Understanding Dementia and Alzheimer's Disease

I'm not black... I'm brown... But that's just my opinion.

My most memorable (in that I cannot forget it) encounter with racism was several years ago whilst I was volunteering at the local veterinary surgery. I was playing the role of receptionist and assisting an elderly (OK, I’m going to identify him by colour) WHITE gentleman. He seemed really friendly and just before he left he casually said, “You speak really good English for a black person.” I probably just blushed and mumbled something as he walked away because back then I wasn't quick and witty enough to think of a clever response that would have made him feel as bad as he made me feel (I’m still not good at that). However, in the past years I have thought of many responses, none of them gracious or Christian or exemplary of the perfect little angel I am supposed to aspire to be (I think that ship sailed a long time ago, I’m far from an angel, I’ve accepted that. I try though, and then I get tired). I will share with you one of them however. It goes something like this- 

 “Where have you been living, under a rock? Come on man, the war ended many years ago, segregation and racism are things of the past! Expect us all to be equals now. Why are you surprised that I can speak English?”

But I digress. I am fortunate to have grown up in a society where I have had just about the same opportunities as anyone else, unlike my parents, but somehow there is still this inward discomfort. We may all, in theory, have the same opportunities in life, but I feel like this is something forced, not something effortless and natural like it is meant to be. For example, people should be employed in a company because they are qualified for the job, not because of their race of even their gender. But on the other hand psychology says that a white employer is more likely to hire someone because they are white or because they are male as they deem this more advantageous.

As much as we must celebrate our differences and learn from each other I sometimes wish that humans were colour blind with no way of telling what race their neighbour is, just to see what would happen. Would it still be a big deal that Obama is ‘black’? Would white American police officers feel the uncontrollable urge to point firearms at ‘black’ males and pull the trigger several times? Would that old white man feel the need to commend my good English skills? Would interracial couples be a hot gossip topic? I doubt it.

Now to address the actual title of this rant- I understand that it is necessary to use ones skin colour for easy identification. Say you got robbed and the police asked you what the suspect looked like-

“Oh he was tall, brown curly hair...”

“Was he white, coloured, black?”

“Oh I can’t tell you that that would be racist!”

Truly I understand its necessity. But I just can’t help but inwardly cringe when someone, especially someone who isn’t, says ‘black’ in reference to a person. I am not saying that these people are to blame or that it is racist, I understand fully that this may be my personal and irrational pet peeve. I think the root of the problem is that in the past we were referred to a black people and were mistreated and looked down upon by none-black people. Now we are still referred to as black people but not openly mistreated as in the past. The bad connotations that come with the word black have followed us to the present. I can’t help but feel that this word has negative connotations. Think of something good that is black. Black is associated with darkness which is associated with evil, deceit, crime, sin etc. There is the black market, the black plague, black, black, black, black, black.

“Wow, Obama is president and he is black! Well done black people!”

It is sort of patronizing. I understand that the word black is easier than saying ‘person of colour’ but actually there is no such thing as a ‘black’ person. I am brown; there is chocolate brown, toffee brown, caramel etc. In the same way there is no such thing as a white person (unless he/she is extremely pale at which point I suggest medical attention), also, what colour is ‘coloured’ exactly? Green is a coloured colour isn't it? Indians are referred to as Indians, so should Africans be referred to as Africans? But then how can you distinguish between a white African and a black African? Oops there it is again, colour.

There really is no conclusion to this piece. All I’m saying is that I’d prefer to be called brown than black.  I am a brown person... If you MUST identify me by colour. 

GOD- "HE-WHO-DOES-NOT-EXIST"

“I was the accuser, and God the accused. My eyes were open and I was alone- terribly alone in a world without God and without man. Without love or mercy. I have ceased to be anything but ashes. Yet I felt myself to be stronger than the Almighty, to whom my life had been tied for so long.” 

~Elie Wiesel

Although my suffering, if I may be so bald as to call it that, cannot compare to that of Wiesel, a man who lived through Hitler’s Jewish concentration camps, I claim his words for my own for I too was once the accuser and God the accused.

I have said, on several occasions, that God does not exist. For how could He, when there is such pain and suffering in this world? Sure, He is not the one who causes the pain but surely He is mighty enough to hear the cries and moans and prayers of those in pain and the agonizing sound of a heart breaking- for it is seldom that a heart in excruciating pain can tear apart silently. Surely, I have thought, a God who is alive would hear the millions of prayers from a family in hurt praying for a miracle. Surely, a God who exists would not let a man who has done nothing but work hard all his life and followed Him completely die. Yes, everyone must die! But a God-fearing man surely deserves no less than an honorable death! Not a death which takes years, not one that takes away a man’s most precious memories one by one, surely not a death that reduces him to a child-like state!

