According to the Mayo Clinic, by definition dementia "isn't a specific disease. Instead, dementia describes a group of symptoms affecting memory, thinking and social abilities severely enough to interfere with daily functioning."
I understand that, truly, but I don't agree with it. Dementia IS a disease. It's a disease to the wives, husbands, children, grandchildren, etc. it affects. It's a disease because it eats away at the brain, either affecting memory loss or the ability to function in daily activities. It takes away a patient's capacity to be fully present in the life their living. It depreciates their personality because what they knew, what they valued, opinions they had, views they believed in, or in other words, some of the defining characteristics of what make our loved ones their unique selves, slip away into an empty abyss that those of us with healthy brains can't even begin to fathom.
I have so many questions for medical professionals, but really, the only one I care about is: why? Why does this happen? Why does this affect some people and not others? Why does it start at a medically described age of "early onset" for the truly unfortunate or at the end of the road for others? Why?! Of course I know, medically, it's because of the damage and degeneration of nerve cells in the brain, caused by reduced blood flow or abnormal clumps. But that doesn't do it for me. That doesn't fill the gap of the unnerving three-lettered word constantly flashing in the back of my mind.
Dress up cowboy hats and walks through the park = guaranteed laughs
My paternal grandmother is one of the strongest people I know, and yet, she can't remember that she has five grandchildren or where she lived for the 15 years previous to her current residence, a memory care-based nursing home.
"Grandma, I'm your granddaughter, your youngest one, Natalie. Come on, I know you know me! I'm Kerry's daughter," I chuckle in a lighthearted tone.
She gives me a quizzical look and a slight side smile, a distinct family feature, forms and replies, "Oh yes, I remember!" in a soft, barely audible tone.
I sigh. No she doesn't because this is my fourth time reminding her in our hour-long visit. I breathe deeply. There's nothing else I can do, and that's truly heart-breaking, nay, heart-destroying. What's worse, she can't remember my mother, who has been in my dad's life since they were just 14. My mom, who was the one by her husband's side when he took his last breath, the one who she's loved just as long as my father has.
The frustration it causes, for my dad and his siblings especially, is undeniable and the questions left unanswered only create more pain. Ronnie, their mother, my grandmother, was always witty before dementia set in. She grew up on a farm in Canada and has always been a hard worker, learned to be a team player alongside her seven siblings, spoke French fluently for a period of her life, traveled to Europe, and married a big-hearted, stubborn New Yorker. She raised three strong-willed children, who each went down their own, very different path, was an active parishioner in our beloved St. Gertrude's and a great friend who'd drop everything for anyone who asked. She lived a long, blessing-filled and exciting life. She doesn't deserve parts of that taken away from her.
She will always be that woman to us, and in fact, she still is. It's just hard to remember that when you're right there in front of her, remembering the time she snuck away with you to drive even though her license was long expired, and she's asking, "So, how did you meet Kerry?"
So yes, dementia is a disease. It's a disease to those who have to watch others suffer. It's an unfair, brutal and life-altering disease. I love you, Grandma, and obviously always will. I miss you. I hope one day dementia is non-existent, but until that time, I'm your granddaughter. I'm Natalie.
Sources:
http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/deme...
