Dementia and the periodic table

As my parents age, my fear is that one or both will develop dementia.  There’s a saying that the fear of an event is much worse than the event itself occurring.  But dementia is an exception. I’ve listened to heart-wrenching stories from children who have cared for demented parents; the slow decline of their memories, the loss of spirit, the greed of others who can fleece them of cash and treasured possessions, the fatigue that develops while caring for them and when that is no longer possible, the tortuous and often delayed decision to admit them to a home.

     My father prides himself on his memory and ability to problem solve.  At 75 he is still consulting in chemistry, nationally and overseas.  If I have questions about anything scientific, I simply call him.  It’s easier than using the internet and the explanations are more thorough and at the same time, user-friendly for idiots like myself. 

     I call him The Scientist.  He lives and breathes science in his scientific world.  We children grew up being lectured to about the wonders of science, particularly chemistry.

     At my seventh birthday party, he gave a demonstration to my awe-struck friends and pretended to be a child playing in the shed with chemicals.  He poured liquid into a beaker and added different drops from different pipettes.  Each addition of drops changed the colour of the liquid from clear to blue to green to red.

     "Then," he said wide-eyed and theatrical, "my mother calls for me, 'Jooohn' (he said this in an embarrassingly high-pitched voice) but I can't let her see what I am doing.  It's too dangerous for a little boy."  He pulls out a new pipette.  "I'm in here, Mum." Dad added drops from the new pipette and the red liquid became colourless.

     He reverted to the voice of his mother.  "John, what are you doing in here?"

     He held up the beaker of what now appeared to be water.  "Just having a drink of water, Mum."

     My friends clapped their hands and bounced on their tippy toes, thrilled by the performance.  I was cringing against the far corner of the room, convinced I had the most embarrassing father in the universe.  Of course, I knew of the universe because The Scientist had delivered quite a few lectures about the solar system, constellations, eclipses, planetary orbits, gravity and so on.  I knew the universe was much bigger than the world so my situation was truly desperate.
     The Scientist tutored me through junior high school science and later, Maths B and C and Chemistry (I traded Physics for French at the beginning of year 12, unable to tolerate so much science in my life).

     It's the periodic table that has featured most prominently in my life.

     It is plastered on quite a few household items such as mugs, tea towels and the shower curtain (I think he is on his third periodic table shower curtain!).  The shower curtain is a hoot and often commented on by visitors.  It faces in to the shower recess so while you are showering, you can brush up on reciting the 118 elements of the periodic table, their atomic weights and whether they are alkali metals, alkaline earth metals, noble gases and so on.  I’ve never forgotten the first 20 elements I learnt in 1981, probably because I revise them in the shower at the farm, and more so, when The Scientist checks my understanding of a chemical equation or molecular weight or joke.  Here was the last one.  And much to The Scientist’s pride, I worked it out.

     If The Scientist ever forgets the correct order of the elements of the periodic table, dementia will be to blame.  It’s something I fear yet know is probable if a scientific approach is taken – the longer one lives, the longer organs, cells and chemical and electrical processes have to deteriorate.  I want to spend as much time with Dad, and Mum, of course, as possible because they are, after all, in the winter of their lives.

     So last Saturday I went to the farm to help The Scientist with some window cleaning (yes, quite a few chemistry-based discussions on the appropriate substance to clean windows because Windex was too pedestrian!)

     After a couple of hours of back-breaking and wrist-wrenching work, I’d taken a break from cleaning and accompanied Dad on a drive to check the electric fences.  After returning, I had a cup of tea while he showered.  I was trying to motivate myself to tackle the next couple of hours of window washing.

     Then I heard it.  The Scientist muttering … to himself.  I leaned in toward the monotone, like someone reciting the lines of a play.  At that moment, I knew dementia had arrived. 

     I clear my throat of the lump of fear that had lodged like a razor blade.  “Dad, who are you talking to?”

     “Myself.”

     I knew it. Only people with dementia would be so honest about starring in a soliloquy in their bathroom.

     “Why are you talking to yourself?”  It was a stupid question to ask someone who obviously wouldn't know.  I was panicked and speaking without thinking.

     “I am learning the elements of the periodic table backwards.”

     I love having a fear of dementia.  It’s much preferable to the alternative.  Next time I visit The Scientist, I’ll time-test him on how fast and accurately he can recite the periodic table in reverse and start a record of PBs! 

Grrr!

Mum found these wild shoes at the op shop, each pair a steal at $1.  The gum boots are a size 8 and the brand new Diana Ferarri flats are a size 10.  They both fit me perfectly. I have size 9 feet!

