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!