Dementia - The Cats Perspective

I am Cat, and I don't have a fucking hat. I've travelled far and wide, even further than Shelley and his romantic rantings. I'm also called Puss, but I find that tedioussss. I've also been called Behemoth after Mikhail Bulgakovs wonderful creation, who is a relative, but we'll stick with Cat because it rhymes with.....

I'm old now, as old as an immortal Taoist, well not quite, but old enough to have only one tooth like Behemoth my mischievous ancestor. I've lived in the same street all my life, but I've moved home from one family to the other and spent years as a stray. I lived in the old Borough United football field for many years, honing my hunting skills.

My first home belonged to Shirley and Alf, he was a miserable old hat, but it was Shirley who brought me here as a nipper, which I was. Unfortunately Shirley died and Alf gave me to the neighbours. How kind! I spent most of my time in the field, hunting the rats and mice. I kept my distance from my new home, not just because they brought in two Akita's, but owing to the fact the owner of the dogs is as thick as an Akitas turd - they are big mean dogs. I think he wanted to look mean himself, but he just looked a twat.

Old fighter's just can't help themselves

A bit further down the road was an old lady called Bessie, who loved cats. She had two who lived there; one was an old passive cat who didn't want to take liberties with my domain, but she also had a black and white tom who did. Well, we came head to head in the garden one afternoon and the daft sod froze, so I proceeded to use my surgical skills on his nice fur coat. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to disembowel him, so I let him live. He was never the same after and not long after slipped this mortal coil.

Enter Olwen , who lived next door to Bessie. Olwen had been feeding me for years, but I would rarely come close, preferring the freedom of the fields, although I appreciated the gifts of food. As my bones aged and became slower in a fight, I decided to come in from the cold and park myself in front of the fire. It wasn't all rosy though. There were two thrones in the front room, one for Olwen and one for....not bloody Culhwch, but Mervyn. He was a demonic little dwarf, who didn't seem to like anything, especially cats. When Olwen wasn't about, he'd throw me out into the cold or pretend to kick me up the arse. Little shit was no bigger than a two penny fart, no adept exponent of a martial art. I take liberty there, he'! How things change when dementia rears its ugly head.

I'll leave my exploits for now and mention how dementia in the family became apparent to me and how it affected my weight!

I've always been a lean, mean killing machine, even in my old age, but you know what we carnivores are like, we are programmed to gorge ourselves silly, so no other fat cat (or dog) gets any. Well, I relied on Olwen making breakfast in the morning, a snack at lunch, tea at 5pm, and a light supper at 9.30 - 10pm - you see a pattern occurring here. After years in the field I put on a little weight, but always kept myself healthy. Then I noticed I was getting second helpings. Breakfast at 8.30, then again at 9.30. A snack at 12.30; again at 1.30. You get my drift! I'm so fat and bloated now that I can just about get out for a dump. Jesus I could give an Akita a run for its money. This is when I knew something was not quite right.

As for Merv, well I don't see him that often, as he's usually in bed, but when I did, and the stupid sod that's there on a Saturday was messing about with my old raggedy mouse, he actually tried to play with me and stroke me, with this big mad hatter grin on his face. Now that was odd.

I will continue my post at some point - I'm off into the night!

When all seems well - Early February Observation

Dad has finished his antibiotics, but we can only see a slight improvement, in that he is eating and drinking a little bit more. Paul is still sleeping over and making sure dad takes his pills, eats and drinks. Now that mum is at the point where she often can't remember to take her pills, she has to be observed taking Paracetamol or she will forget taking them. She has been at the point for a while now where she finds it difficult to organise her pills, so Paul does them as well.

As usual I went to see my parents on Wednesday after work. When I got there, dad was out of bed and had been up the previous day, after two weeks of mostly sleeping. He was eating a bit more and seemed a little more himself. He managed to hold a conversation for a little while, which is no mean feat for both of us. We are not the most conversive of specimens, much to my mums annoyance and frustration. That night he actually ate some fish and chips, although a small portion. He would eat them every day given the opportunity when well. That was a result.

I left there feeling a bit more optimistic after the last few weeks. I rang the following day and he seemed to be the same, so I didn't bother ringing on the Friday.

When I called Saturday, I found he was back in bed and looking pale and listless. I asked him if he would get out of bed. He said he would try later; I wasn't optimistic. He wouldn't talk much, and wanted to go back to sleep. He looked depressed to me. I'm certain he could have got up if he tried, as he looked better than he had looked the previous week. I was even more convinced that it was his state of mind when he ate a small omelette without leaving anything, but just wanted to go back to sleep or look through the window and watch light fade.

A Sense of Urgency - Lasting Power of Attorney

Twelve months ago I saw an email sent to all staff at work that mentioned Lasting Power of Attorney, which was also refered to by my friend in work Ian. Ian wrote an eloquent and moving blog post of his experience caring for his mother and father with dementia, which twelve months later prompted me to type my own thoughts and experiences.

