Dad is a quiet guy. He's soft-spoken, doesn't make much noise...unless he's waking up in the morning, slamming his walker around the bedroom despite the fact that Mom is still sleeping. He shuffles around the house, sometimes quietly venturing into the kitchen, grazing for snacks, not knowing that I can see him from our loft upstairs.
Dementia is a quiet disease. It sneaks up on you, takes you by surprise. Sometimes those with dementia seem fragile, weak, old. Other times, they are sharp as a tack and make you feel like you are the feeble-minded one.
Last night we were eating dinner. We had steak. Everyone was quietly chewing, cutting, enjoying...not much conversation. Our daughter turned to Hubby and said: "Geez Dad, you're really going after that steak furtively." Hubby and I both looked at her and said things like: "Whoa. Big word." Actually, I said: "What does furtive mean?" (Because there's no mistaking the fact that I'm the bottom-feeder in the brains department at our house. Somebody's gotta be.)
What followed was an animated discussion of the definition of the word "furtive." Daughter gave her definition. Dad listened, turned to her and said: "Good word. Wrong usage," and then raised his eyebrow and his steak knife as if to accentuate his point.
Again, I was amazed...mostly because he was right and because he was clear, lucid and funny. I couldn't help myself. I turned to everyone and said: "Well, Grandpa is really rockin' that fresh patch tonight." (Referring to the dementia patch that he gets every night at 5pm.) I wasn't sure if it was the patch or just a good moment, but I really enjoyed it. Daughter was a little annoyed. Perhaps she felt like we were ganging up on her. I just liked the fact that she and Dad were interacting....or the fact that Dad was interacting at all.
No doubt about it, dementia is furtive.
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