“Dying ain’t much of a living, boy.”
It isn’t the thought of my grandfather not remembering me that’s making me miserable, it’s listening to him talk about how miserable he is when I am trying to spend time with him. Or just all the time. If someone is in pain, his is worse. If someone is tired, he doesn’t even know what energy is. The worst part is, he doesn’t remember how much he is complaining because he has dementia.
He’s addicted to a narrative about himself. I know “duh, that’s all he can remember,” but it’s interesting to me because of who I know him to be. Whether or not his big fish stories are true is up for further discovery, but my grandpa has always loved to animate and imitate all his many altercations. He has prided himself on being strong and working hard his entire life- since he was six years old. He likes to watch westerns because that is the perfect male archetype for him. No fears, no tears, always in control, gets the gal, tip the hat, end scene.
Sometimes, I just watch the program with him or listen to it while I do the dishes. It’s nostalgic for me because I grew up with a lot of old people all around and their longing for younger days was a fixture in every conversation. They told me I’d miss being young when I wasn’t anymore, but honestly, I don’t think I ever gave myself the real opportunity to enjoy the innocence of being young. I modeled after my elders who appeared to have pretty much everything figured out, which meant a lot of exploring and conquering but not much time sitting and assessing. I’m only just learning how to take a backseat and observe life like a child. I’m only just learning there really never were any adults in the room.
So to laminate some sort of over-arching message, the following are a few lessons that my grandpa’s dementia on westerns has taught me:
- Slow down
You don’t see that cowboy crippling offset because his groin was spread across a mare’s bareback for 8 hours of filming. You don’t see him drink himself to sleep because all of his friends just want him for his money. Dale Robertson doesn’t exist in constant pain and the only thing he takes from a woman is a warm meal and her heart. Charming, isn’t he? Grandpa, on the other hand, has none of that left. He can hardly stand without wobbling and he isn’t used to that. He isn’t used to being able to be a man without being the most quintessential caricature of masculine physique. His thoughts come out as impulsive and angry because he recognizes his limitations. If we never slow down to listen to our body, we never learn to speak its language. Rather than just trying to plow through feeling bad, mentally or physically, it’s best to pause and reflect. There’s a reason for the disruption and addressing it in the moment prevents further complications. Maybe that style of man he idolized was always terribly unrealistic and he would have been better off incorporating other male archetypes into the mix. Maybe I could finish some of my great plans if I slowed down to execute them instead of researching other things I want to do in the middle of the night. - Listen
Another result of my grandfather’s epitome of male excellence is that it implies an audience. This level of stoicism is difficult to maintain without an observer mind present and it appears to me that grandpa does a lot outsourcing of his feelings. He often says “I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I’m just saying…” which honestly tells me that he has some expectation for me to feel sorry for him. I’m not saying he hopes that I do but he just thinks I do. But I don’t. I am looking for what I can learn from his suffering but I can’t really tell him that. So I -more or less- listen to the same ten stories, peppered with the same declarations of pain and agony, whilst making direct eye-contact and expressing my sympathy. I recognize that is literally all I can do. Frankly, more people need the space to do so comfortably and even though my grandpa has this manly-man persona, he does allow that to take a time-out every now and then. Dr. Jekyll only presents when the coast is clear, as Mr. Hydes have become all too common now that everyone has their guard up, constantly. The real messages come to light once the showman steps away and after the self-aggrandizing propaganda has been delivered. The truth of our condition only comes to light when we sit with the internal light and listen without interrupting. - Surrender
My grandpa’s mental software loops. His thinking brain still tries to make sense of all of this. His body is begging him to surrender. His dementia constantly reminds us that he “can’t remember shit” and that “old age is hell”. I can’t really disagree with him after having spent enough time around him the past few months. Even in his defeat, he refuses to surrender to the realization of not being able to pick when he goes. There are times when I really sympathize and listen to him talk openly about how he “isn’t going to commit suicide but he’s ready to die”. The final transformation is so sweet he can taste it but he wants it too bad to get it. I find this is true for every situation in life, the old hold on loosely but don’t let go, if you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control (38 Special, 1981). In my stage of life, surrendering to the unknown is also a transformative decision, and the death of an old way of being. Best to get comfortable with not being able to have any control over life and the only way to do that is to stay familiar with the thought pattern. I surrender to the unknown now, and at the hour of my death.
It occurred to me that the three lessons I listed are the real antidote to a lot of mental health conditions we find ourselves in these days. The cycling of dementia allowed for me to notice the pattern that is pervasive in society. We demonize our weaknesses instead of allowing them to be strengths through vulnerability. We want our weaknesses to not exist because we don’t want to face them because we don’t want to be known for them because we don’t want people to exploit them. Another side of this coin is developing an over-inflated ego around the weakness in some attempt to strengthen the weakness and give power to it. A victim mentality is a slippery slope to fall down as it is just another inspiring plot to follow and develop and relive. Not necessarily a bad thing, just ultimately a little toxic for me to keep revisiting in my mind’s eye.
I know the pain of feeling worthless. I know the gut-wrenching ache of not having anyone to talk to when you just need to know you are seen. I’ve experienced it through my grandpa’s eyes and I’ve felt it myself in fear, selfishness, and a need for comfort. Our conditions ultimately are not all that different. I suffered from co-dependency for a long time and his dementia presents with a lot of the same symptoms. Facing them through his eyes is not comfortable but it’s a new perspective. The fact that I can be open to that experience tells me that somewhere inside his mind is the ability to think this that I’m thinking, this feminine acceptance.
The problem for him is that he didn’t discover this realm of collective thought before slipping into this condition and now his brain and body speak different languages, run at different paces, and constantly fight each other over who is in charge. He looks for challenges in his physical world so he doesn’t have to face the challenging reality he’s become aware of in his lack of control. As the saying goes, we are what we continue to do. Make sure it is something sustainable and agreed upon by mind, body, and spirit.
