A Year
A year since Rosemarie was admitted to hospital
A year of going to bed alone
A year of waking up alone (somehow worse)
A year of watching the woman I love disintegrate in front of my eyes
A year of making a head-shaped dent in the wall of the world
A year of small victories
This time last year I had no idea how my life would change; I thought it had changed dramatically already. Life is less frantic than this time last year, but hopelessness is its own form of stress.
I fear that for Rosemarie it has been a long, lonely and frightening year. It is almost impossible to know what is going on inside her head, but the sobbing and the agitation tell a fairly unambiguous story. Whatever is going on she is not enjoying it, and I am powerless to do anything about it.
When she was discharged from hospital we were told to think in terms of months not years. So far they are proving to be wrong, but a dark empty part deep inside me wonders at the twisted irony of it.
But every day is precious, even the tearful ones.
The main feeling I am left with is that the country is not remotely ready for the huge increase in the need for dementia care that will happen in the next decade or so. The system is already broken in so many places, and the privatisation of the NHS will make matters a lot worse. You will probably be alright if you are rich, but what kind of health insurance is the ordinary person going to be able to get to cover them against a condition that is going to affect pretty much everyone at some stage in their life, till the end of their life?
The other thing that eats at me is that as this realisation bites there will be a huge increase in the effort by the pharmaceutical companies to come up with drugs that prevent the onset, slow the development or - probably one day - reverse the condition. They will make a fortune.
It will all be too late for the woman I love.
A year of going to bed alone
A year of waking up alone (somehow worse)
A year of watching the woman I love disintegrate in front of my eyes
A year of making a head-shaped dent in the wall of the world
A year of small victories
This time last year I had no idea how my life would change; I thought it had changed dramatically already. Life is less frantic than this time last year, but hopelessness is its own form of stress.
I fear that for Rosemarie it has been a long, lonely and frightening year. It is almost impossible to know what is going on inside her head, but the sobbing and the agitation tell a fairly unambiguous story. Whatever is going on she is not enjoying it, and I am powerless to do anything about it.
When she was discharged from hospital we were told to think in terms of months not years. So far they are proving to be wrong, but a dark empty part deep inside me wonders at the twisted irony of it.
But every day is precious, even the tearful ones.
The main feeling I am left with is that the country is not remotely ready for the huge increase in the need for dementia care that will happen in the next decade or so. The system is already broken in so many places, and the privatisation of the NHS will make matters a lot worse. You will probably be alright if you are rich, but what kind of health insurance is the ordinary person going to be able to get to cover them against a condition that is going to affect pretty much everyone at some stage in their life, till the end of their life?
The other thing that eats at me is that as this realisation bites there will be a huge increase in the effort by the pharmaceutical companies to come up with drugs that prevent the onset, slow the development or - probably one day - reverse the condition. They will make a fortune.
It will all be too late for the woman I love.
posted by Other Kosh at 8:45 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home