Have you ever thought about whether you’d prefer that your brain or your body go first? I know this sounds ghoulish, but since I’m a caregiver, a Gerontologist and a Personal Trainer, I think about such things. I’ve even asked my friends to weigh in on this Hobson’s choice. While most have opted to keep their gray matter, my preference is to maintain my physical health at the expense of my brain synapses. Allow me to explain.
My dad, who just celebrated his 94th birthday, has been afflicted with vascular dementia for a dozen years or more. While he has also declined physically, his body has held up remarkably well. It wasn’t until last year that he became acquainted with a wheelchair. He almost never catches a virus and is pain free. While he’s given us a few death scares, his feline genes keep saving him. Dad’s mind is definitely leading the charge to the pearly gates. Oftentimes I think St. Peter has already welcomed him and all that remains is the physical shell.
My rich caregiving experiences have given me plenty of opportunity to observe and analyze the effects of dementia on my dad’s persona. I’ve come to the surprising conclusion that my dad’s quality of life in his declining years would have been worse had he maintained his razor sharp intellect.
My “real Dad” was a very private, impeccably dressed, cultured, self-sufficient man. He was also a loner, given to angry outbursts and, and, at five feet soaking wet, suffered from a Napoleon complex. His worldview was that he had gotten the “shit end of the stick,” as a child. He delighted in recounting stories of deprivation involving never having a bicycle or learning how to swim. The capper was that while his sister was able to enjoy on campus life at Princeton, he was relegated to commuting to the University of Rochester. My efforts to point out the impact of the Great Depression, or the fact that his sister was awarded a scholarship, were met with derision.
As my dad’s dementia progressed, these tales of woe were trotted out less frequently and the chip on his shoulder became less firmly embedded. He even started to welcome visits from my brother, with whom he’d previously had a contentious tit-for-tat relationship. He smiled more, seemed less depressed and joked around with the staff. An attractive 20-something was able to cajole him to get on his feet and dance. He now willingly participates in arts & crafts projects. The other day, I even caught him mixing ingredients to make chocolate brownies.
This is all very refreshing and undeniably attributable to Dad’s brain disease, which prevents him from dwelling on past hurts, focusing on his physical ailments, or holing up in his bedroom. If he realized that he is now living communally with a bunch of “old ladies” (his characterization), confined to a wheelchair, and participating in girlie activities, he’d be disconsolate.
So that’s why I’d rather lose my marbles than my legs. What are your druthers?
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