Reading Jennifer's posts about her Alzheimer's-ridden grandmother recalls many occasions with my dementia-ridden father almost 10 years ago.
Dad was always "losing" his car, for one thing--lucky for him, he never carried a purse like Jennifer's grandma. One time when we were all visiting my brother and sister-in-law in D.C., Dad got up more than once to go outside--to look for his car. My dear brother brought him in each time, and each time he explained that he and mom didn't have their car because they flew in from Wisconsin. Dad looked at him like he was full of the bunk, but sat down.
Until some time passed. Then, he'd get back up and head outside to look for his car again.
He also had dementia where food was concerned. When he was still living at home, I remember coming in one afternoon to find him sitting with a pile--no, make that a mountain--of empty ice cream sandwich wrappers in front of him. When I asked him about the summit, he denied eating the sandwiches in all those wrappers--but did admit that ice cream sounded good, so he got up and got another sandwich to add to the pile.
These are the times that make me hope that his dementia was caused by chemical exposures and not--you got it--genetics. Just in case, I've been waging a small-scale campaign to get Linda to agree to put me in a Lavender Ladies Home if I start going off the same deep end as Dear Old Dad.
She's having none of it. So far. But I bet if I asked her where my purse is 3,000 times, she might reconsider.
Especially as I haven't carried a purse since 1990.
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