He reminds me of my Dad

I see my Dad in my memories now. He's so far gone, mentally, and so far away, physically, that memories are pretty much all that is left. Then one day, I came across Bruce Bane's blog. And, somehow, this stranger's words make me feel closer to my Dad.

Bruce Bane writes the "Living with Dementia" blog. He has the same diagnosis as my father: Frontotemporal lobe Dementia. He is a writer, a poet.

The first post is from Jan. 19, 2010. It's titled "After Church:"

Too many faces
Too many voices
Like a thundering waterfall
Falling on me
And I can’t remember how to swim

This must be how my Dad felt, when we took him to restaurants, amusement parks, anywhere lots of people were gathered.

Bruce writes about the challenge of just thinking, and I imagine my father could identify:

I start to remember something
But it retreats into the distance
Around a corner, out of reach, lost in the mist

He writes about seeing himself in the mirror, something most certainly my father did and, likely, experienced similarly:

The man in the mirror must be me
But there’s something unfamiliar about him
Something I can’t describe
I recognize him, I know him, but only in part
And then I understand
I know him only in part because that’s how I know myself
I am growing more and more unfamiliar with myself

My father's sense of humor would appreciate Bruce's observation of a "positive" about dementia--that of being able to see the same movie twice, three times, even four, and each time experiencing it like it was the first time.

It makes me sad to think about my Dad's situation, to try to understand what he's going through. (I used to say "what he's suffering," but a friend convinced me how that word may not be precise.) Because he's going through this, I feel it my responsibility to try to understand. Bruce helps me do that, even if he chokes me up at the same time.

"I know what I want to say, but can’t seem to get it out," Bruce writes, and I think how awful that must be.

"Gradually it feels like I’m becoming less of who I am," he writes, and I cringe, thinking how apt a description.

Bruce's blog is like messages from my Dad. They are heart-warming and at once heart-breaking. "There will come a day when I will wake up without wondering, without being tempted by feelings," Bruce writes, "the day when dementia is no longer just a part of me, but all of me.”

Read Bruce Bane's blog for yourself.