Adapting to Dementia

More by chance than any Poirotesque slouthery on my part the mystery of chez Strachan’s missing toothpaste tube has been solved. The location of this gel receptacle, which disappeared moments after its arrival within these hallowed walls on Thursday, has baffled this house’s finest minds for the last forty eight hours.

That being said, classing my mum and yours truly’s minds as fine maybe stretching it a tad. Although, as she and me are the only occupants of this residence, by definition claiming we’ve got the finest minds in the house is literally correct.

Anyhow, the dental product turned up when, while GJ Strachan sought a biscuit accompaniment to a morning coffee, I found the tube in our cookie jar. I’m assuming it was surreptitiously residing there courtesy of my mother Maggie’s dementia…… Actually, coming to think of it, I best check mum’s bathroom cabinet isn’t stuffed full of Kit Kats.

Dementia is an awful affliction for the victim; the memory loss and confusion of a loved one is dreadful to see. Knowing the prevailing outlook is one of further cognitive degeneration an upsetting, not to mention frightening, addition to the vast cauldron of cack.

Due to my mum’s condition, I’m finding several items in unexpected locations. Others are still AWOL – For instance my beard grooming kit currently remains unaccounted for; an item I’ve been unable to locate despite scoured the house. God only knows where mum, during a confused episode, has unintentionally placed the scissors and comb set.

Footnote – I’ve just realised I’ve not checked inside the microwave. I’ll look when I’ve concluded this piece. Actually, as I suspect metal scissors and microwave electromagnetic radiation aren’t natural bedfellows, yours truly best check now!….. No, they’re not in there….. Although, it has to be said, I’m more relieved than irked not to find them in there!!

Oft dubbing me a “Scruffy bleeder!” when my facial hair becomes overly unkempt, I can say with a degree of confidence that she hasn’t hidden the comb and cutting utensil intentionally. These jocular admonishments when deeming I’m poorly groomed clearly indicating, to my mind anyway, she’d not rob me of the wherewithal to rectify such crimes against hirsuteness..

Further changes in mater’s behaviour since her cognitive demise commencement have been a marked reduction in her singing of whimsical old music hall songs, along with diminishing quick witted retorts in response to winding her up……. Oh, and not forgetting, after 50 years she’s also stopped checking ifI’ve washed behind my ears on a morning.

Incidentally, the latter example above is a joke. I want it on record I’m far from a ‘mummy’s boy’. On the contrary, we clash frequently; our similar feisty natures ensuring if our buttons are pressed an argument, where no quarter is given, is only a matter of seconds away.

Prior to 7am this morning, not for the first time since returning from hospital post receipt of stroke treatment, Maggie felt moved to yell upstairs to advise me I need to get up as her personal carer was due.

On responding “It’s only 6.55am, mum….. She won’t be here until 8am!”, I was informed that all downstairs clocks must be wrong then…… On arriving downstairs, I wasn’t surprised to learn the timepieces all displayed the correct time!

I’d like to clarify, my motives for penning these episodes aren’t to seek sympathy for my plight as mum’s full-time carer. These paragraphs are journaled to merely inform my readership what a cruel nemesis dementia is for the oft confused victim.

This Machiavellian cur wreaking it’s havoc in the knowledge there’s no cure. Sure, medication can slow the process of a victim’s cognitive degeneration, but in the prevailing scientific zeitgeist it can’t be banished.

It seems to me all the meds achieve is prolonging the afflicted ‘s suffering…… Which kinda takes the whole sad plight to an even higher melancholic plateau.

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