A story told mostly in photos

One Sunday afternoon, I found myself quite unexpectedly and unpreparedly with nothing to do; no lessons to plan (I'd done them), no tax stuff to do (because I simply avoided it), Seffy was glued to a DVD nipple (The Vampire Diaries) and Tony and Kibby were in Cairns (Peninsula Sports).  

     And my mother had just delivered an old bath she'd purchased from the Atherton dump.  

Pepper Zen needed a new bath. For too long she'd been swimming in a small, blue tub.  She was not happy.

The site for the new bath is prepared by my geotechnical engineers and council permissions applied for and approved.  Fortunately there were no objections from members of the public.

The foundation is prepared and the bath is fixed into place.  The experienced site engineer supervises the construction of the new bath.

A few of the highly technical tools of trade!

The client is very pleased with the final inspection and handover.
"I wanna get in.  Now!"

"Well, I'll just come back later."

The hydro-engineer monitors the filling procedure.
"Now I feel like I am being watched."

"It feels so good to have a swim and be clean."

"This is so relaxing."

"This is so, so relaxing."

"I could just nod off."

"That's enough.  You're embarrassing me."

 

This construction complies with National Minimum Standards for poultry safety ...

... is aesthetically pleasing and maintains personal privacy.

Confession from a sporting dunce

I don’t understand sport.  Never have.  Never will.  When sport comes up in conversation, I usually drift off or politely leave the room.  I know I am unAustralian, I am ignorant and I am stubborn because I refuse to engage.  

     Of course, I'm not stupid. I understand there are sporting seasons yet last week, a student mentioned ashes while we were working on spelling.  The poor dear hadn't grasped the concept of plurals.

     “Ash?” I said, confused.  “Why are you talking about ash?”

     “Miss,” said the young man in a patronising tone, “The Ashes is a cricket game.”

     “Der,” I said wondering why he was talking about The Ashes in August when it’s a game played in summer.  He needed to be focused on spelling.  “Okay, let me check your spelling.”

     Oh, I know about The Ashes.  The Christmas holidays of my youth were spoilt by cricket. We travelled from New Guinea to Australia for the holidays and it should have been an exciting time; reconnecting with relatives, seeing new sights and doing things we couldn't do in PNG.  But there was cricket ... for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  It dominated every TV screen (we didn't have TV in PNG).  Cricket was televised at relatives’ houses where we stayed during our travels, in hotel rooms, in fish and chip shops as we stopped to buy lunch or dinner.  Everywhere.  Cricket was even on the TVs in the windows of electrical appliance stores.  That messed with my mind, seeing not just one screen, but numerous ones stacked on top of each other, all playing the same scene - always a wide-angled shot - the expansive pitch, the batsman bent like an old man leaning on his walking stick, the fielders who seemed to wander around aimlessly, spectators frying in the summer heat.  I look back and wonder how many malignant skin cancers grew during those summer matches. The only good thing about appliance store TVs screening cricket was the absence of volume.  My skin still crawls at the thought of the tinny male voice (always male), the cheers rising to a crescendo when someone hit a big one and then a moment’s silence until the tinny voice started on again.

These images remind me of a string of boring Christmas holidays.

So much time wasted waiting around while my family put summer cricket first.

      Mostly I drifted off or read or drew.  The Ashes was synonymous with endless and boring Christmas holidays.

     So it was surprising my mother should mention The Ashes less than 24 hours after my young student.  I’d called in to my mother's place on my way to school.  She was rugged up in front of one of those morning news shows with unimaginative names like Day Break or Sun Rise.

     “Oh, Cath,” said Bubu, her voice full of tragedy.  “Did you hear about The Ashes?”

     Immediately I thought of a match fixing scandal that had been busted before the next season.  Worse, there was a terror plot that would put hundreds of thousands of lives at risk.

     “What’s happened?”

     “We were all out for 60 before lunch,” said Bubu.  Her expression of despair told me whatever these code words stood for, it was terminal.  She continued.  “Julie Bishop was asked if their visas should be cancelled and she said they should all go home and face the music.”

     I wondered why the foreign minister was weighing in on a summer game of cricket.  And honestly, visas for Australians?

     “Bubu,” I said in a tone similar to my student the day before.  “Australians don’t need visas to be in Australia.”

     Now it was Bubu’s turn to be patronising.  “Catherine, the Australians are in Britain playing The Ashes.”

     Obviously, the risk of skin cancer during the Australian summer had proved too high.  Sometime in the last three decades the game had been moved to England where there is barely a solar glow during summer.  My mother’s expression suggested I should leave for school.  
     I don’t understand sport.  Never have.  Never will.