Endings

This is a poem about dementia, about my mother, about the curse which removes the persona and leaves just an emptiness. There is still a glimmer of smiles sometimes, some happy moments, but this is trully a grim and terrible way to die.

And yet, as the Methodist Minister Christopher Collins said, I think this true: "When I looked at my own mother, did I see a person whom I still affirmed through my relationship or did I see a non-person? Surely my answer must be that I see a person, because I am still in relationship with her, and nothing can diminish that."

Postmodernity has not shifted the assumption that life was meant to be perfect and thus the biggest problem for religious belief remains the issue of arbitrary suffering. Theological speculation about dementia has been surprisingly sparse. 

For the most part, these people remain in care homes, forgotten by the clergy and congregation who have such busy lives, and if that seems unduly harsh, I am sorry. Collins I think is wholly right when he says: "the church must move beyond the idea that ‘success’ in our relationships is measured by certain signs of recognition and participation."

This is a poem which ends on a very bleak moment. But that is not an ending. It is a challenge.

Endings

When I look into your eyes, tired, sad,
I see all the emptiness, time so bad,
Taking away a sharp clarity of mind,
Leaving just shards. It is so unkind
That all you were just fades away,
As the dusk creeps in after day;
The light fading, the sunset falls,
So that you cannot hear our calls;
Smiling sometimes, but so lost,
This a price sometimes, the cost
Of memory as a mirror fragment:
The broken glass, as you just went,
Away leaving only a pale shadow,
Of who you were, a fading glow,
A shuttering candle in the night,
As you softly vanish from our sight;
And so I ask myself, as time goes by,
And I am honest, and cannot lie,
When I look into your eyes, tired,
Do I see a future, of myself retired?
Reflected in that often vacant face,
Losing all dignity, hope, and grace;
Yet this is for many of us, our fate,
Come the night, come dreaded date,
The limelight, before a curtain call,
The self, diminished, made small,
And just losing the ability to cope:
Into a dark wood, abandon hope;
As we make a journey into death,
Oh cruel world, our final breath.