Dementia

I hadn’t seen Aunty Joyce for what seemed like an eternity. We had never been that close. I only ever saw her at the big-ticket family events – births, weddings, and funerals. I became aware that her health was failing when my mum updated me on a series of phone calls with Uncle Ronnie, informing me that her prognosis wasn’t good. With a certain degree of detachment and pragmatism, I offered to drive mum on the eight-hour round trip to Preston to visit her prior to the inevitable last rites. My mum also told me that Aunty Joyce had dementia and, according to Ronnie, the deterioration in her mental state had been significant. Lapping up the praise of being number one son for chauffeuring her up north (I have a sister, so this position isn’t too difficult to achieve), I recall my mum managing my expectations upon arrival. In terms of her mental cognition, Joyce was lost, although Ronnie would be with her continuously during our visit.

I knew of the term dementia. It was, unfortunately, a condition that affected really old folk robbing them of memories, promoting forgetfulness and confusion. Wasn’t it? I was in for a rude awakening, and my pompous presumptions got the punch to the guts they so richly deserved. My expectations of reacquainting myself with a relative who would probably not even register who I was and would, more than likely, look aimlessly out of the window, were not immediately challenged upon arrival. In hushed tones, Ronnie welcomed us in and said that Joyce was in the lounge.

Sure, she looked old, and she certainly was.