A Typical Day in Dementialand

I wake up around 7:30 every morning. Well, to be honest, the dogs wake up around 7:30 every morning, and they are leash walked, so that is when I get up. I open Gramma's bedroom door to glance in on her, and I usually get my first "What?!?!" of the day. This happens a lot. This phenomena needs a bit of expansion, this "What?!?!?!" that haunts my days and nights and rings through my head when I sleep. It seems such a simple word, one oft repeated in daily life. Gramma says she has a hard time hearing, but she doesn't, I took her to the specialist to have her checked. Her problem is all in cognition, not aural at all. She simply doesn't understand what she hears immediately. Generally, she understands about 6 beats later than most, if she gets it. (Some things she swears are completely alien, more on that later.) This simple word, necessary for everyday life, is not merely muttered as an inquisitive, it is screeched, loudly, generally while I am mid word answering the very question at hand. It has a peculiar, nasal, impatient, angry parrot, nails on chalkboard quality. I probably hear it a hundred times a day. It is always grating and makes me clench my hands, or roll my eyes if facing away. It's always very loud, as if she can drown out her own confusion. I do one hell of an impression of it, but I probably won't do it for you, I generally only say it that way to my Mom, who will then, gently, lovingly, slap me about the back of my head. Around 9:00am, the lady of the manor rises from her bed, puts on a robe, and shuffles to my door. My bedroom door is directly across the hall from hers. She greets the dogs "Good morning poochie! Good morning poochie! Hey poochie!," then looks to me, I spend most of my days in my room. So, I'll be sitting in bed, looking at my computer, reading my Kindle, playing games on my phone, something along those lines, drinking coffee. She'll ask what i know good, what day is it, anything she should know, anything going on, in rapid fire succession. Generally, there's not much going on. If it's Wednesday, her friend Jane will pick her up for bingo and lunch at the senior center. The senior center has Meals on Wheels lunch every day for qualified recipients. Most days, she does not want to go, but she loves bingo on Wednesdays. They each bring something to offer as a prize, a trinket, a book, candy, an orange, etc., and winners get to pick from the prize table. I finish my first (or second) cup of coffee and go into the den, where she has made herself a cup of coffee and settled into her recliner with the local daily paper, which I brought in when I walked the dogs. I'll ask what she wants for breakfast. When I first came, two years ago, now, she was still driving and cooking for herself. She could spend a night or two alone, she had been living completely on her own, up until then. Honestly, nobody really saw how bad she was, because she has always done stuff for attention. She is loud, and brash, and an attention whore, she always has been. She's also always been one of the most completely selfish and self centered humans on the planet. I got it easier than most, because I was her first grandchild, I was golden. Her second grandchild is the only boy, and blind. She is not a fan of the mother of my cousins, and was pretty disdainful, or downright mean to the youngest two. I went out of town for a couple of nights, when I had been here for a few months, and she managed to drive herself into town, get lost for hours, and lose $200. No more driving. We were getting calls from bill collectors, so I took over paying bills. She had gotten herself into a lot more financial trouble than anyone realized. She can't cook, because she almost burned the house down with a fried egg. Twice. So, I make her oatmeal, and/or some toast. Mom usually boils eggs for her, and leaves them. I can't even keep raw eggs, because, as she says often, "I'll damn well do what I damn well please." Not that I know how to cook an egg, honestly. I don't eat them. She reads the paper and does the crossword. If I'm in the den, I answer her crossword clues, if she asks. It makes her feel good the next day, to see how well she did, when I help. About fifty times a day, every day, I hear "I guess I'm worse than I thought." She'll get a phrase in her head, heard on tv, or read, and she'll say it over and over. She'll ask me to explain it, and then swear she's never heard of such a thing. Like corn dogs, or summer sausage. She'll ask to to explain, and then screech "what?!?!?" at ear splitting volume when I'm about four words in. I'll start over. She'll shake her head. I'll explain it again. She'll shake her head. She'll pout, and tell me it's not her fault, she has dementia. I am far more aware than anyone on earth, Gram, I really am. She eats very small meals, and complains about how big every single one is. Every single one. Big spoonful of mac and cheese? Oh my god, it's so much! Unless it's sweet, she never runs out of room for dessert. She'll ask me to do something, then get mad that I've done it. She doesn't bathe if I don't tell her, and sometimes that's a fight. I am responsible for all of her meals, which is fine, I can make sure that she eats enough protein. Most days, I'm in the house with her all day, or she's out running to the store and such with me, If I can get her to not look like a hobo. She was never very girly, but she has always been vain, until this. True story, she got married in a grey skirt suit, which just wasn't much done in 1949. Every day is a battle in which everything I do is wrong. My Mom comes up every Saturday to help. They have never been close, at all. I am the only member of my family not born in Eastern NC, because Mom got pissed off and moved to Georgia when she was 19. My uncle is just like Gramma. Selfish. Entitled. A pathological liar. He has a son just like him. My female cousins help some, but I know they don't feel it's their responsibility. Once Gramma wasn't good for free child care, they pretty much let her to be. She's not my responsibility, really, either. I just believe that you don't get rid of people, and warehouse them when they are inconvenient. I will be here, to keep her in the house my Grandaddy built for her, as long as I can. I had a part time job, for a while, but my boss became ill. I'm trying to find another that I can work and still care for her. I am out and about at night, sometimes, because of all the things, she is not a wanderer. She goes to bed around 5, and stays in her room until about 9:30 am. To say money is tight is a hysterical understatement. I'm doing the best that I can. Which isn't good enough, but I'm still trying. This post didn't go where I expected, but there will be more Dementialand posts in the future.