Messed up world
My granddaughter came for a visit. I was so thrilled to see her. It has been some months since I last saw her. She does not live close by, so it is tricky for her to come often to chat. Unfortunately, I cannot move to places as easily as beforehand to visit her. She is a grown-up now. Owner of her life, following her dreams and aspirations, slightly trapped into the Capitalist system but still taking the best out of it — if you have to make money, at least spend it on memorable experiences, as I have always told her. She was looking happy, and she brought me some carrot cake, perfect for afternoon coffee — ignoring my tendency to diabetes and high blood pressure, it would be an untouchable choice. I unwrapped the cake and made some coffee for us — my mobility has started to decline, but I believe even if I was nearly perishing, I could still unconsciously be able to prepare some coffee (or I trust that I am that addicted). She shared what was going on in her life. She got a new job, and she will have some time in between to relax and travel, one of the reasons why she managed to come for a chat. Looking at my not so eventful life, well characteristic of a retired human being, I told her my friend Lia had come for a visit yesterday. I went to school with Lia perhaps fifty years ago, that is for how long we have known each other. We shared a few good laughs, and her visit brought an invite and some news along — her grandson was getting married, and I could take part in the ceremony as a guest.
While I was happily sharing the good news with my granddaughter, I could see her body expression conflicting with mine. Her sorrow clashed with my cheerfulness, and instead of a smile back at me, I got a deconstructive desolated and gloomy face. In a noticeably pitiful manner, she told me “Grandma, I am sorry but Lia died a couple of years ago, remember the car crash… A few weeks after her grandson wedding. He is in good form though, I saw him recently, and he asked how you were doing”.
I felt confused. I felt frustration. I felt that this information could be real, and somehow deep down in my mind, but my brain carried me to another temporal dimension and disregarded what came afterwards. I felt weak, hopeless and incapable of distinguishing what is true or not.
I felt it happened to me at the same time, that is not my imagination. Had it happened a couple of years ago, this chat with Lia? Or is it also some twisted game of my mind?
I felt that my thoughts got messed up. Their significance is not relevant anymore, and I cannot fix them. I cried. Frustration got to me. My granddaughter hugs me, but I cannot stop.
Sometimes, I feel I know how to say everything that crosses my mind all out loud and accurately. But, sometimes, somehow it turns out I cannot. I tell stories that trigger me as real memories. Stories involving faces I am familiar with, names I know by heart, places I have crossed several times in my life perhaps, a precise timeframe. Stories that somehow I thought had happened exactly like the words rambling out of my mouth. But somehow, the people, places, time, reality and imagination are all messed up in my world, and yet a world that anyone else can fully understand. Neither can I fully.
Sometimes I feel powerless as I did when my granddaughter looked sadly into my eyes; but, a few times, I feel empowered. I feel empowered when people understand my world. When my words feed people with reality; when we both have a common ground, and the same sense of the memories, people, spatial and temporal dimensions. And, through those times, it fully hits me: I have dementia, and it will always mess up my world.
