This is my last post on finding common ground within my family. Probably. Here is yesterday’s post explaining some of my family history. It’s necessary to at least know the basics before I dive into the latest chapter.
My mother is having a really hard time dealing with my father’s dementia. This is not a surprise, obviously, as dementia is really cruel. Both on the person it’s consuming and anyone around that person–especially the caretaker/s.
The problem is that she still hasn’t accepted that the dementia isn’t reversible. One of the last times we talked, she brought up some promising science that suggests there may be a way to reverse dementia in the very early stages. I will admit, I was impatient when I told her that it was not a thing, but that’s because I know better than to give my mother an inch.
Also, I did look up the science she was talking about, and even if it was promising, it was not applicable to my father. Even if it had been, it’s in the very nascent stages. That means it will be years before it can go on sale–if the efficacy turns out to replicable and an actual thing.
My mother talks about how she’s doing this, that, and the other thing in hopes that my father will turn back to ‘normal’. She also mentions how frustrated and bewildered she gets when they’re having a conversation, and he suddenly veers into dementia.
I understand and symppathize with the latter. He’s not so bad when we’re talking as he can usually keep to a topic (that topic being when am I going to go visit him), but when he does start spouting gibberish, there is no warning. He usually knows who I am, but he can’t grasp that I live thousands of miles away from him.
I have read about what you’re supposed to do when someone spirals into delusions/dementia. Basically, just go along with whatever they are saying. So like when my father asks (demands) when I’m going to visit him, I tell him soon. Or in a few months. Or whatever. I have to repeat it over and over, but usually, he will accept it.
Sometimes, however, he surprises me. He’ll say how long it’s been since he’s seen me (true. It’s been nearly four years), and then urge me to plan something sooner with my mother. Also, one time, I said that I would go visit him the next day. Much to my surprise, he latched onto it and got really excited. He shouted to my mother that I was coming, and I realized that I had made a mistake.
That’s a hard thing about dementia. Well, everything is hard about it, but one thing in particular was that my father would latch onto the truth in the most inopportune way. So when I placate him, I make sure it’s vague enough not to get him riled up.
It’s always about when I’m going to go visit him. My mother tells me that he’s very lonely and that very few of his friends/family members visit him. There are several reasons for that, but one of them, sadly, is that he has a very difficult personality. Don’t get me wrong. He’s very charming and can make someone feel very special (women. I want to be very clear about that), but that’s only on a superficial basis.
When you get past that, though, there is nothing there. He really doesn’t have much of an inner life, and he doesn’t find pleasure in much of anything. Not even before his dementia, and certainly not now. He was a difficult man throughout his life, and dementia hasn’t made it any better.
In addition, his family have a very different outlook on sickness than I do. When my father’s sister had cancer, her family didn’t tell her. They lied to her and told her she would be ok soon. That she was just tired and other lies. Which was appalling to me when my mother told me because I hate it when people lie to me.
In addition, dementia is seen as a moral failing rather than a medical condition/disease in Taiwan. That means that many people believe it’s his fault, whether consciously or not.
My father doesn’t exist if other people aren’t paying attention to him. I’m not exaggerating when I say this. Even before he was mired in dementia, he was an extreme egoist who needed attention 24/7. Now that he has dementia, it’s even worse. He latches onto my mother like he’s a toddler, and he won’t leave her alone for a minute–unless he’s sleeping.
I try to tell my mother that it’ll be better for both of them if she could accept he has dementia; he’s not going to get bettter; and just try to make him more comfortable in the last leg of his journey on earth. She can’t do it, though. She’s desperately trying to push him back to normal by making him exercise, eat when he doesn’t want to eat, and not allowing him to sleep as much as he wants (which is roughly sixteen hours a day).
I try to tell her that it’ll be better for both of them if she just let him do what he wanted to do. She ignores me whenever I bring it up or tries to explain why she had to do what she was doing.
This is all the background for why something as small as a Taiwanese song that I loved could be a meaningful thing in my relationship with my mother. Yes, it’s a small thing, but those things aren’t mutually exclusive. A few decades ago, my last therapist and I were discussing a traumatic incident with my father. He ended up hours later calling me from LA (he was flying back to Taiwan) to awkwardly make amends. It was huge for him, but it meant nothing to me.
I brought it up with my therapist, and she said it could simultaneously be a big thing for him and a small thing (or non-thing) for me. It wasn’t anything profound, but I it clicked in my brain and was a big revelation to me. Of course we went into the incident with very different experiences and baggage, for the lack of a better word.
And now, he’s reaping what he sowed. For most of his life, he did not pay attention to other people’s needs. When he was younger and more able, his charm carried him a long way. Now, however, he doesn’t have that as a crutch any longer.
Well, what do you know. I’m done for today and will probably write one more post tomorrow.