Under Grey Skies

Drawing beauty from pain, chasing springtimes in her eyes, playing games in the rain

I pushed my mother’s wheelchair through Heathrow airport without question or pause.

Without flinching.

The last time she was here, she travelled through Spain and Portugal with a friend before coming to the UK. They even spent a night in Edinburgh — all by themselves, barely speaking any English.

How did she age two decades in one? Thirteen days with her, and I lived an entire lifetime.

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Photo courtesy of Discogs. Click on the image to stream the song on your preferred platform.

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There were plenty of reasons not to bring my mum to London in January.

Her mild cognitive impairment is now officially early-stage dementia. Her congenital arthrosis has wreaked havoc on her right femoral head (she’s already had surgery on her left). Her memory has become fragmented. She’s in constant, excruciating pain. And she’s the kind of person who will tut at the sky for being cloudy. Don’t get me started on light drizzle.

So what were we thinking? Well, mum can’t travel alone. My sister is a teacher. It’s the summer break in Argentina. She and my brother-in-law could take time off. It had to be this January, or most likely never again. Her two conditions are progressing fast.

Seeing her arrive in a wheelchair shattered my heart. A wheelchair I requested, mind you. One thing is to know. Another is to see.

Her face lit up when I greeted her in the arrivals hall. We were off to a good start.

If you haven’t spent much time in Britain, here are three things you should know about January: it’s dark, grey, and miserable. The sun (if you catch it) rises just after 8am and sets at about 3.30pm. The wind is everything you’d expect from an island wedged between the North Sea and the North Atlantic: unforgiving.

But it’s also the quietest, cosiest, most underrated month. Gallons of tea, heaps of scones, keep calm, carry on. And stay warm if you can.

Photo by Jasper Garratt on Unsplash

The gloominess of the English weather is in part what inspired British singer-songwriter JP Cooper to call his debut album and its opening track (We Were) Raised Under Grey Skies:

We were raised under grey skies

But you’ll never hear us complain

And father led with examples

Of how to draw beauty from pain

So I found a thousand springtimes in her eyes

And I learned to play games in the rain

A Manchester native, he’s seen his fair share of gloomy English weather, but his “grey skies” also echo a deeper loss: his mother tragically passed away when he was just 11 months old.

His life has been marked by grief from the start, yet he grew up feeling her presence everywhere:

‘My dad made it very clear that although my mum wasn’t there physically, she was always present with us. So I had this insight into another world, a world that you can't see or touch. And that was the beauty of music when I discovered it, because that was another thing you couldn't see or touch, but could feel’.

I’ve been a fan of his work since his debut. This song always hits hardest. The beautiful imagery of the lyrics, coupled with the soulful melancholy of his voice, is chillingly raw and authentic.

Unlike JP’s mother, mine is still with us, but I can see her life fading. She’s too young for this. I’m too young for this.

Despite her many ailments, she managed to see a lot during her stay in London — not just Maida Vale (where my husband and I live) and nearby Notting Hill. We also took her to Trafalgar Square, the Houses of Parliament, St James’s Park, Tower Bridge, a cruise along the Thames, afternoon tea at Fortnum’s, the Natural History and V&A museums, Harrods, Hyde Park, Westfield, the British Museum, Russell Square, and of course, Piccadilly and Oxford Circus multiple times (she moves very slowly, with a stick, and needs to hold on to my arm when she walks, but those shops weren’t going to visit themselves).

She was even brave enough to go on the London Eye.

The one day it rained (not bad for two weeks in January), she wanted to stay home. Her leg hurt like hell. Her pain threshold is high, and she was in good spirits, but she needed a rest.

I came back from the gym with a few bits for her and, after cooking her lunch, found her painting mandalas. This is a relatively new habit — she was never really a fine-arts type. She’s always preferred books and films, but she now struggles to keep track of stories due to her advancing dementia. Colouring mandalas is a soothing, therapeutic ritual for her.

That’s when it hit me. She was drawing, or painting, beauty from pain. I asked her if she wanted to go out for a walk after lunch. “Depends on the weather”, she said. Bless her. The rain was relentless that day — not heavy, just very persistent — so we stayed in.

Photo by Galactic Nikita on Unsplash

Buenos Aires, the city we’re from and where she still lives, is known for its blue skies and mild climate. During that rainy afternoon in London, mum kept looking out the window with a tinge of melancholy. I needed to distract her, so we played games in the rain.

We caught up on life and enjoyed some mother-and-son time. She said she was impressed by London’s beauty and vibrancy, the strong bond I had built with my husband, and the happy life I had made here.

(Note: In later episodes, you’ll understand why she’s so relieved I’ve actually settled down 🤣 Dementia or not, there are some things she’ll never forget).

A recurring comment she made was how cloudy it was and how early the nights were drawing in. I asked her if she remembered her first trip to London twelve years ago, in summer. A far cry from these January grey skies.

She didn’t, so I showed her some pictures. She was in awe. She looked at this younger version of herself with the face someone makes when hearing about how drunk they got last night. Eerily amused. “Did I really do all that?”

My mum, during her 2014 London visit, force-feeding me mate, an Argentinian drink. Still an acquired taste for me, but I occasionally drink it with her.

On her last day, I asked her what she had enjoyed most. Noticing her memories fade by the minute, I took her notepad and, with plenty of detail, wrote everything we had done, day by day.

I added a message: “Our memories may fade, but our time together remains”.

You’re never fully prepared to start looking after your parents. Helping them stand up. Putting food on their plate. Buying them clothes.

I still don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t think we ever are.

What I do know, as I sit here writing this, still feeling her tight grip on my arm, is that I will never walk without her.

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Thanks for reading. Over to you:

• Were you familiar with this song and its backstory?

• Do you have any tips on how to deal with ageing or dementia-affected parents?

• Any stories you’d like to share?

See you in the comments.

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