The Visit
Mom and I visit my Dad at the assisted living facility
I’d say my chances of getting some sort of dementia-related disease like my dad are more than 50%, at least that’s my gut feeling. But unlike him, I won’t have anyone. Which begs the questions: who will take care of me? Who’s going to tell the nice people to just say I’m on my way to a doctor’s appointment? Who’s going to visit me and shout over my attempts to communicate? The sinking feeling is that I already know the answers, and I’m not sure if this is the quality of life I really want.
And knowing my dad, his residual anger and bitterness is going to keep him going for at least another seven years, and by then I’ll have to sell the last of my assets at this rate.
I think about this more than I care to admit.
Just having kids is no guarantee that anyone will be there for you. You have always been a good friend to others, and your just-as-demented friends will be there for you. My mother had dementia before she died, and honestly I think that being unaware of the horrors of your life beats the way my dad died, lucid to it all until the last. Eh, let's go enjoy our functioning bodies while we have them.
I am stunned into silence by your honesty