Having had a month to really appreciate it, I can honestly say that the best Christmas present I received this year was the bar fridge. It was a gift from me to me.
It sits in the spare bedroom, whirring away, keeping things cold. And everyday, as if going on a pilgrimage, I potter down the hallway to put things in the new fridge. Or to take them out.
Some days I give the fridge an affectionate pat — just to let it know how happy I am with it. After I have done what I have to do with my new fridge I carefully lock the spare room door and hide the key behind the TV.
Friends staying the night in the spare room are amazed to be sleeping with a fridge, which sits like a bulky white sculpture on the desk and just whirs away. Some people have computers and writing-related things on their desks. I have a fridge.
If the noise annoys the guests they can turn this fridge off at night, as long as they transfer the cold things to the big kitchen fridge and reverse the procedure in the morning.
Yep, I also have a large fridge in the kitchen but it is not as special as the bar fridge.
Just in case anyone thinks I have developed a bad case of objectophilia and am considering moving in with the new fridge, the relationship is entirely appropriate — apart from the fact that I am hiding food from my mother. Yes I am hiding food from my demented mother and any casual observer might think that I am bent on starving her.
I do feel mean lugging pots of spaghetti down the hallway along with leftover chicken and the occasional slab of cheese but I’ve figured that in order for me to survive long enough to keep caring for her I have to protect myself.
The new fridge is a mood equaliser. It stops me throwing tantrums over things I can’t change but really, really want to change — such as the nerve-eating reality of dementia.
Actually, the new fridge is a symbol of change. It has given me a little bit of peace. It is my way of gaining some control and acceptance of my situation: ‘‘you can’t change what happens but you can change how you think about it’’.
I can’t change the fact that my mother is demented but I can try to stop myself from going crazy.
Allowing myself to get into a rage because she has again emptied out the kitchen fridge before I come home from work is bordering on risky behaviour. I am expecting the worst and I get what I expect and my nerves are a mess.
Being a working woman I like to cook several meals at once and am really happy to eat the same thing two nights in a row and freeze the other portions (freezer in kitchen fridge has a lock, although not totally dementia-proof).
In the morning I tell her that her lunch is in the blue bowl in the fridge and that the carer will heat it up for her.
After work, at about 7pm I am looking forward to chicken and salad in front of the TV only to find that the take-away chook from yesterday has completely disappeared. Greasy foil packaging is scattered in the garden and the dog is scratching herself to the point of drawing blood. The dog, on an expensive meat-free diet, undoubtedly wolfed down the carcass. Yeah I know, dogs shouldn’t eat chicken bones.
‘‘Please don’t throw chicken bones in the garden...’’ I try to say politely to the demented one before resorting to shouting because she insists it wasn’t her. In my mind’s eye I can see what happened — ‘‘here doggy, doggy...’’.
With nothing to do but make do with cheese and crackers I look for that nice soft blue cheese that I buy at Aldi.
Where is the cheese, I ask the demented one. I never see any cheese, she says in her usual ungrammatical English. The blue cheese is being enjoyed by ants in the bin. I can’t get any sense out of her but I figure she unwrapped the packet, got offended by the smell and the mould and decided the best place for it was the bin.
And what a salami hog. True to her Balkan farming background, she can’t say no to processed meat — and who cares if it is supposed to give you cancer. At 85 she is living proof that salami cancer is choosy about where it grows.
One day a generous visitor leaves behind a lot of chorizos, at least 10 sausages of the smoked variety. I have plans to use some and freeze some but don’t do it immediately.
The following day, walking home from the train station I plan a quick chorizo and tomato pasta for dinner. Nope, all gone. I want to throw myself on the floor and scream.
Put a lock on the kitchen fridge a sensible person might say — and many have.
But this is not an option as she has to have access to her lunch and cold drinks. And sorting the various jars gives her something to do when she is bored. The Englsh mustard goes next to the horseradish, goes next to the gherkins and so on......
The things I don’t want her to touch goes in the new fridge. I love my new fridge.
