Dementia: The Cruelest Predator of the Mind

After having battled it on two fronts for nearly a decade, I have determined that dementia is the cruelest predator of the mind. It sits dormant for nearly a lifetime. Then, without a moment's notice, it strikes and erases the most cherished of memories and relationships. I know this for a fact, for it has maliciously attacked and stolen the lives of my mother, my father, and, in many ways, my own.  

Although I do not yet suffer from the disease,  it has altered my very existence. In order to deal with this relentless demon, I resigned from a 20-year-long career in management, relocated and moved in with my father. At the age of 87, he had begun to display the symptoms of dementia. Within a year, he had lost the sight in one eye, so I could no longer allow him drive. It was the result of a stroke he never even felt and it didn't affect him in any other way. I couldn't leave him all alone.

 It was 2013, and I'd hoped to be able to keep him safe and out of trouble while I tried to find another job, which, at the age of 56, was a challenge in itself. Nonetheless, in 2015, I was forced to place him in the same facility as my mother. She had already been serving time for the crime of dementia for eight  years. They live in separate rooms because she doesn't recognize him. She gets agitated when he visits her, asking the staff who the hell he is and to get him away from her. It's heartbreaking to see him feel sadness. He's always had a good spirit, but I can see it's eating away at him.

She's been suffering from the disease since the winter of 2007. My father, god bless his soul, cared for her 24/7 until he could no longer do it on his own.  At the time, I was living and working two hours from their home, relegated to visiting them on the weekends. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself to the fact that she needed more help than he could provide. So, together, and with little resistance, we moved her into a facility in the winter of  2012. She had just turned 85.

For eight long years, my father had suffered extreme verbal abuse at the hands of a woman he had once known as his wife and my mother. But, after 50 years together, she no longer recognized him as her husband or my father.  The disease convinced her that he had left her for one of the many "whores" he ran around with, which is far from the truth. My uncle, his deceased older brother, let me know that his little brother certainly sowed his wild oats before marrying my mother,  but that he never once swayed. And, I wholeheartedly agree. Nothing is off limits to this disease. It's a troublemaker.

Unfortunately, the first thing you must learn when attempting to deal with this disgusting disease, is that you cannot rationalize with the person who has become afflicted.  You will undoubtedly find yourself trying, but I can guarantee that you will not only fail, but that you will fail miserably. It is an eye-opening and deflating experience. The disease does not allow photos, documents, or eye-witness accounts in its courtroom. It establishes its own laws. It becomes the supreme court of the mind.

While she was still at home,  she would constantly and viciously berate him, calling him every name in the book. He took it all in stride, realizing that it was the ruthless disease doing the talking.  He understood that she couldn't comprehend that that the man who was caring for her -- and suffering the brunt of her nearly lethal attacks  -- was, indeed, her husband. She once threatened him with a kitchen knife, which resulted in the first of numerous visits from the local police and fire departments.

At the time, I did't know if I could handle that level of intense and unending pressure. But, I am my father's son, and that gave me all the hope I needed to meet the challenge. I have always admired his unswerving perseverance in the face of a lifetime of mental abuse suffered at the hands of my mother -- long before the disease consumed her. But, that's another story. Let's just say she's been a bitter woman. The disease has further fueled that fire.

Before all this transpired, my employer had granted me a transfer from northern Illinois to the gulf coast of Florida. It was the fall of 2005. I had friends near Tampa and I was enjoying the thought of never seeing snow, again. But, after a disturbing phone call from my father in the winter of 2007, I was granted a transfer back to northern Illinois to assist with my mother's care. I am an only child.

She had suffered a broken hip while visiting her youngest sister in Belfast and my father flew overseas to escort her home. He had made the trip the previous year to see the area where they had filmed "The Quiet Man" starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara. She had been making the trip by herself for years. After getting her settled into a local rehab facility, he called me and said I needed to get home as fast as possible.  We still don't know what triggered it, but the disease had begun to take over. She was giving the staff fits and making his life a living hell.  Little did I know, it was just the beginning of her scorched-Earth policy against him.

When I got there, I found her language shocking. I'd never heard my mother swear. Now, she was cussing like a sailor, without caring who was within earshot.  Nonetheless, my father was dealing with it the best he could.  He had no choice. And, as I soon learned, neither did I. Fortunately, I remained a trustworthy and well-respected son in her new world. Sadly, that's not the case today. She no longer knows me, either.

After he took her home, my father became one of three live-in caretakers who she graciously allowed to drive her from doctor's appointments to daily lunches. He was, for all intents and purposes, "Driving Miss Daisy." But, to add insult to injury, she only liked one of the three, and that changed from day to day. You never knew which one she thought he was until you got to the house.

Ironically, she referred to all of them as John, which also happens to be my father's name. By the way, I never said any of this was going to make sense. I began to refer to him as John, too. It was just easier. It kept things consistent and I didn't have  to worry about the potential repercussions of calling him father in front of her.

While in the rehab facility, she began to work toward getting back on her feet.  She eventually made it into a walker, but it turned out to be short-lived.  She was just too frail, having spent decades relying on salads, fish and pie for nourishment. She now weighs less than 100 pounds.  So, on top of everything else, she suffers from osteoporosis. She is now confined to a wheelchair. She has continued to deteriorate both mentally and physically.

Over a month ago, I agreed to allow hospice to come into the facility and give her extra care. The nursing staff recommended it, thinking it was the beginning of the end because she wasn't eating. Well, I told them she's always only ate when she felt like it, so it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. She's still kicking. Actually, she's still swinging, landing punches on unsuspecting staff members. She's very difficult to get along with.

Being stubborn and self-righteous has been the foundation of my mother's existence.  She was raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, by a spinster aunt who was left standing at the alter.  I've been told, as fate would have it, that my aunt despised every man she met, except for my father.  

To put things in perspective, my mother could have played the part of Maureen O'Hara in the "The Quiet Man." On the other hand, her aunt could have played the part of Ruth Buzzi as the hairnet-wearing, handbag-wielding lunatic in "Rowan and Martin's Laugh In." My father never had a chance. To him, strangers are, as they say, only friends he hasn't met. He could have easily played Cary Grant's role in "Arsenic in Old Lace." Maybe that's why my aunt approved of him.

Anyway, my mother is the soul survivor of seven siblings. So is my father. For some reason, the disease chose to strike only the two of them. In fact, the mother of a lifelong friend is the only other person I know who suffered from dementia. Her daughter, with the help of her husband, her daughter and son-in-law,  did everything she could to meet her mother's needs at the expense of her own. She eventually moved her mother into their home, where she lived until she passed away last year.  My friend had lost her job during the recent recession, so, like me,  she had devoted her time to keeping her mother safe and secure right up until the end. We have formed an inseparable bond. 

 She and her family have become my steadfast support system. Her husband, who helped me get the job I walked away from, has become like a brother. Friends have always been the foundation of my existence. I guess it's true that the nut doesn't fall far from the tree. Thanks, dad.

Fortunately, I have a pool of extraordinary friends, such as them, who keep me from losing my mind. The only relative who gives a damn, my cousin Maureen, lives two hours away. She provides moral support over the phone, but it's gotten to the point where I'm just giving her occasional updates. Otherwise, I would have had to fight this demon alone for nine years. How much longer can I do it? Until the end. It's not a choice, it's an obligation. However, It's not getting any easier.