Catharsis

There’s been so much happening in the last year writing has become my therapy, a catharsis of sorts. I write through my grief, and anxiety, and it helps. It feels like someone out there is listening as the words are no longer stuck within me. As I write I sometimes find some magic or a little meaning in what I’m experiencing. Those pearls of wisdom that life sometimes embeds in a challenge. I need an anchor to get through and the words I write are my tether.

 

Maybe putting my experiences out into the world will help someone else on a similar path feel less alone. I’m not ready to write too much about my Dad or my Charlie girl yet. That’s too raw for now, I can skim the details but I’m not sure that I can fully express my grief of their loss. But with my friend it’s the slow burn of loss and anticipatory grief. I feel like I have so many different layers of grief happening all at the one time. Sometimes they’re smooshed into one at other times it feels defined. The night I drove home after disposing of the bird it was very defined and I literally felt like I couldn’t breathe.

 

I can easily type those words but to say them out loud, I would feel like a fraud, like I was making a mountain out of a mole hill and that no one would understand that in that moment I felt the gravity of what was already lost.

 

Even reading back what I've written above I feel like a fraud, but I know this will pass. When I told my mum the stories of recent events she asked if I was writing it down. I said I was and then she said I could write a book. Well I’ve thought of that and I maybe my ramblings of my experiences as my friends dementia progresses will help someone else. Maybe someone will read my blog and relate the same way I felt seen when I read Patti Davis’ book. I said to mum that I was writing through my stress. But what I’m actually doing is writing through my grief. At some point all I will have are these stories, that are both funny and tragic at the same time.

I tend to write on the fly, if I pour over what I write too much hours will pass. I put perfectionism on the back burner in favour of getting things out of my head and onto the page. What you read here is raw, when I have time I work on what I've written here to refine my thoughts to something that maybe one day will be pieced together into a book. My journey with my friend although not unique is also not very common when you start reading dementia books. They seem to be written either from the perspective of a family member or of a professional care giver, I'm neither. I'm simply the best friend who stepped in to make sure her best mate was ok.

There's a lot that I've written in recent weeks that is yet to see the light of day. May be it will all appear in my book one day, or maybe it will end up being just for me. Where ever it lands it will have helped me purge my thoughts and get me ready for the next day in this journey.

Photo by Nick Morrison on Unsplash

Wiping the Slate

 Originally this post was the introduction to 'Apron Strings" on Feb 1st. But I've since realised it is very much a separate post and requires it's own space.

Inevitably at some point dementia wipes the slate clean, sometimes for a few minutes other times longer.  All of this is the precursor to the dreaded day that memory is  gone for good.

I'd experienced it once before a few months ago when I called in at lunchtime to tell my friend the cleaner was coming. He was terse with me, like I stood before him accused of a wrong doing that neither of us knew was about. I asked him what I'd done wrong and he said he couldn't say anything until the lawyers got there! I replied that I was just there to tell him about the cleaner and left. I left in a flood of tears that he never saw, I was worried that he'd forgotten our friendship and was now seeing me as the  devil! It was a shock and a heartbreak combined. The grief of losing my Dad and my dog had left me less resilient. 

But I'd forgotten that it passes, I just had to wait for the switch to flip and all would be ok. And it was, I found that out quickly when the cleaner couldn’t work out how to get in and he wasn't answering her. She made me go back there, because she was from a care agency legally, she couldn’t  leave until she knew he was safe. I gingerly opened the back door and called out a few times, and he appeared and spoke to me like there was never an issue. I left and cried in relief. 

Today I had a phone call where it was clear that the slate hadn't just been wiped, it was momentarily obliterated. I'd been there earlier in the day, I'd taken him a coffee and we'd sat outside talking for a while. A few hours later I get a call all very formal announcing his full name and that he'd been in the house, which he's told is his, for months and no one had been near him. He has no money and he's not even receiving any bills. I said I'd been with him earlier, he replied "well I didn't see you". I said I brought you a cup of coffee. He moved on to say he's not having a go at me. I was in the next town, so I tell him I'm heading home soon and I'll come past and see him and we'll talk. He's happy with that.

Less than 2 minutes later the phone rings again and we have the same conversation. Except this time new information has been added to the situation he's experiencing. I tell him that I'll be there soon and will look into all of it for him. Then we chat about the birds chirping in the back ground. 

By the time I got to his house all was well again. I stayed for a while and got him dinner. He was as cheery as he was when I left him in earlier in the day. 

Moments like these are stressful, particularly when I'm a distance away. My immediate reaction is to fix it. But often with dementia you have to allow time for these moments to fix themselves.