An old friend called me a few days ago to tell me he was diagnosed with dementia. We are about the same age, so it was not hard to imagine myself in his shoes. Except he is a cancer survivor. 15 years ago he underwent a horrendous array of treatments – chemo therapy, a bone marrow transplant, and all the near-death experiences that went along with such drastic measures. His doctors told him then that a major side effect of all the meds could be dementia. He told me that he intends to do all he can to fight it, just as he fought against the cancer.
My wife and I witnessed the progression of dementia with a dear friend, who eventually needed my wife to be her legal guardian. We also saw what happened to our fathers, once vibrant, mentally active men, who over the course of a decade or so lost all memory and reason to this disease. Dementia took away a lifetime of their experiences and accomplishments. All their hard-won knowledge slipped into oblivion. It seems to me dementia is one of the cruelest diseases. Strong capable men and women become shadows of their former selves. And all their loved ones can do is treat them with kindness and respect – and hope that they might hang on to a little of the person they used to be. In the end, neither of our fathers knew our names. But I think they knew they were comfortable around us and probably recognized the essence of who we were to them.
I told my wife I wished I had an “on/off” switch, so I could shut down when I began to lose myself. When a machine malfunctions, if we can’t repair it, we turn it off. If a horse is too injured to run, we end his pain. Yet when a man can’t be repaired and there is no likelihood of recovery, we generally insist on keeping him alive as long as possible.
My father-in-law, once personable and gregarious, became in his last several years, forgive me, a houseplant. When he was still aware of his situation he said, “just get a gun and shoot me.” But dementia eventually removed all of his will to do anything.
Back to my old friend. We have been living over 500 miles apart for 45 years. But we’ve stayed in touch off and on. I’ve had more chances to see him in the last several years, because he lives not far from my Dad’s former home and we carved out time to be together when I visited Dad.
I hope and pray my friend will receive care as good as my father got. I don’t know what direction my friend’s dementia will take or how fast it will progress. There are now some promising treatments that did not exist for our fathers. I plan to stay in touch, offer a little moral support and help my friend stay positive. Nevertheless, while the timeline is uncertain, the outcome will be the same.
I’ve written a short story, entitled, “The Journey,” which is really a meditation on my Dad’s transition from this life to the next about a year ago. The Journey is ongoing and a part of it awaits all of us. My old friend might experience the closing chapter of his Journey before me. Or I might get there before him. None of us knows. That’s why we should help one another along the way. Even the smallest gestures count.
MurrayWorks 