Dementia is the Slowest Form of Torture Known to Man
And I can no longer tell who is suffering the most, me or my dad.
It’s been almost two and a half years since I started this publication. Of course, the torture started before that and has been unrelenting. I’ve reached a point of mostly numbness. I don’t have the strength to argue any more. I barely have the strength to go see my dad. There are days when I can’t even bear to check up on him via the cameras we hid in his apartment so we’d know when he falls and when he eats.
The cameras are simply part of the torture. Day after day, hubs and I listen to him talk to his hallucinations or worse, tell his state-provided caregiver about the terrible things we do — like buy his eggs from the wrong grocery store. (Okay, that one is actually funny.) The painful snippets are when he tells her we used his money for our vacation or when he tells her what a horrible person my husband is.
My husband has been a saint through all of this. He does the grocery shopping, the pharmacy runs, and makes any necessary repairs or modifications my dad’s apartment needs. None of that is good enough for my dad. Every single action hubs takes is disparaged to anyone who will listen.
Hubs monitors my dad’s daily routine, then filters the information based on what…
