Father used to take me fishing when I was younger. I never really appreciated it. Standing on the edge of a lake with nothing to do but pulling a line in and then throwing it back out again did not make for a good time for a young girl.
Now, the tables have turned and I find myself the fishing instigator on most occasions. Fresh air, a simple objective and, best of all, peace and quiet.
Dee's dementia has progressed into the noisy phase. The Irish blood in her always made her a chatty soul. She made friends easily, left an impression wherever she went and had a wonderful way of telling stories. Such a fascinating and interesting individual, and she still is, but in a different way.
Now, her capacity to talk is dumbfounding. Non-stop, incessant chatter with no pauses for thought or breath and no logical progression from one part to the next. I'm still deciding if this is a sign of happiness and comfort in the company she keeps or if it's merely a way of Dee keeping her train of thought going without interruptions that she can't understand.
She can remember the smallest details of her early life in the london. The colour of the door to her best friend's flat in Kensington. The necklace she wore on the first date she went on with her tall policeman boyfriend. The time she nearly ended up in Brighton with another friend when they got lost driving to college. And yet, what she had for lunch a few hours ago and the current topic of conversation is an every day struggle.
The mind works in mysterious ways.
So the silence that comes from standing on the edge of a lake, doing nothing else but fish comes as the perfect past time. An opportunity to contemplate what to do next, and what will come next. A chance to deafen the outside and take stock. Maybe even catch some dinner.
