THE DEMENTIA TALKS #20, WALKS & TALKS:
Yesterday, on my normal Monday visit to my mom, another piece of her was lost as another matador arrived to fight the bull. Those questions I never asked, one because my dad made me promise during the last straight talk we ever had, to never ask it, NEVER, joined other questions in the “I should have asked them” column. Statements I never made but should have found a similar column.

This journey has brought the certainty that my mom will recognize me as her brother about 75% of the time. The other time, I’m her son. Frankly, the days are easier when I’m the brother. The son gets the same repeated “…when are you taking me home…?

Repeated questions are the cost of doing business. Every day the feet get scalded firewalking the burning coals of that day’s particular hellish interrogation. And that night’s particular hell of regret as the past & its “there’ll be time” mantra steal the sleep.

Today, I had lunch with two stellar friends. One has walked the coals to the funeral home. The other, a few landmarks behind me on the same journey & I shared that lost piece that arrived yesterday.

For some moments, I wasn’t a son. I wasn’t a brother. I was an unknown, unrecognized conversationalist, the matador. My mom recovered, but I knew this day would come. It comes for every family dealing with this brutal warrior of cognitive decline.

So have that talk, as many as you can, while you can, walk those coals if your GPS arrow points to “You Are Here”. I once heard a football coach state there are only two types of pain in life. The pain of discipline & the pain of regret & both as far as dementia is concerned, bring one to the edge of Hell’s coals. Regret chases & swindles as it rides the night. Discipline leaves the feet seared but the mind free. Have the talk.