But if such a man who serves God, is unfortunate enough to come upon such debilitating circumstances as is dementia then surely a God who is alive would hear the prayers prayed over the years, getting more desperate, and surely this God would see the efforts of a heartbroken family for their head to be healed. So, surely, if this thing that calls Himself God sees and hears all this He need only to raise His mighty hand and correct the situation. If, as the scriptures say, God is the same yesterday, today and forever then surely He could have healed Alzheimer’s as easily as he healed a leper. After the unanswered prayers and after the funeral, I, indeed, was the accuser, and God the accused.

God does not exist, yet, I continue to spell His name with a capital letter. God does not exist and yet I am comforted by the knowledge of a healthy and whole honorable man in heaven who perhaps (in my child-like yearnings) looks out for me from his vantage point up there. GOD DOES NOT EXIST and yet I feel ashamed at the very thought of myself trying to fool myself into believing something I know is not true. When I am scared I run to Him, and when I have nightmares I use His name as some sort of invincible weapon against evil. I see Him in the numerous blessings that encompass me.

Much of my very short and somewhat uneventful life I have felt alone. I have always been ‘different’ (a term which many people would use on themselves). I have felt the all time low of presumed abandonment from a God who refused to answer my prayers so therefore who ceased to exist, and from man because no man could do the work of God. I have often said that I cannot hear God or see Him and because I had (and often still do) shut the door on Him and created a painfully carnal void between me and my creator, I could definitely not feel him. Yet, well, He-who-does-not-exist was and is always there. “Alone, yet not alone” as in the words of Joni Eareckson Tada.

I am ashamed to admit that I once thought to myself and even, between the bitter tears of a child who did not get what she wanted, uttered the words ‘maybe it would be better if he just died.’ Because I thought that that would ease incomprehensible pain and suffering, and because “I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, and I reasoned like a child”. But death has a way of aiding in one’s growing process and so I would like to think that I have since “put childish ways behind me” because I have since learned that the pain of absence in no lesser than the pain of suffering. Pain is pain just as a sin is a sin. But perhaps this God spoke a bit through my childish words because, I am happy to say that I have since learned that a child of God does not die away FROM health and happiness but rather dies INTO health and eternal happiness - life that cannot even begin to compare to what our carnal minds can fathom.

I have been broken, as has my family and many people in this world. I was broken and then I tried to break myself to the point of numbness but that was impossible because my foundations were built on a God who supposedly did not exist. Still, I screamed and struggled and drove myself away from Him. I often said that I couldn't hear God speak to me and so therefore He did not exist, all the while not knowing that the voice was not from the eternal but from the internal. Whose voice showed me the way back to the path when I had wandered too far in the darkness, the darkness of sin, of depression, of loneliness, of anger and confusion? Whose voice gets me out of bed every morning and makes me want to try to be the best that I can be? Whose voice tells me that I can? Whose voice reminds me that I am loved and blessed with a God-sent family? Whose voice tells me I am beautiful?  It’s not the voice of the world and it’s certainly not my own voice.

I am the accuser and God the accused. There are plenty of questions I still need answers to but I understand that I may not get these answers because I would not even begin to comprehend them in this lifetime. Because of my earthly mind I will feel bitter about my lack of understanding and yes I will play the role of the accuser yet now, unlike Wiesel who lost his faith in God completely because of what he had been through, I understand that I will never be mightier than the ALmighty. I know I am weak, but “blessed are the weak for theirs is the Kingdom of God” and my life will be tied to Him-Who-Exists for eternity.

Wiesel, on seeing a small boy being hanged in the Nazi concentration camp...

“Where is God now?”

“Where is He? Here he is- He is hanging here on this gallows...”

Indeed.

I Used to Have a Handle on Life when I Used to Have a Way With Words

Dear __________________

communityofreaders.org

I don't know how to say this. But I'll start by saying that I wasn't always like this. I used to have a way with words, but that was many years ago, long before you met me. I knew how to talk to the human race in a way that I though not many possessed. Often, as a child I would see my mother faced with an obstacle and in the evenings, I would have just the right words to sooth her pain, ease her fatigue and give her the strength she needed to carry on. Can you believe that at some point in my life I had the tenacity to believe that sometimes God used me to reach people and that sometimes He even spoke through me? But like I said, that was years ago, and now I have lost the most basic human function- that of comforting someone. Sure I can empathize with them- with someone who has lost a loved one for example- but even though I too have lost a loved one I do not know what to say to them or how to comfort them, because I feel that words are worthless and that we live in an era where words can no longer raise somebody from the dead. Nothing can.

