Learning Curve

It's the learning curve that hurts, you realize there's no arguing with dementia; it argues back in disconnected hieroglyph you can't comprehend except by pain. You learn that challenge does no good, it can't be brought to awareness or memory. You can't win, but you learn there are indeed also ways not to lose. You learn- thru repeated failure- that this horrible monster can be outwitted, and then you are better help to your loved one, and to yourself.

The sudden outbursts of raging, combative and stubborn for no reason except maybe the need to grasp anything not fleeing from the moment, some illusion of control. The 4 a.m. wanderings to the kitchen, to the empty bedrooms, to the garage, to the neighbor's driveway across the street, to the "Don't know why I'm standing here.", to the precise locations of phantom dreams, to the long stare across the living room of nowhere. 

How all of it must be welcomed as if dementia wasn't enemy after all, as if we'll accept its expected patterns, not overreact to contrary behaviors that overwhelm any order of reality we would impose. Dementia wields its hard calendars of forgetting, and forgetting that you forgot, or ever knew, or were in the world at all, or ever cared to exist, it was all an intentional hoax. 

You learn that the learning curve is no gently ambling incline, but instead a slap you down shock of steep powerlessness as we are, except for one big and saving grace of choice and inner activism: my attitude, after all, that decides. You learn over time that dementia doesn't scare anymore, nor does it require any superhuman response. 

Perception is key, perspectives are also learned. The electrician says connector problems; the carpenter suspects a broken leveler, the plumber sees the leaks to another dimension. You've collected enough opinions. Your loved one saves nothing for tomorrow, still sees you for now, how much longer is an unknown.