Here's the problem with dementia: you do not get to grieve. I miss my father. I miss his humor and his strength. I miss asking him how to adjust my computer settings and how to dissolve the corrosion on my car battery. I miss telling him about my sons, and listening to him laugh when I complain about their antics and about their mischief. I just miss him. Instead of grieving I am supervising the care of my living father, my demented father who wears a diaper and speaks in gibberish.
Today I will sit with my father at the window where he will try and grab the raindrops speckled on the outside of the glass. I will watch him apply all his energy toward this task, toward capturing a raindrop. He will not know that I am silent with missing him, and aching with love for him.
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For those of us living with Dementia in the family, this is an honest journal, a running record of the startling horrors and macabre humor of this living nightmare.
