Out of four siblings on my mother's side, ALL FOUR after their father have or had came down with Alzheimer's. Word got to me recently of my aunt's passing, as if I wasn't freaked out enough over dementia already. I'm almost 50 with a long history of depression, anxiety and self-loathing, plus god knows how many other unresolved issues; on top of all that, I'm really worried that before too long my mental faculties may well start living on borrowed time. And as well-meaning as it may be to say 'chin up, it may never happen', the image of my mother, gaunt but clinging to life for years in a care home while being utterly dead inside, has continually haunted me. But I eventually rationalised that bar any other conditions, should the worst be passed down I still have a good fifteen years left will no ill-effects.
At least I did, until Monday.
Barely a week after the previous news, I get the call that my mother has now reached the Alzheimers end-of-life stage, no longer being able to physically swallow. And nobody EVER wants a loved one to go in the worst drawn-out way imaginable, literally starving to death because there's not enough left to properly function. I always thought, selfishly, that when the end came it would be some form of relief.
I went through the paranoia meltdown phase the last time, so that at least didn't happen again... but it isn't. At all.
Positive thinking is no benefit at this moment, it's been tossed right in the river like a sack of unwanted kittens. To coin a Dark Souls phrase, I've turned hollow. Right now apart from the doldrums there's nothing else left to feel. I know other people care. I only wish I had the energy and ability to.