I see the signs

I’m afraid I’ll get dementia.
I’m afraid I already have dementia.
I can see all the signs.
I fumble for words.
I lose my train of thought.
I have trouble concentrating.
I forget people’s names.
I feel vague and confused.
I don’t feel I’m fully functioning.
I forget how to do things.
I don’t understand what people are saying.
But maybe all those things happen to other people too.
Maybe they just mean we’re fallible human beings.
Maybe I hope for perfect behaviour and can’t accept it’s normal to fall short.
 
My mother had dementia.
My mother and father in law both had dementia.
So I’m not confident I’ll dodge it.
Dementia affects one in six people over the age of 80 in the UK.
I’ll be 80 next year.
I don’t want Jenny to have to look after me for years as dementia worsens.
I don’t want to end up a gormless shadow of my former self.
I don’t want my life to end in such wretchedness.
But dementia strikes at random.
There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
No vaccine.
No drugs.
No surgery.
All I can do is hope to be spared.

Not so old?

Like most people, I guess, I take news of some especially long-lived oldie quite uncritically, but apparently a lot of these amazing ages may not be genuine, due to dubious documentation and other errors.

In 2010, more than 230,000 Japanese centenarians turned out to be missing, imaginary, clerical errors or dead. In Greece 72 per cent of census-reported centenarians in 2012 were discovered to be no longer alive.

Do we even want to live so long? Rising numbers of oldies are enduring chronic medical conditions that restrict their quality of life. And do we really want to wake up every day to yet more horrific crimes, international conflicts, dictators and corporate greed? Better a shortened age with a good quality of life than an advanced age that isn't any fun any more.

My mum lived until 96, by which time her quality of life was pretty poor. She had had dementia for several years, and had problems with walking and personal care, as well as having limited physical energy. Quite honestly, she would have been better off if she had died a few years earlier.

So I don't take any notice of people's sure-fire blueprints for living longer. I'll leave others to test them out. I'll happily accept whatever life span I've been allotted, as long as I'm still fit enough to enjoy it.

A sad decline

Dementia is a cruel and distressing illness. Cruel and distressing both to the victims and to their family and friends who have to watch their gradual mental decline but can do nothing to reverse it.

Both Jenny's parents developed dementia before their death, and so did my mother. My father died of lung cancer at the age of 70, but if he had lived longer, who knows, he might also have succumbed to dementia.

It still haunts me, almost three years after my mother's death, that she slowly deteriorated from a bright and lively woman to someone who barely knew where she was or what she was doing.

She seemed to have forgotten most of her life, and any question I put to her would prompt nothing but a vague smile. She wasn't capable of a coherent conversation and showed no interest in my own life. It was if I was talking to a total stranger, and one who had withdrawn into some remote corner of her mind that was inaccessible to anyone else.

I felt helpless and demoralised, knowing there was nothing I could do to wind back the illness, nothing I could to reawaken the vibrant woman I had once known. I could only watch sadly as her mind crumbled.

Naturally I look for signs that I might be developing dementia myself, but so far things seem to be okay. I may have a terrible memory, but I gather there's no established link between existing poor memory and dementia. Some very smart people with excellent memories, like Harold Wilson and Iris Murdoch, were struck down just the same.

It must be dreadful to be aware your mind is going but you can do nothing to restore it. It's a horrible way to go.

Pic: not my mum!

Health warning

I was startled to read that so many footballers and rugby players have developed dementia at an early age, probably as a result of heading balls (the former) and violent tackles (the latter) and being concussed. Clearly these sports are more dangerous than we realise.

I was especially interested because I played both football and rugby at school and because I have a very poor memory. But I doubt if there's any link between the two. As far as I remember (!!) I've always had a poor memory. And I never had more than minor injuries when I was on the field.

In fact I loathed the two games so much I did everything I could to avoid both the ball and the other players. I never headed a football and I never made any violent rugby tackles. I was always against violence of any sort. Being a well-brought-up young man, I was more likely to tap the other player on the shoulder and ask if he would be kind enough to give me the ball for a minute or two.

If I do ever develop dementia, the cause is more likely to be bashing my head on door frames because they're not high enough for me. I remember getting quite a thwack on a door in a holiday cottage that presumably was built for much shorter occupants a century or so ago.

Otherwise I've never had head injuries of any kind - not from cycling or car accidents or from accidents at home. So hopefully I'm fairly safe from any head injury-related dementia.

How soon before fathers stop encouraging their sons to play football and warn them against it?