What changed? Life, me - everything. I am usually at a loss for words, even when I know how I am feeling I usually do not know how to express myself. Most of the time though, I have found that if I sit down with myself and try to quiet the chaos, I do not even know how I am feeling. I find that most of the time I am living on the surface, not really allowing myself to feel much because my mortal defect is that I, unlike the rest of the world, do not have the ability to feel ‘normally’. Most of the time I can only experience extreme emotions and this is something that the world frowns upon. The world calls this 'melodrama' and 'attention-seeking' but I believe that long ago, this was called being human. Feeling neutral is a state that I have to work hard to feel by constantly counting my blessings, remembering that I am more fortunate than most of the world whilst at the same time shutting out the bad things in the world and in my life.

Imagine that life, which consists of feelings and emotions, was equitable to hearing. Dogs are said to hear four times better and than humans. I say ‘better,’ but as a little child I often used to worry that loud sounds would hurt their ears or that the world would be too noisy for them to ever get a good night’s rest. I have no doubt now that dogs have adapted to their hearing and know how to filter sound and drown out what they do not want to hear. I digress. If life is hearing, then I can say that the world’s hearing is that of a human and my hearing is that of a dog, or better yet, a human with hearing as acute as a dog’s hearing but without a dog’s ability to filter or escape from the noise. If this is all confusing at this point please forgive me and remember that I used to have a way with words, but not anymore.

Perhaps an easier way of saying this is that I feel in extremes that I cannot explain and instead of filtering or adapting to the ‘noise’ it builds up in me whilst I try time and time and again to drown out the noise of life- the pain, the nightmares, the depression, the joy of the simple things that others take for granted, the awkwardness, the Shona, the English, the swear words, curses and cries of a young woman who is just trying to be normal and speak ‘normally’. The solution for me is to numb myself and try and keep it in without imploding or worse still exploding- attempts I fail dismally at every so often and which result in everything spilling out of me, but not in words, in hot tears that turn cold from neglect, wails muffled by a pillow, violent thoughts, harm, hurt, sin and one-sided arguments with a God that I’m not always sure is impartial to my rudeness.

I feel in extremes that I cannot explain. I can no longer express myself or communicate in an efficient manner and every time I have to speak to somebody new it takes me back to the days when I did have a way with words and the scariest thing I had to do was public speak in front of a school of 500. One person to me is now 500.

I used to have a handle on life when and I used to have a way with words.

Yours faithfully

Lindiwe Dhlakama

A Blind Woman and a Pretty Little Girl

She was being led by a little girl of about five in a bright green dress.

The little girl seemed full of energy and maybe even joy.

The pretty little girl did not seem to mind that the old woman that was gripping
her arm was blind.

Her face was awkward.

In my weakness I turned away from her because I was embarrassed and did not want to acknowledge her suffering.

I sat there in the front seat of the kombi and looked at
my Nokia 5233, a new phone.

To my greatest distress, the little girl led the blind beggar woman to the entrance of the kombi I was sitting in, right next to me.

I thought that the woman was just going to beg a little, but no.

She let go of the little girls arm, stretched out a small green tin plate and began to sing.

No, she did not have an angelic voice that stopped people in their tracks and made them want to give her everything they had.

On the contrary, her voice matched her face- it was not sweet or particularly interesting, yet it was not ugly either.  

It was hard like the hard life that that woman had probably been through..

It was strange also like her face.

She sang a Shona song that said, ‘Of if  I could see Jesus (quite ironic in her blindness), I would tell
him of all my troubles.

Even if you people do not care about me I would turn to my Jesus.’

While she sang, the little girl played by herself behind the blind singing woman.

She played with an empty penny-cool packet, blowing it up and popping it up.

I felt so uncomfortable whilst this event was happening, maybe because I had no
money to give this woman or I just was not used to it.

I continued to look the other way and I wished she would stop singing.

Just as I thought she was finished, she started the lengthily song again!

When she was done, her bowl still empty, the little girl came and placed
her upper arm into the blind, old woman’s hand.

As they were turning away I allowed myself a glance.

Do you know what I saw?

