“With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.” — [Oscar Wilde]
I hope this never comes to pass with dad. Meaning, he should never, ever, feel left alone – abandoned by his family. Notably, this son.
Dementia has a pail-full of confusing problems. I don’t have a ladle big enough to scoop out enough ounces to have it all make sense to me – let alone empty the humongous bucket dad must carry around 24/7. This is what occupies my time – my thoughts – a few minutes every once in a while. He and I are at an emotional well together.
He can be sitting with me holding a spoonful of dripping hot fudge over a serving of vanilla ice cream, or miles away tucked into a routine at his facility. Regardless, dementia is constantly filling up pails and buckets with confusing signals, information, and “whys”.
His pail ripples with same-old-same-old to him. What goes in is, possibly, new information, yet old to me and the very kind assistants who are patient with him. What hat should I wear? (That is the same every day if we go somewhere) Is my razor charging / where is it? (Same every day) … Will I be back for my meal? These question, I hope, are not stressful, but I know dad. I know he worries. These are his ripples.
My bucket is a bit different. I don’t worry about him. Not about the care he’s receiving. The guidelines I use are health and safety. Are they being met? Yes, absolutely! Where he is couldn’t be better.
My emotional ripples are bigger than that. Like I mentioned, I need a bigger ladle.
It had been a few days since I was able to get in. Yesterday, finally, in the midst of a few ridiculous rainstorms and high humidity, a nice walk down toward his room was a welcome relief. Usually a knock, or two, is all that’s needed to get a nice welcome smile to greet me. Not this time. Another attempt. Nope. Third time. Silence.
Off to the activity room to check on a possible group event. Maybe he was otherwise engaged? Nope.
I knew not to fear the worst. Dad is in pretty good health, so any idea of an emergency wasn’t warranted. Fortunately, a nice aide was able to help with a spare key.
As I figured, dad was sleeping as soundly as I’ve ever known him to be. This was an odd time for him to rest. No illness or other reason for this came immediately to my mind. We rustled him up, slightly, and I said my usual, “Hey, Dad..”, to see if he wanted to get out a little bit.
“…how about just going back to sleep and I’ll see you later?”, noticing his very different demeanor.
“Huh? … hmmph, ok”. And with that, a creased pillow found his head, once again, nestled into a very warm, comfy spot. I carefully refolded a blanket over his shoulder, said a soft “goodbye”, and gently closed the door behind me less than a minute later.
Walking back down that hallway felt different. Dad was alone, but not really. We were at that stupid well. My bucket was, again, filling up with confusing information. Is his age catching up to him? Is this advancing dementia? Was he simply bored on this particular day? Did he not recognize me, thus, not want to go? Am I looking too much into this?
Was this selfish of me to want his company, yet be unfulfilled? What’s the answer here?
I just don’t think there is one. And this is the problem with dementia. So much information, yet each case / each diagnosis is so different. Not only this, each connection with individual family members is unique. Everyone brings flawed buckets and pails if they care to have real, meaningful, beautiful bonds with a dementia striken loved one.
No matter the age-related situation, no elderly person EVER should be alone. They are the lifeblood of wisdom, unique energy, laughter, generational compassion, and historical preservation.
My dad has his set of problems now. Yesterday, I felt he was alone for just a minute or so. That’s on me. That’s my moment at the well. It’s my bucket to bear. Unfortunately, his pail is dementia – whatever it has to be one any given day, any presented moment.
Like I always say, “The other side of reality is getting a great guy little by little, so for now, I’ll take whatever dementia let’s me have on this side at the moment.”+
This way, he’s never alone. Nor will he ever be.
DougHugs 