A friend of mine is presenting with behavior and symptoms of dementia.
Her spouse is recently in extended care after a possible stroke or brain injury and essentially non-responsive.
It’s the 10 year anniversary of her son’s death. He was 22.
There is an estranged daughter of my friend’s spouse. She says she has no relationship with her dad.
Vonnegut couldn’t have written a better shit show.
The past month has been Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride through what is probably Sundowner’s syndrome, hallucinations and psychosis, memory loss, trouble with vocabulary, falls, fear becoming paranoia, anger, tears, a burglary or two, phone calls and texts well into the wee hours of the morning.
I can’t imagine what my friend is going through.
It’s got to be absolutely frightening to feel and be so vulnerable.
Another long time friend of my friend reached out asking if I knew what was going on. We are conspiring to do our best to keep our friend safe.
There is a lot of heavy lifting to do in this situation. I used to think I was a bad ass motherfucker.
I don’t anymore. I am small.
This simply isn’t a matter of going to the internet and looking for resources and signing my friend up for Meals on Wheels —which costs $400/month, 2 meals a day, and doesn’t deliver on weekends. Yes, there are other options.
There is also a procedural process that needs to be put in place. This is no place for fools. This is the place where even angels fear to tread. I ain’t no angel.
Then there is the disease itself and what it does to the mind of the afflicted. For now I am her voice of reason.
For now.
There is the necessity of an evaluation and diagnosis. If you know this disease, you know the struggle we face.
No one wants this to be the end of the story. And my friend definitely doesn’t want to see a doctor.
Then there is the legal stuff like, advanced health care directives for both my friend and her spouse. And durable power of attorney, which should be written up by an actual lawyer, and notaries. Then on to the banks, and social security, pensions, mortgages, credit cards and on and on to unravel this bowl of spaghetti.
I’m deeply saddened.
Very few of my healthy friends understand the challenges ahead. Sure there are platitudes of “I’m here if you want to talk.” This journey is just beginning and no, I don’t want to talk. At least not until I know my friend with dementia is safe and has the daily and professional care she needs.
Even then, I probably won’t have much to say.
I hate the long goodbye.
We talked about art
after
talking about
bad neighbors
and robberies
and broken locks.
Our art connection runs long
across time
within the remaining webbing
of pathways between synapses.
Thirty two years, I think.
I too, can be wrong now.
Seeing each other again,
as we always have.
Recognition.
Beauty in acceptance.
A deep, deep.
Love.
As body changes,
roadmaps appear
carving into you like
Rushmore.
In shadows
I still see
you.
Beautiful. From the heart, the most profound place.