I don't think I have recorded the social worker's visit, at the point where it was becoming obvious that he had dementia but before the formal diagnosis. In one revealing episode he suddenly decided he was going to tell the kind lady about some short stories he had written, with a view to publication in at least the church magazine, if not for the general public. Dad can construct a grammatically correct English sentence and compose plausible dialogue, and that's as far as his literary talent stretches: he's not going to be making the Booker shortlist any time soon. More embarrassing than the triteness of his writing was his complete inability to reaalise that social workers don't visit in order to have little stories read to them. But Dad had an audience, so there was no stopping him. He had no idea how blatantly his behaviour betrayed his condition.
-o0o-
An illustration of how timescales collapse in the mind of the pwd. Dad was recalling the various chapels that had closed over the years - "in quick succession" was his phrase. Well, one of them to my certain knowledge had closed before I was born, another just a couple of years back. Succession, OK. Quick - hardly.
-o0o-
In his prime, Dad was systematic, more so than I'll ever be. His paperwork was always up to date, he kept lists relevant to his various interests. One that he'd dug out on a recent visit, for old times' sake I guess, was a catalogue of hymns, showing the combination of organ stops that he would use for each tune.
Then there were files full of transcripts, painstakingly hand-copied from borrowed scores (this was long, long before the days of photocopiers). He'd taken one from his music cupboard and it was sitting there on his piano open at a certain piece. I sat down on the stool and sight read it. "Bit of a stinker, that one," said Dad. I gulped. That's what he always used to say if I was tackling a hard passage and he heard me making mistakes, but jeepers, this was a doddle, completely straightforward; and a year ago he would have said the same. His yardstick for what constitutes a "stinker" is a good deal shorter than it used to be. Makes me wonder if he can still play as well as he could relatively recently. I have heard that musical skills persist in pwd's even when other abilities (such as dressing yourself) are long gone, but I have yet to see the evidence in Dad's case.
-o0o-
In Grottsville as elsewhere, the wheelie bins are colour coded. I think it's brown for organic waste, blue for anything recyclable, black for everything else. Brown bins go out one week, blue and black the next, alternately. Though not everyone seems to have a black bin, Dad certainly didn't. Don't ask me. Grottsville Council does not have a good reputation for organising such things. Or indeed for organising anything.
As his confusion became more apparent, Dad predictably ceased to distinguish between the two bins. If - and it was if - he remembered to throw stuff away at all, it would land in whichever one took his fancy. I rang the Council, explaind the situation, and you'll guess what happened next. They arranged for him to have a black bin, so that all his rubbish would go into the one place, and a black bin was duly sent to the house. To keep life simpler for him. What the Council didn't do was take the other two bins away, so Dad now has three bins into which he can chuck his random selection of rubbish as the whim takes him.
-o0o-
Fruit pastilles. What's that about? He's got stacks of them - a dozen packets or so, sitting on a kitchen shelf; and an old tin into which he's emptied the contents of another half dozen. I don't think I've ever seen him suck one. There must be a memory that tells him "I like fruit pastilles", so he buys them, and it used to be linked with another one: "to enjoy fruit pastilles, take them one from the packet and pop it in your mouth" but that connection has now gone. So the pastilles just sit there.
-o0o-
This links with the sense in which he forgot my birthday. That's to say he knows when my birthday is, though he's vague as to my actual age. But he doesn't make the connection: if someone's birthday is due, you send them a card. That's not just remembering, it's acting appropriately on the basis of the memory, and that's the competence he's losing.
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