Repetition

     Dad has been repeating himself for awhile now. Housemate's mum has just started. For a few months, she would play catch-up with conversations. A few minutes after a group of us was done discussing something, she would bring up the same thing using some of the same words. Within the last month, she has started repeating a question or a sentence several times within five minutes. Then she would act surprised that she'd already told us.

     An example:
          "My sister called me. She said she fell and sprained an ankle."
     This would be discussed. A few minutes later:
          "My sister called me. She said she fell and sprained an ankle."
     And a few more minutes later:
          "My sister called me. She said she fell and sprained an ankle."



     My dad and housemate's mum have never really cared for each other. I could imagine a conversation between the two of them.

Dad: "This is my daughter sapphoq."
Housemate's mum: "Yes, I know. How have you been?"

Dad: "This is my daughter sapphoq."
Housemate's mum: "Yes, I know. How have you been?"

Dad: "This is my daughter sapphoq."
Housemate's mum: "Yes, I know. How have you been?"


     The verdict is not in on housemate's mum yet. But the eerie repetition sounds strikingly familiar to me.

     It is not the long-term memory that suffers in dementia. It is the short-term memory, followed by an inability to create new memories. Thus, many folks with some form of dementia can tell you about their childhood but not remember what they had for breakfast.


     Dad told me the other day that soon he will not be able to talk at all anymore. His expressive aphasia has certainly gotten worse in my unprofessional unasked for opinion.

     
     Dad did not prepare me for his dementia. I suppose dementia is something that is subject to lots and lots of denial aided and abetted by any lesions that happen upon the left side of the brain.

     Dementia sucks. Don't you doubt that for a minute.

sapphoq on life

No Gods to Save Him

   Dad always remembered my birthdays. If it was on a school day, he'd drop off a big cake during lunch time. He also sent singing telegrams-- the kind sent over the phone-- to me. I knew that I was always being thought about.

     Every year around the time of Dad's birthday, I wonder. Will he die within the next three months? And every year he doesn't die, the Lewey bodies continue their relentless assault on his brain. His hips get weaker, his saliva gets thicker, he loses more of his thinking abilities. He doesn't even want to watch his television anymore. I thought it was because he thinks his cable bill is around seventy five dollars. [It isn't. It's about five dollars]. Housemate says Dad can't follow the news or the stories and so he has given that up. I figure the housemate has the right of it. Dad's recognition of my housemate has gotten dodgy. 

     Dad attends church services offered to the folks in the adult living house he is in. He likes to sing. He insists upon "Amazing Grace" and "God Bless America."

     But whatever gods are blessing America, they aren't blessing my father. There are no supernatural or preternatural miracles waiting in the wings to swoop up Dad and restore him to good health. There is the sameness of each day, the spiraling and irregular progression of his dementia, the narrowing of his world. The days when he knows what is happening to him and the days when he doesn't all run into each other in one ruinous blur.

     So believers, do your best. Storm the heavens. Intercede and argue with whatever gods you subscribe to. Whether you call your sense of divinity Jesus, Allah, Kali, or any of the little gods and goddesses of old. It does not matter. Dad has been condemned without a trial. He will deteriorate and then he will die. I will cry. Some of the family will argue afterwards. Some won't. Ultimately, the results are the same. 

     There are no miracles. There is only this: We are all of us truly alone in our own skins. Absolutely nothing can permanently alter that.

~ sapphoq on life