I’ll start by apologizing if I offended anyone by the title
of this writing. I spent the late
morning and early afternoon with my mother and her sister, my Aunt Bobbie. Bobbie drove by herself from Denver Colorado
to spend time with her only sibling, my mother. Bobbie has had the good fortune of beating the
odds and not being afflicted by dementia.
Their father, my grandfather, was not so fortunate. When I see my mother struggling to find her
words I am, painfully, reminded of him.
My grandfather’s dementia began to affect his gait and balance.
One day, while taking his daily shower, he became unsteady on his feet and
grabbed the towel bar. According to my grandmother, it didn’t work. He fell to the ground with the towel bar in
his hand, ripped from the wall. My
grandfather was a large man. Not slight
of build and not heavy, but in between. He
was the only man I have ever seen that looked regal in his overalls he wore
while farming.
My grandmother decided that my grandfather needed care that
she could not provide. He was placed in
a long-term care facility. It was the
only one in Bedford, Iowa. She tried to
make his room as comfortable as was possible.
A recliner was placed in the room, as was a television. Despite these
comforts of home, my grandfather was saddened.
Saddened by not living in the home he had earned by his hard work. Sometimes
he farmed for 14 hours a day.
I was close to my grandfather and I adored him. He must have known this somehow and
reciprocated with kindness and love. He phoned
me one night shortly after he was placed in the nursing home. He said that he was “losing his mind”: that
he couldn’t find his words to effectively communicate. I believe a loss of this type is a large blow
to a man who was quiet yet thoughtful.
He was a listener instead of a talker.
When he did speak, however, his words were thoughtful and picked with
precision.
My grandfather passed away from a heart attack. He had been in the nursing home for one
week. I think his heart gave out around
the time he realized that his cognition was deteriorating. I do hope my mother is spared from this, but
I feel I sadness for her loss of memory and ability to communicate her thoughts
and feelings. When Bobbie and I were with
her today, I asked my mother how she was doing.
She replied that her mind was “jumbled”; that she was in “a terrible
state.” Bobbie and I got quiet. We knew
that her sentiments were real, and we knew that we must give her the time, the respect
to express her feelings.
I wish that I could fix my mother—for her sake and for our
sakes. This is the situation however. This is the luck of the draw. Dementia is a son of a bitch.
