Saturday, 16 August 2008


My Grandma's been diagnosed with dementia.

There are so many things I could say, and maybe later I will. I hate myself a bit for not visiting her more often, for not treasuring her while I could.

Jo's Gran has Alzheimer's, and it's been painful for me to watch Gran deteriorate over the years. I can't imagine how it must have been for Jo and Joy; and I don't know why I was never more grateful that my three living grandparents are in relatively good mental and physical health.

Apparently Grandma already has "bad days", and I don't want to think what that means. My poor Granddad, living at home with her, taking care of her. She's always been the reliable one; he's depended on her for years. At least, since the stroke, he's been more used to taking charge.

I want to visit her, but what's the point? Will she know me? She must do, it can't be that advanced yet. Will she forget me visiting? I guess she will. Will she forget what we talked about five minutes ago? I hope not, I hate to think of my strong, wonderful grandmother like this. I need to visit her, to spend time with her while she's still her, even if only on her good days.

I hate to think of this — it's awful, horrible. It would almost be better to hear she had some physical disease; at least they're generally treatable.

Why do so many physical diseases have cures, and so few mental ones? We're going to end up having cures that will keep you alive for 200 years, but for the last 100 years your brain will be a pile of mush.

I hate thinking of her like this. Her brain's slowly dying before her body's ready to go. It's horrible.

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