There is hope after the "stare".

Sunday is Father's Day.  I was reading this blog from years past around this time of year and contemplating how things have changed over the years.  This time last year, Gary was still alive and for the most part, showed no emotion....just had that blank Dementia stare. 

For those who don't know, Gary died in January this year, 2018.  He fought a long hard battle with F.T.D.  Sadly, it was a battle that is never won by the person who has it nor by the family and caregivers supporting them.  It is deadly and for now, has no cure.

This week I was talking with some co-workers who were inquiring "How are you?"  It is so interesting when people ask the question because they are not sure of the response but I know they are genuinely concerned about my well-being.  Sitting at the table was a new employee whom I had just met and she knew nothing about me.  I did not take this into consideration before I answered because I knew the one asking the question knew my story.  So I answered that I am doing very well and happy.  

We chatted for a while about how things have changed and I referenced a time when Gary just had "the Dementia stare".  The new employee, a compassionate nurse, giggled.  Not knowing the situation, she assumed that my husband was "Normal" and found my reference to him staring as funny.  I thought nothing of it and told her that he had died in January of Dementia and that the time I was referencing was a time when he really did stare.  I am not sure, but I think she was partially mortified and partially thankful that I seemed to have accepted my fate and am moving through life.  She apologized and I explained that it was okay and I apologized to her for being so casual and flippant.  (Defense mechanism that I have mastered.) We all had a good laugh and moved on with the update.

Later in the day, I encountered another employee who is the primary caregiver for a husband-still-at-home-with-Dementia.  Few people know of her plight as she is very private.  We chatted about his regression and that fact that he is at the shuffling, unstable, stumbling stage of walking.  I remember that stage well.  Everyone around the patient then is scared of a fall.  She and I chatted about possibilities.

I asked her if her husband still knows who she and her children are to him.  She said a quiet "yes" but looked at me with a realization that the day is coming when he won't.  I hugged her and told her I would be there for her when that happens.  We parted after a sincere hug.

The disease is so horrible.  It is obviously difficult for the patient but is equally difficult for the caregiver.  What I do know is that six months later, after the passage to peace, life is good again.  There is hope that any caregiver can heal and be happy. I want to thank the support team that helped me for so many years....they are too countless to name.  Some were instrumental in my ability to cope and recover.  You all know who you are.  Thank you.