Kelley Irwin

One day in Nov 2022, it would turn out to be one of the worst days of my life. We were only days post Dad’s formal medical diagnosis of dementia.

The week prior to this day:
7 days-my daughter and I visited my parents. Dad was in good spirits.
6 days-Dad fell and broke his hip.
3 days-Dad had surgery and was physically healing well.
2 days-Mom called to say Dad pulled out his IVs and squirted blood all over her, asked for his keys and declared he was going home.
1 day-my daughter moved from Canada to the UK. It was a tearful good-bye.

This day started at 2:00 am. I arrived at the hospital at 10:00 am. Dad’s confusion was magnified by the surgery, medicine, pain, and surroundings. Stimulation with lights, sounds and people in a hospital is overwhelming to everyone. To dementia patients it is unbearable.

Repetitive questions from a dementia patient are tiring to family members and frustrating to the patient. The same question may be asked 50 times.

What time is it?
Where am I?
Why am I here?
What room is this?
Is this my room?
Who said so?
Can we go home now?
Why not?
Who said?
Why are they in charge?
What about my rights? I want to speak to the Sherriff.

It is now very late and Mom has gone home to rest. Dad is calm. I think he will sleep. I am set up with a pillow and a blanket on a windowsill. Tomorrow night, I will find a better arrangement. I can see Dad. He is drifting off to sleep.

His eyes pop open. “Where are you?”
“I’m right here Dad.” I have to lift up and lean toward him so he can see me.
“Where’s your Mom?”
“She’ll be right back Dad.”
“Okay.” He is drifting off to sleep.
My mind and body are exhausted. I know I need sleep.
Less than 5 minutes pass. His eyes pop open. “Where are you?”
“I’m right here Dad.” I lift up, lean toward him again. My body is aching.
This cycle repeats. 5 minutes of rest. Me reassuring Dad I am here.

After 3 hours, I snapped and shouted. “GO TO SLEEP DAD. You need your rest.”

It was the first time. It was the only time. I had never before and never since shouted at my Dad. And he had never shouted at me. Not when I put his car in a ditch. Not when I was a moody teen-ager. Not when I was late for curfew. Not once.

This is why it was one of the worst days of my life. I knew in the moment, and all the days since, that I had hit a wall. Physically, emotionally, and mentally, I was stretched beyond my capacity. It didn’t make it feel any better.

I got up, rubbed his shoulders and he closed his eyes.

5 minutes later, I am back on my perch, and Dad’s eyes pop open.
“Where are you?”
“I’m right here Dad.”

The ONLY benefit of dementia is that Dad does not remember any of this.

Michael Lewis, (author), says you can’t write afraid. If you hold back because of what others will think of you, you aren’t telling the whole story. This post is only possible because of his advice.

It is not easy to tell the whole story. I share so others overwhelmed with dementia know they are not alone.