Adventures in Dementia

Grampy in 2002. I like this photo

Grampy's mind has been failing for quite awhile now. When he had the quadruple by-pass in 1997 the doctor showed us an MRI image of his brain. “See all those spotty things? Those are calcium deposits on his brain. Those will only get worse” he said as he looked at us with pity. Then, shaking his head, “If he'll quit smoking right now, he could have another 10 years left”. The joke's on you, doc. Grampy didn't quit smoking till 2004 and here we are 14 years after the by-pass and he's still 'ornry and vertical.

But his mind is failing. He can't remember how to work the TV remote when all he as to do is push “Power On” and “Power Off”. He'll swear up and down that Mike didn't take him shopping the day before and Mike has to show him the receipt for his groceries that is in his wallet. He can't remember who any of his great-grandchildren are anymore and has to ask “Now which one are you? Who do you belong to?” and I can tell he's wondering if they are imposters cause he's never seen them before. He looked me up and down the other day and said “Cathy. When did you get fat?” “Well Dad,” I sighed “I've always been fat.” He gave me his stink-eye and brushed me away, muttering something about smart-ass kids...

This is what Grampy's brain looks like...psychedelic!

Mike is very patient with his dad. He sees him several times a week and talks to him every day. But I can tell it hurts him as his dad is more cranky, more insulting and more disagreeable with his son than he's ever been. I guess that's what dementia does. Amplifies the irritability. So I suggested we take Grampy to the doctor and get medical confirmation on what ails him. I thought that maybe a firm diagnosis and some medical support would help Mike not to take it so personally when his dad cusses at him because Mike has arranged his medicines in his pill case and there's “too damn many pills and what are you doing to me?!”

Mike organizes Grampy's pills...

So off to Dr. Marsha we go. She's not a real doctor. She's a Nurse Practitioner. But Grampy likes her, she's got blonde hair and blue eyes and he calls her a doctor and thinks she's “real purdy” — and she's the only medical professional he doesn't yell at so we have opted for peace over diploma. Marsha likes Grampy too. Mike's taken him to see her about 6 times now for various and sundry ailments and he's always on his best behavior so she thinks he's a sweet old man. We were ushered into an exam room and a cute, young African-American nurse came in and took his vitals. Grampy was asking her about “that other colored nurse that works here”....she finished up without a word while I stood there in embarrassment. I was really hoping she'd deck him. But no. Finally (fake Dr.) Marsha showed up. We brought up the problem of loss of memory and how he recently called us saying he'd woken up that morning in his recliner and couldn't remember where he'd been for the last two days at all and how that very morning he didn't remember we have a dog although I've taken the puppy over there three times to visit him. She looked at Grampy with affection then at us with skepticism. She said she was going to do some “tests” and sent us out of the room. We stood right outside the door so we could hear everything she said. She proceeded to ask Grampy a list of questions like “What is the year? Who is the president? What are your children's names?, etc.” It took five minutes. I guess she sent us out of the room so we wouldn't answer for him. I don't know. Then she called us back in and read the checklist and his rating on her computer. “Yes, your dad has mild memory loss”, she said. “He thought the year was 1912. Ha ha ha. I'm giving you a prescription for more pills. No wait... two prescriptions for two more pills.” Then she proceeded to further patronize us by reminding us to check on him regularly, glanced at her watch and was clearly finished with us.

So we are on our own with Grampy. We'll do some research. I'll google. We'll ask around and find out how other caretakers handle their aging parents. We'll listen as Grampy complains about two more pills he's supposed to take and Mike will take the blame for countless other things, like why it's Tuesday today when he thought it was Tuesday yesterday. And I'd better start exercising and eating healthy cause Lord knows by the time I need it, the available medical help will only be less effective and more ignorant.

Oh Marsha, Marsha, Marsha....You don't know Grampy. You're just a pill pusher with a checklist. And truth be told, you're really not all that pretty.