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Crow’s Feet Writing Prompt #82 — Fear of aging
Dementia
It doesn’t just run in my father’s family, it gallops
When I was one year old — in fact, exactly one year old — my father’s mother died. She had suffered from dementia for many years by that time. My family tells stories of days when my aunt would have to tie her to a chair to keep her from wandering away. Tales of neighbors calling to let my aunt know my grandmother had escaped…again. Decades later, my aunt would follow her mother into the shadow world of vascular dementia. My cousins, all three of my aunt’s sons, would also follow that path.
My father was one of nine children. Only about half survived to adulthood. But those who lived into their 80s would all suffer the same fate as their mother. My cousins and I have lived with the knowledge that one day, we might also become afflicted.
The usual pattern for this familiar dementia is a precipitating event — for my father, it was a nasty bout of the flu, for one of my aunts it was when she broke her hip — then ever so slowly the fog rolls in. My father was cheerful enough in his confusion. He reminded me of how we assume dogs live their lives. He was alive in the moment. He knew he was safe and even if he couldn’t remember anyone’s names or faces, he appreciated the care he received from…
