Doug is now officially in ‘Late Stage’ Dementia using the labelling system that divides dementia into Early, Middle, and Late stages. Other systems have five numerical categories, others seven. On every chart I’ve looked at, in books and online, there is little difference towards the end.
Four years ago I thought this would be the worst news and I dreaded the day I’d be told. But when the care home doctor confirmed it last week as we discussed reducing some of Doug’s medications, it was just news. Not good news, but not the worst. Just a fact. It’s a label, with all the benefits and disadvantages that come with so many labels.
The medications we’ve decided to decrease with a view of stopping altogether are intended to slow memory loss. Did they work? Impossible for me to know. There was no control group for comparison, and the challenges of Covid added to my difficulty in judging (guessing) how effective they were. I’m not sorry we tried them; I’d make the same choice again just in case they did give him - and us - a little more time with a slightly better memory.
Time. Time is what I most long for. Time denied the Ukrainian mother-to-be and her child who were killed in the bombing of their maternity hospital. Time is also what I most celebrate. Individual moments of clarity are all the more precious when they emerge from a fog.
Two of Doug’s fellow residents passed away last week: both were 100 years old. Long lives, and, from the little I saw and learned, good lives until the last few years. They both sometimes sat with Doug in the dining room. The gentlewoman always asked for “more salt! more salt!” and if I tried to get away with pretending to shake some on her meal she called me on it. If I live to be 100 I hope I'm still that sharp! When she wanted to get someone’s attention she’d clatter her false teeth; it was the most annoying sound and I’m sure she knew it, and did it deliberately. Ha! The gentleman was a local hero, and leaves behind many improvements to our community. I am grateful for the short time I knew them both.
Time. Time in a care home seems as fluid as time in one of Munro’s short stories. It slows and loops and speeds and reverses . . . and it feels exaggerated in such a liminal setting. There are two people who actively enjoy watching the news on TV, but if neither of them is there, and everyone else agrees, I turn the channel to the home and garden network, where people renovate an entire house in half an hour or build one from scratch in a sped-up 100 days, or to the game show channel where men and women from the 1970s make risqué jokes of that era.
This is the week, if weather predictions come true, that winter will magically turn to spring. Temperatures will jump above zero, and precipitation will change from snow to rain. This is the time of year when I feel the most hope.
“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” asks Mary Oliver. I’m optimistic that there is still time for me to answer well, to make a real difference.
i love this
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