Dementia

As with most people in the art industry, I have another job other than the blissful creation of my art. I work for a man with dementia. For the purposes of this writing I will call him Robert. Robert is an artist and, by all accounts, brilliant. Unfortunately, I've only known him after dementia, AD. (He is sitting with me right now). In many ways he is like a child except where a child learns knew things Robert unlearns old things. For instance, he often cannot remember how to say he has to go to the bathroom and if I ask, "do you have to go to the bathroom?" he looks at me like I'm speaking in tongues. He still draws from an extensive vocabulary though so he might say, "No, that's not it. I need to defecate," or urinate, or he'll say he needs to take material (an artist word) out of his body. My favorite was when he said "...small brown - some a little bigger," all the while showing me the size and shape with his hands (some round, some oval). Then, patting his butt, he said he needed to get them out. He speaks of these necessities completely soberly and without the slightest embarrassment. When I take him to his room for an afternoon nap he sometimes acts like a really sweet little boy, eagerly hopping into bed, pulling the covers to his chin and closing his eyes, pretending to have fallen asleep really fast. Today he couldn't leave the sight of the mirror. When I asked if he wanted a nap he said yes but, "I have my friend here." I told him that it was his reflection in the mirror and he said, "Yes, the mirror person. He's great, he's funny. He's really interesting." Of course he is Robert, he's you. Then he said that he would sleep way over to one side of the bed to accomodate the mirror person.