Compassion

Robbed of everything meaningful, the pwd in your life progressively declines a little further. Disease progression is relentless.

Burt is a poor patient. He resists being  prodded, guided, and helped. It makes those doing what’s best for him and doing their best feel like giving up. At best, it’s exasperating.

In these instances, remembering who your person was before the dementia crept into your lives will sometimes elude you.

The grind of care will be ever present.

This is when you will  (ok might) develop “compassion fatigue.” It’s that feeling of “to hell with it” that comes from a constant strain on your resources.

Explaining everything four or five times as Burt [no doubt struggling with symptoms from his illness but I was at that ‘who cares’ moment] could not get it, I was muttering oh god.

Add to his extreme cognitive decline a huge stubborn streak [also made more intense in response to the Lewy], and I was ripe for a major reversal of empathy. A lack of caring.

It was easier to stay on his side when, even after one of his offensive rebukes, he would sincerely thank his carers. He doesn’t seem to have the awareness that we are looking after and out for him anymore.

As he drifted off to sleep, Burt called me over [why does everything have to be shared as a secret (sigh)?].

“Don’t give up on loving me,” my very sleepy sweetheart said, holding my hand.

Ah. Yes. That’s it. There it is.