The Dementia Triangle

Last we spoke, Dad had lost his keys…quite literally, he thought he had lost them, I had taken them.  The car was in the garage, and all was well.  Dad entered a period of being content with where he was.  He had his house, his TV, and his bed.  Well, and his beer.  Dad always drank.  No, not to excess, but he enjoyed his beer.  Back in my childhood, I remember going to family occasions, (at least Wooten gatherings) and the beer, wine and alcohol would flow.  There were a thousand stories, the main one I remember is when my great grandfather was home on Christmas Eve, an evening when most are making final preparations for Christmas morning, or even perhaps looking forward to midnight mass.  But not the Wooten’s, Christmas eve was that evening where everyone enjoys a good Mai Tai!  That Christmas, my dad and his two brothers were very young, and they were around the Christmas tree in the living room.  They set the tree in front of their front window so that all could see their beautiful tree.  The kids sat there looking at their gifts, shaking them and sizing them up, trying to figure out what they had been given.  The adults, well they were enjoying their Mai Tai’s.  Grandpa Frank, maybe a little too much.  After an untold number of glasses…one can only imagine…Grandpa Frank came staggering in to see what the kids were up to.  Midway through the living room, the alcohol caught up to him.  He lost his footing, and desperately looked for anything to help him regain his balance.  Unfortunately, the only thing he could locate was the tree, which he grabbed onto like the grinch held on to his hatred of Christmas.  But the tree did not right him, instead he and the tree went out that large glass picture window into the front yard.  The kids all followed the catastrophe, crying loudly that now Santa would not come!  I can only imagine what the neighbors thought of the fractured Christmas scene.

So, when I say the Wootens appreciate a drink, you know we come about it honestly.  Dad enjoyed his beer, and so I made certain his fridge was stocked.  He would have a few each night and all was well, until he could no longer remember how many he had.  I would come in the morning, and dad would have a beer, in the afternoon, the same, evening, well of course.  You may fault me for this, but some have their prescription drugs to deal with terminal illnesses, Dad had beer, and I thought that was fine. 

Dad was happy.  Sat on the balcony and watched the sun set.  This went on for three years.  He was compliant with what I asked of him, ate well, and was able to keep himself clean.  Knowing that the disease was terminal, I was kind of hoping this era would last.

Dementia has plateaus and cliffs.  Plateaus are times that last for a time.  The cliffs are when the disease rears its ugly head.  But for these three years, I ate with Dad twice a day, we visited, we talked, and I truly had a chance to be with him in a meaningful sense.  Everybody tolerates the disease differently, but care givers, watch for this time, it will be worth every dollar you lose by spending time with your loved one.