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Michele Hanson and her mother

Years ago my father had an operation on his throat. He wasn't allowed to talk for three weeks. So we gave him a squeaky duck for answering questions: two squeaks for no, three squeaks for yes. He could even use his squeaker on the telephone, to people who had been properly briefed. Naturally we all had a laugh, rather heartlessly. "Want a cup of tea?" "Squeak, squeak, squeak!" "How many sugars?" "Squeak, squeak!" "What, no sugar? Or two? Ha ha!" And it had its limitations of course, but as my father was a champion sulker anyway, he didn't much care.

Now it's my mother's turn. She's had a stroke and can hardly speak at all, we don't know for how long. What a ghastly affliction for my mother of all people, who lives only to talk. Any other illness she could at least have a shout about, but not this one. Well she can a bit, because luckily for her, the expletives have returned first. Quite early on she managed to shout bollocks/bleep, and it has been an absolute lifesaver. Is there anything more annoying than Aphasia? Which is what my mother has. She understands everything we say, she knows what her answer should be, but her brain can't dredge up the right words. She wants cup, she gets plate, she wants jam, she gets soup, him for her, she for he, boyfriend for girlfriend. Gender is a particular mix-up.

So instead of nipping into my mother's room and asking what she'd like for breakfast, we are in for an extended period of charades while she tries to signal the desired menu. Out come garbly noises and Stanley Unwin language. Does she mean cereal, or is it porridge? No! Toast? No! Muesli? NO, NO! screams my mother, drawing little rings in the air.

Ah ha! Grapes! NO! Puffed wheat? NO! My mother tears at her hair. She thumps the bed. She scrabbles for her pencil and notepad and draws rings in a frenzy. Cornflakes? YES, YES!! At last. We wave our hands in the air and cheer. We have had to communicate for half an hour, just about the breakfast menu.

And that is the big advantage to this illness. My mother and I now talk to each other for longer than we've ever done before. Because until recently how could we? What did we have in common? She likes the Paso Doblee, I like Rock and Roll. She likes Fiddler on the Roof, I like Dido and Aeneas, she adores cooking, I adore not cooking, she lives for Bridge (or used to), I hate all card games. But now we can talk forever about practically nothing, because we have to, and oddly enough, because it's so difficult, it becomes fascinating. A challenge. In the hospital we talked non-stop for four hours a day, which was unprecedented.

This is what my mother has always longed for - that her daughter and grand-daughter would sit down and talk to her for ages. A dream come true. Chatting has always been her favourite hobby. She will do it non-stop so long as there is a living person in within ear-shot. So isn't it just her luck, now she's got us talking, she hasn't got a proper voice to answer with. Oddly enough, she isn't even bitter about it. And now she's out of hospital and home again there are scores of people coming round to do more talking. She has us, the visiting speech therapists, droves of concerned visitors, the home-care ladies. But best of all, I can now tell her all the scandal and secrets and risquΓ©e information that I can rake up. Why? Because she can't blab it out again.

Well so far she can't, but her speech is improving tremendously. She's making a stupendous effort to talk. "Incredible," says the Consultant. "Unbelievable!", say friends and neighbours. "What a phenomenal improvement for someone of ninety five!" She can even answer the phone, after a fashion. And sometimes, more and more frequently, out comes a lovely clear sentence. Not quite clear enough to give away all those secrets. Yet. Will the breakthrough in communication continue? We live on a knife edge. As always.