I’m not sure how much I’ve talked about this on the blog, but my mom (a.k.a. “Mother ”) was diagnosed with dementia about 18 months ago, adding to an already extensive laundry list of other health problems she’s been dealing with for the last several years. Monday was definitely a dementia morning, and this is a recap of that experience.
The best analogy I’ve ever found for dementia is a long, tubular fluorescent lightbulb—specifically, one that’s nearing the end of its life. You know how it goes: some days you flip the switch and you get a steady, consistent glow. Other times, it flickers, goes dark, and recovers at totally random intervals. It might stay dark for a few seconds, a few minutes, or—of course—sometimes you flick the switch and get nothing at all.
That is what life with dementia is like. One moment she is vibrant, lucid, and entirely herself; the next, she can’t recall the names of her own grandchildren. I’ve had many experiences like this, but today was different. Today, it really got to me.
To complicate matters, my mother may well be the most anxious human being I’ve ever met. As a teenager, she witnessed a traumatic event, but her generation wasn’t exactly known for seeking help. They were told to shut up, keep their head down, and move on. The result is a woman who is permanently skittish—seemingly afraid of everything.
It’s hard for me to watch because anxiety is something that runs through our family. I’ve struggled with it, my sister Phred has, my son Ben has, and even some of Gil’s children have dealt with it. We all have issues, but we do the work to manage them. I have a hard time sympathizing with anyone who struggles with anxiety but refuses to get any kind of help for it.
Trying to navigate anxiety and dementia simultaneously is like trying to thread two needles that are spinning in opposite directions. You might catch one, but you’re probably going to miss the other. When you are deep in the throes of it, you never know which issue you’re facing: is it the paralyzing anxiety making her motionless, or is it the dementia causing her memory to blink like that dying lightbulb?
Whether we like it or not, people with dementia take their frustration out on those closest to them. My mother said some horrible things to me today. She accused me of being a habitual liar; she said God knows I’m a liar; she made it sound as if I were destined for hell. It isn’t completely out of character for her to have a sharp tongue, but today? Today, it was her dialed up to 11.
Speaking of finding that right pace, I’ve been unpacking the concept of “Third Gear” all week. It’s the focus of the new episode of Rebuilding Rob: The Podcast dropping this Thursday—where we explore why leadership is less about speed and more about choosing the right tempo for the long haul. Keep an eye out for it.
Rebuilding a life takes grit, consistency, and a lot of ‘Option C’ thinking. Having crossed the 1,000-day milestone, I’m now charting the territory beyond. The mission remains the same: No glitz. Just the work. New to the blog? Start your journey here to see the blueprint and the ‘Tricorder’ perspective behind the rebuild.
Today’s post is inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt. While I’ve taken the topic in my own direction for the Road beyond 1,000 Days, you can find more responses to today’s prompt HERE.
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The article “The flickering fluorescent light bulb” first appeared on Rebuilding Rob.
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