The Adventures of Dementia Part 3!

So recently my page views have really sky rocketed. I wanted to tell you all that I really appreciate you all coming by and reading my blog. It means a lot to me. Thank you.

I visited my grandmother a few days ago, which is also both terrifying and humorous. I find it hard to say anything to her, because she can't remember anything second to second. Most questions confuse her, as do most answers. My father, of course, is an incredible conversationalist, able to appease her and stay patient. We walked in to find her telling her close friend B.A. that she hadn't heard or seen my father for days. He had visited her the day before. No matter. I have resolved to write to her, as I think that might provide a little variety in her life when she isn't bingoing. I have to buy stationary and keep my letters simple and short, and I hope she enjoys them.

My grandmother's mindset. At least she can't text.

Luckily I haven't heard much super conservative religious talk from her. She's Christian and she used to be open minded and interested in other religious. As her dementia started to get worse, she started to get more judgmental and superior acting about religion. At one point in the past she spoke about teaching some children who had come by some "Christian games".

Like reindeer games?

Not being Christian, I was unsure as to what my grandmother considered "Christian games". Were they trying to sell their souls to Satan? Did she make them play tag instead? I think this is a very occurrence. Not the telling random children to do things occurrence, but the becoming more and more conservative with her beliefs as time and dementia went on. Is this just my grandmother clinging to something that was so familiar to her? She feels unsafe when she thinks things are unfamiliar, even when they should be familiar. Did she think it was socially acceptable to be open minded, so she acted in that manner? I feel like that might be the closer answer. 

Adventures in Dementia 2: Bingo.

So when my grandmother doesn't have anything to do in her life, she calls my father. She then goes on this huge "pity me" rant where she is convinced that everyone she has ever grown up with lives together in one house and she has been ostracized. She wants to go home. She wants to be where we are. She just hates it there. My father patiently explains that she lives five minutes away. In the nicest way possible he explains that pretty much everyone she has spent her life around is dead, including my grandfather. It's my father, and his brother, and their families. That's it. And she does like where she lives. She just forgets that she likes it.

A recent photograph of my father, helping the sick and young.

How do I know that she likes it? Because before she gets on the phone to bemoan the fact that she is alone and everyone hates her, she's out in the common areas singing, dancing, playing with someone's dog, or playing BINGO. We have heard it from the staff. She is apparently very happy all day, then she forgets (she can't really remember second to second), and thinks her day sucked. So she gets very sad.

We know the truth, Grandma.

We have also seen this happy partying she's been doing all day with our own eyes. For example, two days ago, my father and I went to see my grandmother at the Home where she lives. We went to her room and knocked on the door. No answer. This is not uncommon, as she can't hear very well, and she also can't always understand where sounds are coming from. So we check the room, and then I go up the hall to go to the bathroom. As I'm coming back, I see the room with a group of elderly people playing bingo. Having a high old time (I'm so punny) is my grandmother.

She was just like this guy. Except, you know, a girl.

Not wanted to disturb her social time, we leave without saying hello. When my father calls her later that night, which he does every single night, she starts in on the "poor pity me" act. My father explains to her that they stopped by and saw her playing bingo and that she looked like she was having fun. My grandmother starts to get upset. We never saw her playing bingo. She is sad and miserable and she has been in her room alone because no one wants to talk to her this whole time. My father again explains that due to her memory problems, she might not remember that she was. Then my grandmother goes: "Don't you dare EVER accuse me of playing bingo!" Apparently my grandmother now likens playing bingo to raping kittens. She was very upset. "I NEVER play those games." she said.

Those games. You know, the games of Satan.

My grandmother: less fun with age. Old people are not like cheese or wine at all. Nevertheless, she is wonderful, and it was hilarious to hear her talk about bingo.

The Adventures of Dementia!

Arg. My grandmother is hilarious. You see, I am one for finding humor in every situation. I am also one for laugh instead of cry. Because with all the stuff my family has to deal with everyday, that's the only option. You see, my grandmother is demented. In the legit sense. I do not mean in the "let's get fancy with our misuse of adjectives". She has dementia. Which means she's both great fun and a pain in our ass.

Just like this.

Especially to my wonderfully patient father, who does not see it that way at all. I think it's interesting how dementia works. I mean, my grandmother knows she's lost it. But she does not seem to connect that with her theories about life. I mean, she understands she has this horrible disease that makes her imagine things. But she still goes ahead with whatever she says. It makes for some fun conversations. Some of them are even true. Some of them are not. For example, most recently, she has decided that she has a sugar daddy. She lives in assisted living, and gets her hair done weekly by the person who runs a salon in the Home. Recently, she told my father that a handsome young man came by her room and offered to do something for her. He led her down the hall and had someone do her hair for her, and he paid for it. Every time she sees him in the hall now, she tells him thank you.

I really hope that this is what she thinks he looks like.

Now, if you know someone with dementia, you have to use clues and reality to understand this story, or any story they tell. So with this story, her sugar daddy (or her handsome  young man friend who loves her), is the man who runs the Home (I hate using that word, but I'm not going to tell you were she's staying), and he led her down the hall to her hair appointment. The stylist was paid, but this was money for her expenses, and was not out of the man's personal account. I suppose whatever makes her feel good. This is much better than when she finds scissors and cuts her own hair. Sigh. We have taken something like fifteen pairs of scissors out of her room. I don't know why she has so many. A few times we've missed them, and with tragic results. I'm not sure why she wants to look like a baby bird.

It's just...no.

There are just too many wonderful stories to tell you that I can't just end the Adventures here. There will be more. And a disclaimer: I adore my grandmother, these are my experiences with her. Dementia is an awful disease, it can also be hilarious. But none of this is mean spirited. 

 Diseases: both funny and sad. But not mean spirited!