Tag Archives: dementia

Lost Child

Murphy sits at Joan’s feet. Her hand finds his head and rests atop. Her fingers find their way through wiry fur to the bony skull beneath to massage his head. Her fingers are smooth and white. The fingers of an old woman … Continue reading

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Doggy Dementia

Just the other day I euthanised a pooch whose owner described him as having doggy dementia. She came in with him clutched to her. He was a sixteen-year-old little white fluffy who spent his days wandering the house, soiling himself … Continue reading

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Doing Tax…

My tax return is late. Horrendously so. And so the later it gets the more I want to put it off. My desk is a mountain of papers and receipts. Looking through the bank statements that I have printed off … Continue reading

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A Nursing Home Christmas

They call it an Aged Care facility these days but in my mind it is still a nursing home. It is nicer than the homes my mother took us to when, as children, we were visiting elderly relatives. Two of … Continue reading

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Cut up RAC card

I find my Dad’s wallet amongst some things I bring home from the nursing home. How he treasured his wallet. How frustrated he would become by not having it, in the end. No matter that he didn’t need it. I … Continue reading

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This Knife Ain’t Sharp Enough

My Dad is back in the hospital. His remaining penis is like a bloated poorly-cooked pork sausage. I am reminded of a neighbour beyond the pickets whose favourite children’s party game was called pork sausage. The children would be in … Continue reading

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At My Father’s Bedside

While I wait at my father’s bedside I read Cormac McCarthy’s first book, The Orchard Keeper, published in 1965, the year after I was born.  It is a bit of a vigil. There is something peaceful about watching the shadows … Continue reading

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Jasper and Goong Goong on Dying

When Jasper was about seven years old and his Goong Goong was already in his eighties we sat talking of death and dying. Jasper said the worst way to go would be wart failure. He qualifies the statement – you … Continue reading

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In the One Boat

One day when I visit Dad in hospital he asks me if Mum has divorced him. If not, why is she not here? No communication, he says. You’re not divorced Dad. She’s just up the street at the nursing home. … Continue reading

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Days with my Father

I had trouble with jobbies, he says. Even now as a woman in my late forties, my father using this word irks me. But there are no good words for it. Not my mother’s favoured expression inquiring about the opening … Continue reading

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