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death and dementia

We can remember our childhood in detail. The name of the street we lived on. The house we lived in. The yard we played in. The childhood friends who loved us. The childhood bullies who taunted us. Every detail. Over and over again. And again.

The years after that get a bit fuzzy. But there are still islands of remembered faces. Names. Places. Stories. Especially when prompted. Oh yeah, now I remember.

But don't ask us what we did 15 minutes ago. Or what we had for lunch. Or who came to visit this morning. Don't remember. Don't know. Do I care?

There is so much life to remember. Maybe there is no more room for more details. Just too much.

Those of us visited by dementia can get quite old in healthy bodies. But we loose our appetite. Food just does not taste good anymore. We eat because we are supposed to eat. Because someone cooks it for us. Puts the plate in front of us. Sometimes we force ourselves. To eat.

At some point we just don't care enough on our way to death and dementia. Don't care enough to eat. Don't care enough to live. Don't care enough to die.

If you are looking for medical information about Dementia, click here.

Gary had grown up in California. He had been a professor for zoology. He loved to hike and be in nature. He was the father of several children. He had lived quite a life. Before death and dementia caught up with him in his 90's.

He had moved to his son Ronald's home in Ashland after his wife had died a few years back. He had the master bedroom with sunlight in the morning. With bird feeders in front of his window. With a covered porch and a comfortable chair for warm days. For cool evenings. For sunny mornings.

Gary was a gentle educated man who loved to read. Watch WWII movies. Listen to classical music, especially baroque music.

His eyes always lit up when his son entered the room. Or when he watched the birds around the bird feeder. Or stroked his silvery cat.

I watched his slow and steady journey towards his dementia death. As one of his caregivers. For close to two years.

We would go out for a drive every Saturday morning. Go to the Duck Pond. Watch the different ducks feed. Watch the turtles come out to sun on the rocks. Watch the seasons change.

Gary loved to watch the ducks. But he could not remember the name of any one. Not a single one. And he had taught zoology. The study of animals. All gone.

He loved his bacon and eggs for breakfast. But it became such a chore to eat it all. He was just not feeling hungry. Even after a good night's sleep.

I heard many stories about the bully boys in school. His older brother and his bully boy friends. Going after a straight A student. Being responsible for a broken arm. For having to change schools.

They still haunted him after all these years. Forgotten was his life as a married man. Forgotten was his life as father of three grown children. Forgotten was his life as a professor. But the bully boys were still there. Often every day.

Then he stopped eating.

Hospice came on board. Brought the hospital bed. Brought the comfort pack of medicines. Came by twice a week to check on Gary. Make sure he was comfortable.

Gary was getting weaker.

Lay in bed moaning a little bit. Curled up on his side. Humming parts of a tune. Could not sleep much. Needed company at night. Called out for his son. Like a small child in need of a mother.

A team of caregivers did their best to make him feel comfortable. It was not easy.

We sang to him. We played his favorite music for him. We looked at National Geographic Magazines and their beautiful images with him.

He took his time.

And finally one morning at around eleven he took his last breath.

His son Ronald was there. Some of the caregivers were there. His hospice nurse came. They washed his body in lavender water. They covered his body up in a white sheet.

We all said our good byes. And waited for the mortuary men to pick up his body.

Ronald now uses his father's room to practice chamber music. String quartets. It is still Dad's room.

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