My dad died in January. His last birthday was in August.
It was just horrendous, actually. At that point he was just varying between staring ahead and talking nonsense.
The care home made a cake, the children made cards. He didn’t know what was going on. The only but that made me laugh was when I was handed a bit of cake and he turned to dh and said, “I don’t know that fat cow over there is, but she could do without eating that.” That was the only coherent thing I’d heard him say in months.
I cried for days before abs after. I actually hated that there he was, his third birthday trapped in a living hell, in an even worse state than the year before. I went to church the next day and prayed to god that it would be his last one. I hated it for him.
Dementia is just awful. But what’s worse is people judging family for how they handle it. You would have thought I was the coldest harted bitch over the last three years, but it was a combination of exhaustion for fighting for his care over the tiniest thing and complete and utter grief and sorrow on how that proud, capable man ended up. Ultimately, self preservation had to take over or I wouldn’t be here either right now.
I haven’t read a lot of these replies but I bet some are along the lines of how selfish not to send a card. Sickening, really. I wouldn’t wish having a loved one succumbing to dementia on my worst enemy.