Have you ever visited a home for those with dementia?
If you have, then you won't need my words today to understand just how brutal it is. And if not, then I wish that you never need to attend such a place.
My grandad is 91, and his health ha sure declined rapidly both mentally and physically over the past couple of months. Today I saw him, for what could be the last time. It's the second time this weekend I've been in tears, but such is life - beautiful, brutal, and everything in between.
I walked into the lounge area and took the vacant seat next to my Grandfather. I suspect that if I'd not leaned over and said 'hello grandad', he would not have noticed me. My uncle (his son) wiped his face, and gave his watch a clean and a check. It's likely been a while since it has been more than just an ornament on his wrist.
This man taught me to ride a bike, took our family abroad, and worked hard laying bricks throughout my home town and the northwest of England for almost half of the last century. Today he sat there, eyes so distant, unable to string one solid sentence together.
I showed him a few photos of his granddaughter that I took yesterday and he spoke her name. It's been a few years since he's seen her in person but those memories are still there, and for that I am happy.
This picture holds some of the memories I have of my grandad, a tan, a smile (of sorts), and a watch, of course.
Today will likely linger long in the memory too. As we got up to leave he raised his arm - I held his hand and listened to what he was trying to say. Nothing came out, but it didn't matter, his eyes were the most focused they'd been all morning.
Together with the hand-grip, I felt he was glad I was there and appreciated my visit.
Thanks grandad.
I visited my daughter this weekend too, and hopefully this will be a more uplifting read when I get round to writing again. I fly back to Mallorca in hour or so, and will be glad for a rest.
Asher
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