I have a husband in the seemimgly early stage of Alzheimers, in deep, deep depression, believing if he got back to Manchester, where he lived for 50 years, all his troubles would be over.
He believes he has lots of friends to return to, whereas they have either died, moved on, or lost touch.
He believes he was as happy as a sandboy, without a care in the world, all the time he lived there.
He believes he can just go back, get a `bed-sit` and pick up the threads of a life long gone, as if the intervening years had not been.
He believes his unhappiness has nothing to do with Alzheimers, it`s because he`s been uprooted.
He feels very lonely, feels he is living in a cemetery here, waiting to die.
I have booked a few days in Manchester in June, to try to let him see just how it would be. I will not arrange any reunions, I will leave it to him, see where he wants to go, who he is able to contact.
I have offered to help him find somewhere to stay. He is grateful. He said he will visit me and I can visit him.
Last night I was so tired of his constant questions; which station does he go to, how does he get there, how many miles is it, how much is the ticket, can he make the journey without changing at London, over and over and over again.
I answer his question with patience, I`ve even written down instructions, how to get there, I tried to make light of it, telling him I`ll help him pack as he`s never packed a suitcase in his life.
Meanwhile, the house is like a morgue. I am finding it increasingly difficult to rise above all this misery. If I went out and tried to find a distraction, I doubt it would help, as I feel so sorry for him.
He won`t see the doctor, tablets are not the answer. I have written to the psychiatrist asking for a review of his anti-depressants, but know it won`t happen if I can`t get him there.
Is this what those of you further down the line have endured? I would love to know how you got through it.
Thank you
He believes he has lots of friends to return to, whereas they have either died, moved on, or lost touch.
He believes he was as happy as a sandboy, without a care in the world, all the time he lived there.
He believes he can just go back, get a `bed-sit` and pick up the threads of a life long gone, as if the intervening years had not been.
He believes his unhappiness has nothing to do with Alzheimers, it`s because he`s been uprooted.
He feels very lonely, feels he is living in a cemetery here, waiting to die.
I have booked a few days in Manchester in June, to try to let him see just how it would be. I will not arrange any reunions, I will leave it to him, see where he wants to go, who he is able to contact.
I have offered to help him find somewhere to stay. He is grateful. He said he will visit me and I can visit him.
Last night I was so tired of his constant questions; which station does he go to, how does he get there, how many miles is it, how much is the ticket, can he make the journey without changing at London, over and over and over again.
I answer his question with patience, I`ve even written down instructions, how to get there, I tried to make light of it, telling him I`ll help him pack as he`s never packed a suitcase in his life.
Meanwhile, the house is like a morgue. I am finding it increasingly difficult to rise above all this misery. If I went out and tried to find a distraction, I doubt it would help, as I feel so sorry for him.
He won`t see the doctor, tablets are not the answer. I have written to the psychiatrist asking for a review of his anti-depressants, but know it won`t happen if I can`t get him there.
Is this what those of you further down the line have endured? I would love to know how you got through it.
Thank you