Room 313

When I was young, maybe eight, my mum and I drove three hours in the freezing cold and pounding rain towards Dartford, London. The storm had been raging for nearly ten hours now, every few minutes a bright crack splintered through the sky and a low rumble sounded. On the drive up, I had imagined the home smelling old and dusty something unique, the smell of finality I suppose. As we arrived, my mum grasped my hand lightly and explained to me again that James had already entered late-stage dementia, that he required around-the-clock care and not to panic if I saw tubes or nurses around him. Images of a half-man-half-machine person entered my mind, some kind of monster from my night terrors. A horrible being who was hardly human anymore, kept alive only by machinery. The panic must have shown on my face but my mum remained calm. I have realised only in memory that she held tears in her eyes and how strong she must have been to fight them and keep them from falling. I glanced toward the home. There was one lone light in the darkness. One black lantern hung lowly from a lintel, covering the top third of the door.

When we entered from the lashing rain of the storm, we were not greeted by the smell of an old abandoned building or rot. Instead, lilac flowers sat on a small table in the corner and emanated a pleasant scent around the room. My panic began to slowly subside. The fear had left and I thought only of how happy people here were. Families sat or slept in large brown sofas in the common room and most of what I heard was laughter. I could still hear the storm raging outside. Heavy curtains muffled the sounds of heavy rain pelting against glass windows. A nice young man approached my mum and me, a forced smile pressed across his face. He addressed My mum by name and they exchanged pleasantries.

Room three-hundred-and-thirteen was on the second floor. The door stood tall and menacing. A golden sign hung from the black door.

James Carey, In Residence Patient.

Room: 313

Alzheimer’s.

There it stood. His condition. His tombstone for the living. Even I thought that it was reductive, placing that on his sign. It was a part of him now, almost a third name. My mum took in a short breath and the nurse knocked. The voice of an older lady allowed us entrance. She stood by a lone window, the storm had escalated to hail now. A loud clattering sounded against the thin veil of glass, flashes of lightning splintering the sky. The nurse was happily plump with a white overcoat and curled red hair that touched her shoulders. As she turned she wore a pursed, unblinking smile across her face and stood tall over a man who was sunken in his chair. The male nurse nodded politely and the two nurses left. My mother and I approached. There were no visible tubes on the man and he looked clean. He was not a machine. There was a smell of diffused incense, the same smell mass has during that first service after shrove tuesday. James was smaller than I had imagined, his eyes were as grey as the storm clouds outside, and his hands were shrivelled. He was just a man. His hair was not yet white, there still was what my grandfather refers to in my family as the ‘Carey black’ hair on his head. My mother introduced me.

“My son,” He whispered, a soft hand reaching out for mine, “How have you been, Boy?” A large smile graced his face. Shane, my namesake, Jame’s son, had been visiting frequently. James glowed, he had been touched by an angel. His stature straightened and he was as big as I expected him to look. I could see him now, a man, six foot four, who had biceps as big as his head and a large, solid chest. I had always imagined him as a man who could lift a car. And now, he was. James was nine feet tall in that chair. Any grey hair faded from view leaving only ‘Carey Black’ hair. He was the hurley player so many had cheered for. He is the man who could puck a sliotar from one goal and reach the other before the ball. This man could have pulled a train of people across Ireland. This was the father of my namesake, not that meek old man. I looked to my mum for reassurance. She just nodded her head gently. Reaching out, I took his hand carefully. The rain hitting against the window became more quiet.

I didn’t understand at the time why my Mum allowed him to think that I was his son. I thought then that it was deception and dishonesty. Even still I did not move. Sometimes in those moments some force guides your actions even if you don’t understand them. I didn’t realise that for him I was his son, I was that lantern hanging lowly from the lintel of his home. That once he found his light, he would be let in from the storm, even just for a moment. Any decent person would allow another to enter their house to escape the storm outside. Could he still hear the storm outside muffled by heavy curtains? Could he still hear the heavy rain pelting against the glass windows? I hope that for a moment he thought only of his family, of the times he enjoyed with them. I hope he thought of that small fishing village he grew up in and the fans cheering him and the team on as he saved that last point in the sixtieth minute. I hope he thought of that small house in the village that he once lived in with his brothers and sisters. I just hope the storm stopped. I hope I was his escape.