I saw the old blind woman wipe away a tear from her cheek.

Many thought rushed through my head as I witnessed this.

I did not know who to feel sorrier for, the blind old woman who had probably had a
hell of a tough life, or the little girl who had been robbed of a
normal childhood filled with health, family, friends and peace.

Would that little girl cry if her older sister was mean to her like I often do?

Would she sulk and feel unloved if her friends did not talk to her for more than a week like I do?

Would she cuss and wish all hell lose on a boy who had passed an offside at her like (cringe) I do?

Would she be sad for the rest of the day if her dad asked her what form she 

Giacomo Ceruti - Little Beggar Girl and Woman Spinning

is in like I do?

Wait, was her dad even in her life and would she ever have the chance to reach my level of schooling?

Or did she have bigger problems?

I don’t know the answer to most of my questions.

I may never know them.

My family may be hard for cash and I may not be able to help that old blind woman and BEAUTIFUL little girl.

But I can promise you, I will never forget them.

They, today, gave me more than I could ever give them.

They gave me a reason to be grateful and to thank God for
what I do have and what opportunities I was born with.

Despite what many optimists may say, I have learned that LIFE IS NOT FAIR!

WE ARE NOT ALL GIVEN EQUAL OPPORTUNITIES!

So just thank God for what you do have and help and pray for those who have less.

Why Can't I Stop Thinking About Whitney Houston?

I can’t stop thinking about Whitney Houston. I believe that in my thinking about her God is communicating something to me.  I have always been interested in some of her songs, namely, ‘I want to Dance with Somebody,’ ‘I Will Always Love You’ and most recently, ‘I Look to You’. Every good thing comes from God. Therefore, I believe that all our beautiful talents and gifts undoubtedly come from the Father. It’s up to us to use them to His glory. If God gave you the talent of singing, you should use it to praise and glorify Him, and this doesn't mean singing ONLY gospel music but it does mean making sure that the beautiful creations that you do create with your music are building and do not dishonor God in anyway (Refer to Candy Shop by 50 Cent to see a great example of dishonoring God- that was the first one that came into my head).

There was a period in time when the topic of the illuminate was hot among teens in high school and someone told me that Michael Jackson was one of these offenders and that someone had seen him in hell and thus we should all steer clear of the late King of Pop’s music. I thought about this for a while and I decided that where Michael Jackson, or anyone else for that matter, had gone to spend eternity was really none of my business and also, I remembered that every good talent originates from God, and no one can deny that what that man had was raw talent, so I decided that I would help celebrate what God had given him by allowing myself to enjoy his music just as long as the content did not dishonor God. I love his music and I cannot name many musicians that exceed his level of sheer genius and talent. But, I digress…

When I look at and hear the music of the late Whitney Houston all I can think of is how beautiful this woman was and what a great legacy she has left, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances around her death were. I used to have a dog who would bark at selective people and we didn't think much of it until I saw that the people my dog used to bark at ended up stealing from us or doing something bad. I think my dog would have loved Whitney. Now, I will not pretend to have known her well but it saddens me that she died so young (I consider anything below 95 too young to die) with so much beauty left in her that would have contributed to beautifying the earth. What I also ask myself is should I judge her because she died of a drug overdose? What is God’s take on that? I have more questions than I have answers, but what I do know is that no one goes to hell for having a weakness or sinning if they know that Jesus is the way, the truth and the life. I just thank God for her life, and the lives of beautiful people and for the work that He does through them.

I’m not certain why Whitney has been so much on my mind lately but if I am to hazard a guess it would be that God is telling me not be judgmental like the rest of the world for we are all terribly imperfect. I feel that He is also reminding me to pray for strength to overcome the temptations of the world no matter what stage in life I am in but especially if ever I should be in the public eye. I pray that I create only beautiful things in my lifetime and leave a God-honoring legacy and that one day someone will look at my life and say, “that woman is beautiful, inside and out”, but also that even if no one ever does, that I am satisfied in who I am in Christ. It would be a great joy of mine if I could sing praises to God alongside Whitney in heaven.

I hope the lyrics of Whitney Houston’s song ‘I Look to You’ bless you as much as they have me. 

"I Look To You"

As I lay me down,
Heaven hear me now.
I'm lost without a cause
After giving it my all.

Winter storms have come
And darkened my sun.
After all that I've been through
Who on earth can I turn to?

I look to you.
I look to you.
After all my strength is gone,
In you I can be strong
I look to you.
I look to you.
And when melodies are gone,
In you I hear a song.
I look to you.

