My mum’s dementia induced episodes continue apace. Not that I should be overly surprised by that cognitive landscape – After all, this mentally degenerative disease will only further rob her of analytical wherewithal; the question is merely how quickly the condition worsens.
It’s not as though this life ruining cur will one day get bored of making the octogenarian suffer. Subsequently returning her to loved ones as the funny, bright woman who pre-dementia enlightened so many lives with her ingrained warmth and positivity.
Among recent confused episodes Maggie informing me “The kids are in the dining room playing nicely in their hats.”
Realising my natural response of “What the hell are you talking about, mum?!” lay a long way short of an acceptable retort to such confusion, I managed a lukewarm and unconvincing reply of “Oh….. Errrr, ok.”
As the dining room is now her bedroom, and there were no kids (or indeed hats) in chez Strachan at that juncture in time, identifying mum’s words were dementia induced was easy. The arbitrariness of her comment swiftly highlighting this suggestion was without doubt induced by this rancid illness.
I don’t always, but should, judge all mater’s statements as being sourced from a point on the dementia spectrum. Evaluating each and every comment from a baseline it’s validity maybe impaired by her mental disorder.
However, I can’t lie – Responses to Maggie’s comments which are less clearly consequential of cognitive decline aren’t always offered as understanding a stance by yours truly. There are moments when frustration at being her carer, along with maternal ingratitude at my ‘sacrifice’ disenchant GJ Strachan.
I’d like to make it clear, although my existence isn’t playing out as I wished of late, I’ve no problems undertaking this carer gig. Additionally, despite recent accusatory suggestions to the contrary, I don’t seek gratitude for spurning more brio filled life episodes to look after my mum.
What I don’t expect though is the oft seen ingratitude towards a son forfeiting his desired existential path to keep her safe, fed and laundered.
“Are you really sure you don’t want gratitude, Gary?….. It seems to me this piece of blogging propaganda is laden with attention seeking and compliment fishing prose!” I hear you cry.
Well, not literally hear you cry. After all, some of my readership reside in Australia, New Zealand and Canada. No matter how big their gobs were, I’d not be able to hear what they cried, even if it was yelled from the highest rooftops.
Unless of course they contacted me by phone…… In which case I’d be more bothered about how they obtained my mobile phone number than the contents of their accusatory diatribe.
What I should’ve written above was “Are you really sure you don’t want gratitude, Gary?….. It seems to me this piece of blogging propaganda is laden with attention seeking and compliment fishing prose!” I hear you think – Not cry.
Actually, would ‘I hear you judge’ read better than ‘I hear you think’?….. Oh, who knows, and in truth who really cares?……. I suspect my readership may possess more concerns about why I write such overly paranoid statements, rather than which of my two comments scans the best.
“Come on, Gary!!…… Last chance. Are you sure you’re not shamefully seeking credit for an act you told your moribund father was your duty as a loving son towards his mother?”
Ok then, I admit it. I do want some gratitude and a smidgeon of kudos for looking after my mum. In reality I’m a brazen attention seeking whore. Shamelessly pursuing plaudits for doing what I promised my dad I’d undertake (ie look after mum) while saying goodbye to him on his hospice death bed.
So, if it’s ok with you, I’d be obliged if you can put down the device you’re reading this blog on to inform everyone how great I am!!….. 😉