“Could you just put that skeleton onto the hose?”
“You are always doubling and tripling and doubling.”
“There he is – that little bastard – see? In the corner. With the horse nose.”
“I don’t want to be in this school anymore.”
“This is the most wonderful pub!”
“The dogs need to be let out. Do it gently with the first ones. We have too many.”
“Does the congregation know that you found the bodies?”
“It was a pirate ship and those kids kidnapped me again.”
“See this thing? [often his knee rug]. “Can you loop it around these things?” [his hands.] “Yes, good, that will stop the rain from getting into the crevices.”
The above are just a few sample statements made by Anthony over the last several years. There is a context to some of these statements which I will elaborate on later in this book, but most are uttered spontaneously and sometimes with what seems a subdued desperation.
If you are caring for/or about someone with Dementia who is close to you – a spouse, parent, friend – it can be extremely difficult to know how to respond. For example, it can be very tempting to counter what seems like nonsense with logic, like:
There are no bodies, or a pirate ship. It’s not even raining! We only have two dogs, the hose is fine, we’re not in a pub or a school – we are in a nursing home! Who are these kids you keep talking about? What the hell are you talking about? You are paranoid, you are delusional and I can’t cope with this nonsense anymore. Please, Ants; this is so unfair on me. Pull yourself together!
I’ve highlighted the above to emphasise my frustrations over the years with Anthony’s gradual transition into the confusion of Dementia. Of course, I am not proud of my impatience with him but, early on – especially during the last year Anthony lived at home and the first year of the nursing home – my moodiness was acrobatic and just as unpredictable as his confusion.
The only thing that remained a certainty for us during these tumultuous times was our inviolable love for each other. Anthony’s reluctance to marry me all those years ago stemmed from his anxiety about the age difference (23 years). He didn’t want to burden me with his old age. I said I didn’t care but for some reason, despite my nursing background and my PhD research about Alzheimer’s Disease, I never once considered that one day Anthony would not only be old, but also very sick.
We were married in 1993 and at that time Anthony was fit, robust and full of energy – a passionate dairy farmer. Neither of us could have anticipated that in the first year of Ming’s life, Anthony would succumb to kidney cancer. I can remember taking baby Ming into the hospital to see Ants in between two surgeries, the first to remove a tumour from his left kidney, and the second to remove the whole kidney. Our tears then were not just about the trauma experienced and the idea of cancer, they were also about Anthony being advised not to ride a motorbike anymore.
Anthony was only 58 back then (the same age I am now) and he loved riding motorbikes. Dairy farmers don’t have much time for hobbies, but this was his and, in retrospect, I now see that this would have come as a terrible blow for Anthony. The cancerous kidney was gone, yes, but this experience altered things in a forever way.
Ming had his first ever asthma attack in that hospital room. My mother took him into her arms while I rushed to find a nebuliser and Ventolin for Ming.
Later that week we brought Anthony home – wan, pale, diminished, and so weak. But he soon got better and went back to milking the cows, enjoying being a father, and loving me with a fervour that devastated me because I could already see the writing on the wall. I’m not a scientist or a psychologist but I do believe that our kidney cancer year somehow made Anthony vulnerable to the many illnesses he has contracted since then.
Now, nearly two decades later, Anthony often reassures me that he is getting better.
Me: YES.
jmgoyder 
yes, indeed.
Yes a beautiful word indeed
My heart breaks for you.
When there’s nothing to say, saying Yes with a passionate, positivity is the only way to move onwards and into the future.
Anthony is so lucky to have a loving wife with such a beautiful heart.
You tell your story with such skill, that we readers and onlookers, and especially we, the family, gasp in recognition. We all saw it played out before our eyes and were then, as now, filled with the sense of being audience to one if the greatest love stories, and so priveleged to be a part if it.
❤ one powerful word filled with so much love ❤
One powerful word filled with love ❤
Yes. This is brilliant Julie.
I love reading about your life with Ants. What treasured memories! Yes, yes, yes!
Your support means the world to me Judy!
I will want to ask the Lord why we had to suffer when the silver linings seemed so dim. You have been through a lot.
Now that am participating in two carer support groups I realise how lucky Ants, Ming and I are compared to others. But, yes, I have a few questions for the Lord too. xxxx