To Take and Give - a poem about dementia

A few years ago, when I was working as a personal trainer I was asked to take on a client, aged in his 50s, who had been diagnosed with and was put into permanent care with frontotemporal dementia.

This wasn’t my traditional line of work but after meeting the client and his wife, I was drawn to the challenge of helping him maintain some level of fitness, mobility and movement, despite the bleak outlook that he would eventually be robbed of these basic human functions.

I met with this client three times a week for half an hour, over the course of about 3 years. During that time I formed a unique relationship with him and the other residents, with whom he was housed, and was given an insight into how unpredictable our life’s journey can be.

The experience was profound and will stay with me forever.

To Take and Give - Naomi Irvin

I met you

when your ability to speak,

had all but left;

Aside from the copy on the occasional real estate sign

that we passed on our slow walks.

You mouthed words

that you still recognised.

Sale.

Renovate.

CBD.

Words that were somehow still able to weave their way through

the diseased mind.

We kicked the soccer ball.

Well,

I kicked.

But at your feet

the ball sat idle

teasing you;

Willing you to spring back to life

to break the shackles

and work the land

and travel the world

and strum a guitar,

play cricket with your sons

and hug your wife.

But the ball sat idle.

Then,

we had to stop our walks.

The bastard thing stole that away too.

I nearly had to carry you once.

All six-feet-four of you,

hunched over all five-foot-two of me.

I dragged you back to the nursing home

and we both collapsed into chairs.

But I got up from my chair.

And you stayed.

That’s how we moved after that.

I wheeled you around town.

Took you on errands,

the butcher, the supermarket.

Once we went to the cenotaph.

We often went past the fire station.

Did it make you angry?

I could never tell.

Your ability to serve,

your longing to be part of a community:

trapped somewhere inside.

And then we stayed.

Others,

Just like you

Wandered,

bewildered

scared

sad

confused

around us.

I massaged your shoulders

And moved your legs.

I tried

to untangle your fisted hands.

Begging the joints to stay pain-free,

Aussie Rock songs playing from my phone.

Ah, Hunters and Collectors

brought an ever so slight

crooked smile to your weary face.

And then,

I had to stay away.

For fear of transmitting what might kill

the already, long-gone.

So, I waited.

I waited for news.

And the news came.

It had finally taken your breath away too.

It had taken a son.

It had taken a brother.

It had taken a husband,

A father.

It had taken a sportsman,

A farmer.

A member of the community.

But it gave me the privilege.

The privilege to know that a person

Can express without expression,

Can speak without speaking,

Can respect without action.

It gave me the privilege

of understanding that life is precious

Dementia is a bastard

And none of us are invincible.