Monday 6 October 2014

W is for World Mental Health Day

This Friday is World Mental Health Day.

Did you know that? I didn't. I never remember these anniversary type days. National French Fries Day, International Polar Bear Day, Pet Obesity Awareness Day, National Hug a Ukrainian Day (I do actually remember this one because one of my close friends is part Ukrainian... you know who you are).

So, in the interest of aiding this very worthy cause, I feel I should take this opportunity to go through my journey with Dee's Dementia thus far. Nobody likes talking about this shit, but sometimes you just have to. For the greater good. Like they say in Hot Fuzz. 'Pack it in Frank you silly bastard!' They say that too... Perhaps not as relevant for this post.

Anyway. Deep breath everyone. Better get yourself that glass of red.

When this all began a couple of years ago, it was the minor things that made me question what was going on in Dee's head. She'd retired from a high-pressured, fast paced job as a headteacher and lecturer, had been travelling with Father, and was volunteering at a local stately home taking people on tours of the home and grounds.

She had started to sleep for longer periods of time, was dressing inappropriately for the weather (I have striking memories of her wearing knitted dresses to social engagements at the height of summer and complaining she was too hot), and her ability to debate and make interesting and thought-provoking contributions to conversations became a rarity. She was still able to follow a conversation to a certain extent, but would then use filler to hide the fact she didn't know the answer or what was being talked about. 'Oh Lucy will be able to tell you more about that.' 'You have such a lovely face.' To visitors, these were not issues to be concerned with. To me, I knew something was changing.

At the time, I blamed this on her recent retirement - she was finally relaxing, letting herself go, not worrying about life. I also wondered if she was actually a bit deaf. She seemed to be aware of what was going on but unable to register what was being said. At this point, I didn't really understand that it wasn't her lack of listening skills that were the problem - she no longer had the same ability to process the things said to her.

Then, perhaps the most noticeable stage of this disease began to creep its way into our lives - the repetitive questions. Dee became increasingly confused, wondering where people were, asking the same questions and telling the same stories. She starts to miss appointments, get confused about arrangements she's made with friends, turning up in the wrong place or at the wrong time.

She also started to take an irrational dislike to people. Not just people, but old friends, family, people who had been part of my childhood and a massive part of her life. She began to confuse them for others, calling them different names, forgetting when she'd last seen them, which made her feel like she was being abandoned by her nearest and dearest.

This leads me neatly onto the next stage - anxiety. Dee became increasingly agitated and constantly worried about small things. She fixated on them, needing constant reminders that everything was OK, that she was OK, that nobody was going anywhere. Now, with hindsight, I can only theoretically conclude that this was her way of understanding that something wasn't quite right. Another vivid memory I have is of her finally admitting to me that she felt lost and alone, finally addressing what was happening to her in her own way.

These lucid moments of realisation pepper her condition right up to the present day, and it's these moments that are one of the hardest parts to swallow. Most of the time, I think this disease is much worse for the families and friends of Dee, but then she has these astonishing and (thankfully) fleeting flashes where she fully recognises the extent of her condition. It's the panicked, desperate look on an old mother's face that's the one you never forget.

Deep, eh? Don't say I didn't warn you. Where's that bottle gone?

So, we've reached the anxious, repeating stage. She's slowly losing her grasp of reality. Her spotless kitchen has become less so with the addition of dirty utensils and pots put back in the drawers and cupboards before they're even washed. Her once beautiful, colourful garden is slowly becoming overgrown and more out of control... Almost like a...wait for it... METAPHOR of what's happening in her mind. (Hello English degree. Thank God you weren't a waste of time!)

The concept of time then becomes a problem - she complains she's been left alone all day when she's only been alone for an hour. She hates being left alone. So much so, she begins to imagine an extra person in the house. Father has mentioned to me on many occasions that she often thinks there's another person in the house but in a different room. It wasn't until recently that I witnessed this for myself. It took me a good ten minutes to convince her it was just us. It was actually pretty eerie.

And here we are. The present day. It's important to note that all of these symptoms are on-going, alongside each other, complicating the condition further.

But well done! You've made it to the end! Thanks for sticking with me. Sadly, it's not quite the end of the journey for the Rider family. We still have quite a way to go. But I'll let you finish that glass of wine in peace.

Oh, it also happens to be my Birthday on Friday. It'd be really quite a lovely present if you could donate money to my ludicrous half marathon efforts.