Dementing in London

Author’s note: Dementing in London is the first chapter of my book ‘From dementia to adventure, which explains my reasons for travelling to Peru.
You can take a look at the full index of chapters or dive straight into the jungle chapter called By boat to Iquitos. I revisited this writing recently because I was missing travelling and decided to publish a few chapters to see if others might enjoy some vicarious travelling by reading about Peru in a previous era. I put my life in London on hold, which included working with people with dementia, to take a career break in Peru. The two-month journey took place during August and September of 2001 and involved the lone circumnavigation of an enchanting country. This chapter shares my experience of working with people living with Dementia in London.
I should have gone the other way. The white van man in front of me obviously hasn’t a clue where he’s going or where he is. London seems to be swarming with these white vans; do they not come in any other colour? Or have I just associated white with frustration and filtered out the rest? I’m sorry but today there is nothing celestial about white for me, it doesn’t ring bells of peace in a harmonious world, it is the symbol of another annoying driver on the streets of London getting in my way. Driving in London would test the patience of a saint. I would like to give the Dalai Lama or some other spiritually in-tune demigod the challenge of staying loving and giving to others when immersed in the fusion of London traffic jams. I can’t wait to get away. The Andes are calling. I try to calm myself down and focus on the task at hand as I pull up outside the house.
My work in London is challenging as I support people that have dementia, a cruel destructive illness. The illness is commonly associated with older people and many older people do have the illness but today I am going to visit a man of fifty-five years of age. No age really. The consultant psychiatrist has asked me to see him because he has recently diagnosed him as having Dementia of the Alzheimer’s type and needs support. The charity I work for has a good reputation and my job has over the last two years enabled me to really make a difference in people’s lives. I’ve filled shelves, mopped up blood and dug holes in the rain for a living but this job and recent times have been the most rewarding. However, the days don’t go past easily. I look at the referral letter from the doctor, which contains very little information. I try to forget the stress of the journey and compose myself as I knock on the door.
“Hi, you must be Neil?”
“Yes, we spoke on the phone.”
“Please come in I will just go and get him.” And the plump motherly lady disappears up the stairs after ushering me into an immaculate living room. It’s in these void moments that I feel much like an estate agent surveying the room trying to pick up information about the owners and their lives.
“Ah Mr. Down good afternoon, how are you today?” I ask not wanting to say; hi I’m here to assess you.
“Struggling,” he answers in a matter-of-fact way. Mr. Down is smartly dressed and like the room is pristine in appearance.
“That’s partly why I am here. Your doctor has asked me to come and talk to you because…”
“…Because he says I’ve got Alzheimer’s.”
“Well yes.” We look at each other straight in the eye without saying anything for a few seconds and I can feel his wife looking at me and I try not to look at her because I know that she is about to burst into tears.
“Is there a cure?” Both of these strangers are now hanging on to my next words and they never get easier to say no matter how they are dressed up.
“No…but there are many things you can do to help yourself as time goes on.” The air in the room feels dark despite the sun streaming through the nets. We spend the next two hours together talking about things that are truly helpful and about arrangements that need to be made. None of us really want to be sitting here having these conversations but we are. I am proud of Mr. Down, an engineer by trade, who is doing his best to face up to his devastating news and talks refreshingly openly about his problems. He has the sort of courage that I can only hope to have if fate ever brings me to a similar situation.
“I won’t let it beat me you know.” He says to me with a clenched fist as we walk out to the front door.
“Good on ya,” I say as I wave to my new friends and resume the running battle on the road.
After four strangely uplifting yet harrowing and sad visits to people in the various grips of dementia, I am glad to be home. On the mat is a letter, which looks promising and I tear it open. It’s my flight ticket to Peru. You beauty, I scream to everyone and no one and proceed to jump around the room punching the air.
The big day is almost here. I scan my tickets and check they are all there. My first flight is to Newark in New York and then three days later I fly to Jorge Chavez in Lima, the capital of Peru.
For me, my journey has in a funny way already started and if I look back it started a while ago. In some way it is like the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, you know that it has been happening for some time but you can’t say exactly when it started. The beginnings were certainly a few months back when I started to plan the idea of going to Peru. How would I get enough time off work? Where would I find the money? What would I do about the flat? Would I sell my car? The inspiration came even further back when I was in the rainforests of the Blue Mountains in Australia. That day was my most memorable in Australia and for the first time, I had realised why my Geography teacher at college had been so passionate about the deforestation of the rainforests.
But all the planning is nearly over. I have read just about every book I can lay my hands on about Peru and I’m so excited and petrified that I can’t think what month I am in let alone the date as I check my tickets. In less than two weeks time I will be in Peru. On my own. For two months. Journeying around the strange and wonderful land that I have read and thought so much about. The thought of being in Peru has kept me going these last few months. During or after stressful days I would let my mind wander off to my dreamland and envisage myself wandering beneath tall trees sweating from the humidity of the forest. Or alone in my bed feeling sorry for myself I would see myself climbing my mountain and being chased by mystic mountain clouds. I am as well prepared as I can be and now I just need to go. I try not to let the fears of lone travel enter my mind and I am ready for all that Peru can offer me. Now, this is living.
Join me as I navigate the jungle with the locals in the chapter called By boat to Iquitos. Or click one of the links below for some of my recent writing.
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