Lieben: German for to love

"Why would you want to learn German?" So said Mum, in a Yorkshire accent, a look of horror on her face. Given when I mentioned it, in her mind she was somewhere in the early 1940s, she thought I was betraying England. Why was I even telling her? It's something to talk about in my monologue as we shuffle around Queen's Park lake, given that mum can't carry on a regular conversation these days. 

Somehow, I've drifted back into talking about mum again. Wasn't my intention. I was thinking about my recent German classes at Melbourne's CAE.

The German people, our young Deutschlehrerin (female German teacher) told us a couple of lessons ago, would only use the expression 'I love…' in the context of an intimate relationship. Ich liebe dich - I love you - is reserved for one's partners, one's family.

 'So you mean,' said John, a student in the class - aged 80 by the way, 'they wouldn't debase the word by using it to describe lesser things?'

'Ja, genau!' she said. Yes, exactly.

So you wouldn't say you loved someone's hair or shoes. Das ist verboten. It's banned. Hurrah, I know another quirk of the German language. I won't embarrass myself by inappropriately professing my love when I'm in Germany: ich liebe das Wohnmobil  - I love this campervan.

Apart from giving my non-working life a bit of structure and perhaps staving off dementia, I decided to learn German because I've travelled there several times and intend to return. The German language was absolutely, well, foreign. We - Al and I - could be handed a German menu in a restaurant and have no idea what the hell was on offer, apart from the ubiquitous wurst, schnitzel and strudel, words that have found their way into our vernacular. We've been stumped driving off an 'Ausfahrt' (exit) on the 'Autobahn' (freeway); bemused as fellow campers have waved us off on a ride with a 'Good fart!' Suppose it could be an added bonus. But Gut Farht actually means have a good journey. As for ordering a glass of wine. In broken German I've asked for 'ein dry white'. Basically I've been requesting 'one - nearly - three, nonsense', given that in German 'w' is pronounced like our 'v' . Suppose that explains occasionally getting a glass of red and making do. Any port in a storm.

Now, German is less weird by the minute. It's easy enough to learn to speak because it's phonetic. Once you can recognise and mimic those 'guttural' sounds you're away. Suppose the grammar would be challenging if one didn't love grammar, as I do. Weird, huh.

Two hours of German class seems to pass by each week in about fifteen minutes. That's total absorption, or mindfulness or I'm having a series of cardio vascular accidents. I'll go with the former.

Given we don't mind debasing the word love in English I can say I love learning German, In German I think that's ich mag Deutsch lernen sehr gern. Course, I could be wrong.

Sunday with my old mum.

My mum, former nursing administrator, reader, writer, humorous raconteur, was also into meditative ironing. In retirement, she'd get up early and set up, in her kitchen, to iron. 

Sunday, I 'got her out' of her aged care facility; rescued her for the day. It was windy, grey, squally and damp last Sunday. Couldn't imagine much worse than being stuck in that day room at the hostel. Old women, walking frames. Some heads descended on chests asleep. Other sleeping heads thrown back, mouths open. Looking like my dad just after he'd died. 

Anyway, I got my 85 year old mum out. Not before I'd checked her clothes; fixed her hair; applied her a bit of tinted moisturiser and lippie. She's so pale these days, not getting into the sun much. When she stood in front of me as I dabbed the lipstick onto her quivering lips I noticed that I was looking directly into her face, despite her formerly being six inches taller than me. She's lost her memory and her height.

Still, mum looks good. Physically robust.

I drove to my local shops, fielding the confused questions. "Do you think if we went to see my mother she'd be home?" Her mum died in 1972. "Have you been through to see my mother lately?" Mum means have I been to Goldthorpe, Yorkshire, England, to visit her mother. 

I'll deflect occasionally. Haven't had time, I'll say. Other times I'll remind mum that her mum died when I was sixteen and mum was in her early forties. Her eyes fill with tears. As they say in the dealing with dementia reading, sometimes it's better to humour the sufferer. We're all suffering.

The confused questions are repeated on a sort of loop. About three years ago, when mum's dementia was first diagnosed, I used to get angry and frustrated by mum's repetition. I wrote out standard responses and told her to read them. Got sick of telling her where we were, where she lived, where she lives now, what's happened to my dad and who that man in the kitchen was, that is, my husband, Al, who she's known and loved since 1979.

Now I'm amazed by my acceptance and patience. 

Surprisingly, I relish the humour, when it occurs as it frequently does with mum. She's always had the best sense of humour.  On Sunday, I let mum out of the car at a neighbour's driveway so she wouldn't struggle with the door and the gutter as she got out of the car. I then reversed  to park outside my house. Mum walked up the path and got into the car. She thought we were leaving having forgotten that we'd just arrived. We both roared with laughter, eyes filling with tears.

After lunch, I invited mum to do some ironing. She longs to feel useful and I thought she'd appreciate a familiar task. Set it all up, worrying a bit about the hot iron but thinking she'd manage. Gave her one of her straightforward shirts. She worked around it a bit; re-ironing sections she'd already done, unable to figure out how to move the shirt around on the board. "I'm not sure I can manage this," she said after a few attempts.

I helped her out by lying a sleeve out flat on the board. 

"Oh, I see!" She smiled her thanks, secured the top of the sleeve in her left hand and ironed with her right. She glided the iron along the sleeve and over her thumb. Her reflexes, happily, are still good. 

Packed up the ironing, poured her a wine and she watched me make some biscuits instead.