Well, I am sad to say that my warrior mother has finally been defeated. Her brave heart is riddled with fear now as the Alzheimer’s begins to shake her in its jittery jaws. Fortunately ten years ago they moved to a house near me, seemingly amazed that some people lived in streets where windows weren’t smashed and people used toilets. But now, daily, sometimes hourly, she bikes round to my house – I know, I know, but there’s no prising her off it – in a state of pure alarm. (What will she do if we sell the house? I have to be near her, don’t you see, Dr. R? She’ll carry on turning up on her bicycle, oblivious to the new inhabitants and their differences: she’ll sit in their kitchen, make their beds, get in their baths.) For she is stuck in a cycle of breathless panic: confused, shrunken, stuttering, swallowing, fear and worry oozing from her every pore. I try to calm her, soothing sweet nothings as she tells me of the latest molehill now become a mountain: she can’t find a stamp, or her soap, or her handbag; she doesn’t know how many teabags to put in a cup. Life itself has become the enemy, ambushing and assaulting her with its every terrifying move.

And yet, despite it all, Dr. R, my mum is still there. She has retained her empathy, her emotional intelligence, her loving, caring soul. She is still the port in all my storms, my anchor, my sanctuary. She is my true north.

I clasped her hand in mine, overwhelmed by a fierce protectiveness towards her as I explained to Dr. Rhys Evans that before we did the test I just wanted to mention that she’d been feeling faint and weak. She flashed her teeth and raised a finger and rang through to the nurse, and asked whether there was time for a quick blood test. Then Dr. Rhys Evans looked down at the dreaded notepad.

‘All right, Mrs. de Cadenet, shall we begin?’

My mother was very anxious now but she concentrated as hard as she could.

‘I want you to remember three words for me . . . and I’m going to ask you to repeat them to me at the end of the test. OK?’

‘OK,’ my mother repeated, as if it was one of the words.

‘Apple. Horse. Tuesday.’

My mother laughed, delighted that the test she had been dreading was going to be so absurdly easy. ‘Apple. Horse and . . . Tuesday,’ she said, her lips repeating the words several times.

‘Right,’ said Dr. Rhys Evans. ‘Can you tell me what day it is today?’ (Slightly mean, don’t you think?)

‘Tuesday!’ My mother said with great confidence. It was Friday.

‘OK,’ said Dr. Rhys Evans. ‘And can you tell me who our present monarch is?’

‘Of course I can!’ said my mother, rather enjoying herself now. ‘Queen Elizabeth the Second.’