My 91-year-old father-in-law has always had a terror of hospitals. This dates from his time as a Royal Marine when, just after the second world war, he was infected with polio by a contaminated needle. The first he knew of it was when a visiting dignitary came on board ship and he was unable to lift his arm in salute. Ever since, he made it very clear that he doesn’t want to go to a hospital under any circumstances, ever.
But last week he was admitted to A&E with a high temperature and I didn’t fret for one moment that he’d be alarmed. Why? He’s got late-stage dementia. He’s forgotten that he was ever frightened of needles or men in white coats. In fact, he rather enjoys the kind attention of the nurses.
Dementia gets a lot of flak, but it has its advantages. These are not inconsiderable. At a time of life when moving around can be difficult, little things can entertain, then entertain again. And again. A friend’s mother adored racing, so he recorded the Derby for her and she watched it, rapt, every afternoon, never knowing which horse would win. Old quarrels are forgotten. My father-in-law spent the past 50 years being cross with my saintly husband, with whom he was in farming partnership: now he’s all sweetness. He was livid when we proposed, a few years ago, that it was time for him to stop driving, but the rage is gone.
One elderly couple I knew lived in disharmony for decades. The wife did everything she could to keep her husband at arm’s length — until she got dementia and forgot that she couldn’t stand him. By the time she died, she was a devoted wife, to her husband’s delight and considerable surprise.
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