Recently at a Dementia conference I made a remark that the current model of dementia care was Dickensian in its view. I also added that I had added the “ensian” post fix to polite.
My view of the works of Mr Dickens is of pretty depressing world. But recent reflection leads me to add a new comment.
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A “Poem” 14 Billion Years in the Making
Drifting for long ages until,
Brought together to ignite a starry furnace.
One of number, beyond count.
Then bursting out in a cosmic explosion
Casting light across the void
Drifting on wings of light,
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Language is a wonderful thing. It has raised us up to the pinnacle of the animal kingdom and has come hand in hand with our intelligence. It gives voice to our thoughts and allows us to externalise our memory and to give our ideas and memories a life beyond our bodies and our mortality.
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Some time ago (in the 70’s) I read a short story in a Science Fiction Anthology that featured an entity that described itself as a “non-referent”. The theme of this story (the author and the book are long lost to me) has stayed with me for years. In essence this being could only exist as itself,
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In order to tell my story, for you or anyone to better understand me as I am now, I need to tell my past and to share the events that have shaped my life.
I think with us all, an event as it occurs may have little direct impact –
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The Gift
I have been given a great gift. Something denied to most people, or dragged away with false promises. The gift my disease has given me is the real promise of a finite death. No false promise of a cure but the solid promise of an end. It will not be an enjoyable experience and it may drag on for a long time,
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