I sit perched on the wide arms of the armchair and she, frail, fragile, sunken into the armchair, obediently eats from the spoon I rhythmically bring to her mouth. I laugh and sing and tell her torrents of words; she is silent, listens, and submits to me understandingly. The armchair with wide arms and my size allow me to adopt a transverse position, as if I were holding her in my arms. I feel safe when she is around, just as I have felt since she gave birth to me.
And so I decided to tell you what I learned about dementia... dementia as a disease, not as a figure of speech.
I will not give a medical presentation, although I have the necessary training. I want to share with you a discovery that improved my sleep and healed my anxieties.
Dementia crushes your capacity to abstract, to remember, to speak, to move, to drink liquids and to swallow, but it does not touch the part of a person destined for love. People with this disease can love, they generously receive the love given to them, and they differentiate good from evil.
They are not vegetables, they are not "living dead," as someone confessed to me they perceived them. They are people with intact self-awareness, who daily ponder problems, who realize they are dependent on others. For these people, the world around them gradually becomes (the disease progresses over many years) an immense uncertainty. From what I have read, they experience anxiety far more intense than a cognitively normal person would if they moved to a country with a completely foreign culture and language. And yet, they generously offer smiles, gratitude, comfort, hugs, and, above all, forgiveness. I have seen them trying to help those around them, to contribute to the well-being of others. They are people humbled by the disease down to the smallest details, but from whom we can receive help.
If you ever happen to be diagnosed with this disease, know that the love in your souls cannot be stolen from you.
Laura Ioana
Photo by cottonbro studio / pexels.com