Me, Mum And The Sound Of Music

Music proved vital to Max Riddington when her mum was ill with Alzheimer’s disease.

- Max Riddington

One of my first memories is of having measles when I was four. I was so unwell that I slept in my parents’ bed – Dad was relegated to the settee while mum lay awake, stroking my hair and singing, ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey…’ Whenever mum sang, I knew everything was going to be OK.

Twenty-five years later, I sang the same song to my son as he lay in a hospital cot with suspected meningitis, with my mother humming the melody quietly beside me as we waited for the test results.

Mum loved to sing – pop songs, hymns or just invented ditties about what we we’d have for tea. She couldn’t hit a note but her joy in music was something we shared, a language we understood.

Years later, when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, this bond became our lifeline – a strange connection whose power I recalled vividly when I watched the recent BBC One show Our Dementia Choir with Vicky McClure.

Dad was a council worker and Mum a shop assistant, so there wasn’t a lot of money or books at home, but we did have music. It came from a radio (always Radio 2) and from Saturday nights at the working men’s club. Music guided Mum though some rough days.

Her older sister, Barbara, was a schizophrenic at a time when mental health was rarely discussed. But Mum took care of her. On her day off, she’d go to Barbara’s flat to clean and make sure everything was OK. In the holidays, I would tag along. I didn’t understand my aunt’s moods, and Mum, sensing my reticence, would sing Onward, Christian Soldiers as we marched in step to our destination. I’d soon get lost in the rhythm and my fears would fade.

Pride and joy