back and plant a kiss on her crown. “It’s a lot of money. I kept losing count when I tried to add it all up.”

She loosens her arms only enough to turn her face towards the table, and sniffs, “looks like £20,000”. That is a lot of money.

“And then there’s this.” I drag the little black notebook across the tabletop, pressing my fingertips down against the exposed pages; their roughness familiar, the clean white of the leaf a welcome sight, and though the word written in my own hand is a mystery, the bubbling frustration within me is appeased, replaced by a calm curiosity. “What do you think it means, love?”

“Switzerland,” the girl reads in a whisper and looks up gravely at my face. Her eyes well up like rock-pools; her breath is shaky. I hear waves wash against the shore on a stoney beach. A small child in a red summer dress, her windswept cheeks glittering with flecks of seafoam as she crunches across the beach, pebbles spilling from her happy pockets.

“I have no idea, Grandad”.

THE END