"It is here."

~Earlysville White Oak~

~~~~~

This morning I left Earlysville, having spent a long weekend in what could only be described as a crash course in dementia awareness.  Once again I stopped and quickly photographed the white oak I've photographed many times before - the morning sky was already washed out, the grass brown from unusually warm temperatures and a longtime without rain.

~~~~~ 

There was an acute event, a distinct episodic event - triggered by the dementia itself, possibly complications from a drug that my father was on (Aricept) and a horrific healthcare provider who exploited his fears and fed his paranoia.  It was confusing, hurtful, deeply sad, terrifying, crazy, compassionate - and at the heart of it was my kind, passive  father.  It was new territory.  I can't go into the details now, I am too drained, and probably won't share the events of the past week on these pages.

All I know is that at some point this weekend a light went off in my head and I thought "This is what dementia is.  It is here."

~~~~~

 While I was away, Katherine emailed me a poem, understanding just a bit the personal hell that dementia brings into a home and a family.  I watched my father, seeing in his eyes sometimes the inner battles he was having - his mind racing, his mind trying to grasp on to what was real - but being unable to.  Then moments of comforting clarity.

I now know the heartbreak of this illness.

 

Journey into the Interior by Theodore Roethke 

In the long journey out of the self,
There are many detours, washed-out interrupted raw places
Where the shale slides dangerously
And the back wheels hang almost over the edge
At the sudden veering, the moment of turning.
Better to hug close, wary of rubble and falling stones.
The arroyo cracking the road, the wind-bitten buttes, the canyons,
Creeks swollen in midsummer from the flash-flood roaring into the narrow valley.
Reeds beaten flat by wind and rain,

Grey from the long winter, burnt at the base in late summer.
---Or the path narrowing,

Winding upward toward the stream with its sharp stones,
The upland of alder and birchtrees,
Through the swamp alive with quicksand,
The way blocked at last by a fallen fir-tree,
The thickets darkening,
The ravines ugly.

Comments

[jodi (bloomingwriter)]

Oh, Pam. I know. I know. I know. It's a brutal, hateful, gutwrenching disease, and it exhausts and makes us hurt more than we ever thought possible, as the person we love disappears from our sight though still in front of us.
Huge hugs to you from me up here in sultry (sultry!? Yes, this week) Nova Scotia.

[Taylor]

I have a terrible fear of dementia hitting my brilliant, thoughtful parents. I'm so sorry that you are having to deal with it. Truly, it must be the cruelest of all our human ailments.

[cindi]

Let those moments of clarity be your comfort. It's such a viscious disease and so very hard to step up to "be the parent" in the midst of this tornado. Your Dad is soooo very fortunate to have you facing this with him. The Morris team will see it through. No doubts.

[Pam]

Thanks everyone. Tough, tough times.

[Benjamin]

Almost any Roethke poem makes things slightly, if only slightly and momentarily, better. Thanks.

[Pam]

Benjamin, a bit better - yes indeed.

[Annie in Austin]

I'm so sorry to read this, Pam but don't know what to say.