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Feggyr Citack Aug 2017
-on an old person's incredible patience

How strange you are,
hugging and kissing me.
I dare not stop you,
you may turn against me.

You must be someone else,
a person I have never met;
and I'm not pleased to meet you
since the first time that we met.

I wish you let go.
Just let me be...
Just-let-me-be.

This isn't me, you know.
It's really me
that's just not me.
Alzheimer tears apart any relationship. Much of this song applies to both partners; we can't tell who suffers most.
Chui Choo Aug 2017
Po Po wakes up in the middle of the night
She’s scared, her eyes – unusually wide
She checks the gate three times
Until she’s contented that it’s bolted, safe from the outside

When she did that she told my uncle
To always remember so that they’d be guarded from the robbers
You never know if they’re hidden in the rubber trees
All around; it’s so easy to deceive  

She has forgotten, that she’s in the present
Her children all grown now
Enough to scare away any plunderer or thief
The area still scattered with rubber trees, but no longer dangerous like it used to be

You see 40 years ago she raised
Nine children on her own, her husband away
Working in the city to provide for the family
It was inevitable; yet she must have still felt lonely

A woman alone, nine children in a tow
She was fearful for their safety
In that time and place – understandably so
She didn’t know what could happen, if she didn’t lock the doors

So every night without fail she did
How scared she must have been
Laying wide awake in bed
Hoping that in the morning, everything would be okay

Just the other day she asked my father
A worried expression, but her words did not falter
Are you doing well, she asked
Reminded of the rough times he had in the past

She has forgotten that in the present
My father runs, successfully, his own business
It is tough sometimes but goes well enough
To provide for me, my mother and brother; he has built a comfortable life for us

The same happened to my father’s siblings
Four brothers, four sisters – all with their own families
When they realised what and why she was asking
I imagined that they all stopped and realised something

“Lao ren chi dai” is what they call it in Mandarin
A common condition for the ageing and elderly
Dementia I realised is what Po Po has
It’s no wonder she has the tendency to forget

This we all accepted easily
Life went on – that is how my family is
Stoic and accepting of whatever happens
Stereotypically Asian? I guess that is how we reacted

What made me sad though was not that she forgot
But that she remembered the bad times, and her thoughts
From those parts of her life are very telling
Of the uneasy and difficult experiences she was reliving

How hard it was for her I will never fully understand
I’m lucky enough to live a life very blessed
But I wish I could shoulder some of her burden and her stress
If that would even help at all; for I cannot prevent what happened back then

~

When she passed, I will never forget
My youngest uncle, his eyes so kind
They teared up, I swear I saw him cry
It was the strongest display of negative emotion I had ever seen
In my short, but whole life of knowing him
This doesn't have the "-" in the title, because it's a personal story.

Both my grandmothers experienced dementia before they passed away. My paternal one, who I affectionately called Po Po (Mandarin for grandmother), lived a difficult life. My father told me that until the very end she kept getting worried about my aunts and uncles – her children. She kept asking if we had any financial troubles or if we needed money. And she was worried about the gates, whether it was locked or not, not just in the night anymore but also in the day. I remember seeing her fiddle with them in the afternoon and wondering what was going on.

I can't imagine the fear she felt then if that was one of the key feelings that was triggered because of her dementia. How lasting was it and how deeply had it impacted her?
freeing the mind Jul 2017
The creaking of that old chair is all which they could hear,
''take a seat'' he said and move it near,
he would tell a story of which he was very fond;
it included a bike, an old friend, and a huge duck pond;
He spoke these words time and time,
no remembrance of telling it but, once more would be fine,
He chuckled and chuckled at the top of his lungs
telling of his friend and how off his bike he was flung,
With a smile, he glanced at the family around
a sudden moment of silence;
'' Whats your name?'' he frowned
A nervous laughter from his daughter he heard :
But the man? he just stared.
Unsure of these people who once more came to visit,
''story telling is my job, so your problem what is it?!''
His voice he projected, confusion portrayed;
great sadness in his family, but by his side they stayed.
Steve Page Jul 2017
Oh I don't like this
This isn't right
It's another country
Everything's one long fight

It's like a foreign language
Nothing's the same
It's all gone wrong
Tell me her name again

I just wish it was like it was
I just can't keep track
Oh don't get old Steve
It never comes back

You won't leave me will you...
Knowing for herself that she'd lost so much eats at her, bringing her to tears.
Steve Page Jul 2017
Things my mum asked for today:
To be taken home
Toast
The toilet
To be left to die
Pleadings from my mum lost in dementia
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****,
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.
Notes
Catarina Pech May 2017
Her thoughts became a jumble, her memory tangled
Oh how easily our fragile mind can get mangled
She used to sing and strum a guitar, while I twirled
Now she moans and cries, frightened of this world
She told me, "My computer don't work good, no more"
I hadn't an idea a battle with dementia she was in for
Her laugh was so boisterous, and her mood often jolly
Now she lies in bed wailing, the last leg of this life folly
She told me stories of a poor farm girl in a land far away
I listened intently, but my thoughts have begun to betray
The memories in this life she shaped have since faded
Of the ones she shared, few remain, forgetfulness invaded
Sometimes a loved one remembers and shares a story
How wonderful to have a new moment of her in her glory
As time goes by and she slips further into murkiness
Our family must gather muster and sturdiness
My mother whom to me is so dear is an empty shell
Sadly, she is so far from herself, on this I often dwell
There is a day still to come, and she will be whole again
My mother at her loveliest with God up in heaven
Mom had a poor education and was prone to flightiness, that allowed dementia  to catch us unaware, it's been about 10 years now, five of them none verbal.
James Court May 2017
On the shore he perches daily,
body wrecked and curled.
Through his hand
there streams some sand,
drawn down unto the world.

As twilight sinks, he gives a wistful
glance toward the sky,
as tales and tears
of eighty years
still now adorn his eye.

Soon he picks himself on up, and
shuffles west, forlorn,
and no one knows
quite where he goes -
he's always back by morn.

He's seen a lot and lived his years
defined by time's demands,
and with regret,
like sand, he's let
his life slip through his hands.

So on the shore he perches daily,
fingers fixed, unfurled,
and for his bruises,
slowly loses,
bit-by-bit, his world.
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