When I remember my nan with dementia I remember a happy old lady living in a different world, charmingly content in her own reality.
It feels like one of the cruelest things about this awful disease for my dad is that he still remembers who he used to be. He used to be the brightest boy in his class and as a man was incredibly intelligent, cultured, well read, sharp, and witty.
He's constantly getting angry with himself for not being able to remember things he knows he knew. Socialising becomes particularly upsetting for him because he can't keep up with the conversation or participate in the way that he'd want. He's always included in the conversation, but what he'd like to be doing is throwing in interesting trivia and making wisecracks. (He can, somewhat annoyingly, still jump in to correct grammar and pronunciation)
So when the guests have gone, a gloom stats to descend. I suppose it's a sort of heightened l'esprit d'escalier feeling; when that perfect retort suddenly comes to you after you're halfway down the stairs. Except he doesn't even get the retort, just the knowledge that so many opportunities to engage slipped him by.
Or when he knows he's got a book (that he edited) on something that's come up in conversation but he can't work out how find the information in the book because indexes now confound him.
"My brain used to work" is a regular complaint. And it's so hard to be able to find anything to say because it's true and it's so terribly sad.
There's a part of me that wishes his illness would progress so that he forgets that he can't remember. I hate to see him like this and I don't know how deal with it because it's not like the other anxieties or delusions where I can just play along and agree.
It feels like one of the cruelest things about this awful disease for my dad is that he still remembers who he used to be. He used to be the brightest boy in his class and as a man was incredibly intelligent, cultured, well read, sharp, and witty.
He's constantly getting angry with himself for not being able to remember things he knows he knew. Socialising becomes particularly upsetting for him because he can't keep up with the conversation or participate in the way that he'd want. He's always included in the conversation, but what he'd like to be doing is throwing in interesting trivia and making wisecracks. (He can, somewhat annoyingly, still jump in to correct grammar and pronunciation)
So when the guests have gone, a gloom stats to descend. I suppose it's a sort of heightened l'esprit d'escalier feeling; when that perfect retort suddenly comes to you after you're halfway down the stairs. Except he doesn't even get the retort, just the knowledge that so many opportunities to engage slipped him by.
Or when he knows he's got a book (that he edited) on something that's come up in conversation but he can't work out how find the information in the book because indexes now confound him.
"My brain used to work" is a regular complaint. And it's so hard to be able to find anything to say because it's true and it's so terribly sad.
There's a part of me that wishes his illness would progress so that he forgets that he can't remember. I hate to see him like this and I don't know how deal with it because it's not like the other anxieties or delusions where I can just play along and agree.