The Lasting Power of Attorney covers two important issues that most of us will have to deal with as our parents reach the end of their lives. They cover the financial affair's, such as banking, paying bills and collecting pensions and health and welfare. You can read the rest by following the above link.

I can't stress enough how important it is to get these forms registered before your parents succumb to something as distressing as the various forms of dementia or any other wasting disease. What struck me was the cost of using a lawyer to register these papers for you. According to the email I'd read, the charge would be about £300, plus the cost of registering, which is £110. You can do it yourself by filling in the forms online and printing off the parts that need to be signed. A doctor will have to sign one part of the form, which will incur a cost. The person who sent the email stated £30 for the doctors time; that's a saving you can't ignore if you are on a low wage. Now comes the sense of urgency, your parents have to be of sound mind to sign the forms, and the doctor will be there to make that judgment.

We should have registered the Lasting Power of Attorney twelve months back, especially after my dad had his infections; that was a big mistake. And again in the summer when I was reminded.Completely stupid of me. Now we are in the situation where both my mother and father could soon be unfit to sign them.

Filling in the form online (or printing it out) is easy enough if you have all the details handy. Get it done!

Non Compos Mentis - Dementia

Dementia, or Alzheimer's made itself known to me when I was about seventeen years old. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but this is probably due to my memory looking back over thirtyfive years, and my interests at the time being music, girls, psychedelics and animal welfare, rather than the slow decline of a person's mental health.

I lived on a council estate where everybody knew each other - it was a bit like Under Milk Wood -  where everybody's door was open to the neighbours at any time. My family consisted of my nain, taid (grandparents), mum, dad and my older brother. There always seemed to be relatives and friends in the house visiting my nain and taid, chattering away in Welsh, from which I used to grasp bits of what they said when interspersed with english.

I would lie on the floor watching the pipe and cigarette smoke spiral through the beams of sunlight that poured through the window. The women would be sat bolt upright, wearing dead foxs about their necks; legs draped down one side and a foxs head down the other. While thinking about the people who would visit, a face loomed up out of the past and her name was Auntie Enid. She looked on edge most of the time, but people would, after all they had gone through two world wars and lost their brothers, sisters and partners. What struck me was the look in her eyes, they were black, wide and lost. Like the blackness of space absorbing what was left of the light. This is a look that I have seen in other's, a look of anxiety, fear, confusion and disorientation. Auntie Enid may not have been suffering from dementia but, there was something about that look. This brings me to my first experience with full blown dementia when I was seventeen.

Mrs Jones was a widow who lived across the way and was very close to my nain, along with the other neighbours, who had all moved into the street after the 1st World War. They would converge in the street or in each other's houses, a la Under Milk Wood, and chat away, putting the world to rights. She was very friendly, even though young people with mohicans and spiky hair would visit our house, which, to older people at the time, would have been like the devil's from hell making a visit to Walton Crescent.

At first I didn't think much of Mrs Jones popping round to see my nain more than usual but, it seemed to me, all of a sudden, she would knock the door and ask for the time, which is fine. Then it began. First thing in the morning knocking on the door 'Mrs Griffiths Faint o'r gloch ydy hi? What time is it? A couple of hours later, the same, until it became every half an hour. I could see the strain and upset in my nain and taids face as each in turn helped her back to her house. This went on for some time until Mrs Jones disappeared and I was told she had died. What I do remember is that wide eyed look of confusion, disorientation and anxiety. Those eyes that where once full of personality and spirit had now just the faintest traces of the person we knew. Into the blackness she had drifted.

Moving forward a couple of years and dementia had started to manifest itself within my nain, who was in her eighties when the first signs appeared. The signs could have appeared earlier, but I was rarely in the house, being at that age when time spent with friends filled all my free time, which was a lot when drawing the dole.

I have a recollection at the time of being upset enough by what I saw to put it down in writing during my failed attempt at an access course in humanities. Unfortunately I'm left with little memory of nains condition, apart that is, of her slowly becoming more frail and childlike. It was easy to make her laugh, but she was now becoming more bad tempered and confused. She would forget where she was and what she was doing and if it wasn't for my mum being available most of the time, nain would have had to go into a home. I have two abiding memories from this period; the one that stands out is that nain used to have moments of lucidity when she became conscious of the fact that she was losing herself and she would cry. I had never seen this strong but kind woman cry before. It was shocking to see somebody go from non compos mentis to compos mentis and back again. That's when I realised how terrifying this disease is. The other memory came via my mum, who told me that nain had become violent and would attack my taid in the night, which must have been scary for mum to deal with.

Soon after taid broke his hip and ended up in a home, where he was happy and would sing Welsh hymns for the staff  - he always had his faculties - and where he soon after died. Not long after nain ended up in the same home, where she struggled with dementia until the end. Before she died she met her great granddaughter Poppy. We have a special photo of nain with Poppy and she has a big bright smile on her face.