6 April 2025
Aged 19, I had never met anyone with dementia, or, at least, known by me to have dementia. I had met elderly people who lived in a residential home run by my then girlfriend’s parents, although my contact was very limited. I had little family, only an elderly grandmother who, again, I had very limited contact with. She was surly, miserly and just plain miserable, so I avoided prolonged contact. She seemed to have all her marbles. So to be thrust on to a ward that had two men with the diagnosis who were admitted for“assessment” came as a shock to the system, as this was far beyond my experience.
Charlie was a 56 year-old with a provisional diagnosis of pre-senile dementia. He was a pleasant, amiable chap with a ready smile and a “thumbs up”. Dressed in shirt, tie, V-necked short sleeved sweater and always in pyjama trousers, he wandered the ward picking things up, searching cupboards or looking into rooms. His speech was hard to decipher, but fairly limited to stock phrases – “good morning” (it was after lunch), “alright Bill?” (not my name). On my first day Charlie was incontinent of urine in the middle of the day room. I had little idea of what to do. The charge nurse instructed me to mop up the pool of urine with a towel and then walk Charlie round to the bathroom, wash him and provide a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms. Up until that moment the only penis I had ever seen or touched had been my own. He was a pleasant, easy natured chap, which made it easier to follow him about, distract him or supervise him at mealtimes. His lack of memory took a bit of getting used to – each day I would have to introduce myself, he would reply “nice to see you again, BILL” and then ask where his wife was, something which was a constant at the forefront of his mind. The other patients were very tolerant of him and would often call out if he looked as if he needed the toilet, or, on occasions where he left the ward, they would alert us or retrieve him.
I saw Charlie some months later after he had been transferred downstairs to the geriatric ward. He seemed far more confused, had lost weight and was no longer the easy-going man I had first encountered. He was also being medicated and was drooling down a food-stained pyjama top. He was unshaven and had dirty, long nails. A little while later I heard he had contracted a chest infection and passed away.
Jeremy was a former British Rail engineer from Ashford. He was a young-looking 65 year-old, well dressed and seemingly functioning well. That is until his wife left him in the care of the ward. Within a few days his memory lapses became very evident, he became confused at times and neglected his self-care. On admission he was clean-shaved with Brylcreamed hair neatly combed back. By day three his hair was all over the place, he’d missed bits of his face shaving, lost his glasses and he had buttoned up his shirt wrongly. He had lost his slippers and couldn’t always recall where he had to sleep. His conversation and language were pretty much unaffected and when his wife brought in a working model of a steam train that he had constructed from scratch, he was able to talk about it in great detail. This really puzzled me. Over the next few weeks he became more anxious and agitated. He seemed to have periods of lucidity when he would become rather demanding and aggressive and he was eventually transferred to a geriatric ward. I was told he had vascular dementia.
6 April 2025