About to lose my breathe,
There's no more fighting left,
Sinking to rise no more,
Searching for that open door.

And every road that I've taken
Lead to my regret.
And I don't know if I'm going to make it.
Nothing to do but lift my head

I look to you.
I look to you.
After all my strength is gone,
In you I can be strong
I look to you.
I look to you.
And when melodies are gone,
In you I hear a song.
I look to you.

My levees are broken
My walls have come
Tumbling down on me

The rain is falling.
Defeat is calling.
I need you to set me free.

Take me far away from the battle.
I need you.
Shine on me.

I look to you.
I look to you.
After all my strength is gone,
In you I can be strong
I look to you.
I look to you.
And when melodies are gone,
In you I hear a song.
I look to you.

I Should Have Loved Him Better

This one is especially dedicated to people in challenging circumstances, remember to be grateful and make the most of what you have, because, the little you have could be gone in the blink of an eye.

                                  ************************************************************

I had been angry for as long as I could remember, even though I would never readily admit it. The subtle hotness of my wrath would subside when I was occupied with other things- school, friends, and the books I so willingly allowed myself to be absorbed into because compared to my life, the stories they told were perfect, full of victorious adventure and happy endings.

 “Let me spend some time with him”, I had told myself, “just sit in the same room and quietly bond.”

Feeling positive, I took my books into the dining room and sat opposite him at the long dining room table. He was fast asleep, his glasses askew on his face and a newspaper from several years ago open in his slack hands. To this day I wonder if he actually read those yellowed newspapers that he treasured so much or if he only pretended to read them. If indeed he did pass his eyes over the words in perfect order, did the words seep into his mind and make sense, or were they just words to him, unrelated and telling a story he could no longer understand? I didn't wake him; I sat opposite him and did my work quietly, hoping that our souls would bond in some sort of way. I would sit there and be pleasant and that would be my good deed for the day, proof that I was a good, strong person.

I day dream often, either I think back on events already passed or I create my own events- mostly wishes of what I want to happen. That day I thought back to a conversation I had had with my mentor.

“I try to love him,” I had said to her, “I just need to learn to love him for whom he is now.”

Today I curse myself for having taken so long to learn to love him, for taking so long to love the man he had become. I got up and went to my bedroom to get some stationary to do my homework and when I returned to the dining room table he was awake and staring at me with a concerned look in his eyes. Our eyes locked for a split second before I turned away irrationally irritated by the awkwardness of it all.

“Do you have a running tummy?” he had asked me.

My reply was dripping with irritation, or was it the anger that was starting to heat up? “Why?” I asked, perhaps a little too roughly.

“You keep getting up and walking to and fro so I thought you must be ill.”

The anger heated me up fast, and caused my blood to boil. I often asked myself who I was angry at. Sometimes it was at him, for not being alright, for not fulfilling what I thought to be his fatherly duties and taking care of me, advising me where to apply to university, what to study, for not being that cool dad that I was keen to show off to my friends, for being sick for as long as I could remember. But that is just it- he was sick and by no means was it his fault. He had not chosen to have Alzheimer’s and to forget simple everyday things or have thoughts and communication skills more child-like than those of an adult. It would make no sense for me to be angry at him, even though he was the recipient of my foul moods and sullen silences. Therefore, I was angry at God, for one simple reason- He let this happen. I am still angry today, but the heat of anger often melts into floods of sadness. Who am I angry at today? Maybe I am angry at myself for not loving him better whilst I still could.

I did learn thought, gradually, to love him better. My love was never perfect though, and never will be the mirror image of 1^st Corinthians chapter 13. I was fond of him; I would not leave the room when he walked in, even later when he was pushed in on his wheel chair, crippled by the cancer. Things about him that used to make me angry didn't upset me so much anymore; my mother had taught me not to think too deeply and to learn to laugh things off. I remember taking advantage of his feebleness and giving him a hug- something culture would hardly permit if he was well and able. He had smiled as I put my arm around him and he patted my shoulder ever so slightly. Warmth has risen up inside of me.

I did not get to actively love him for a long enough time to mask the guilt and regret I carry around with me now. By that time I was hardly at home and soon I had to go off to university. I did not get to actively love him for the remaining two months of his life.

We often take for granted the situations that we are in. Indeed they are more negative than positive and so we dwell on the anger, the pain and sorrow of it all. That is our human nature. I wish I had been good to him, I wish I could have done something for him, I wish, I wish, I wish. He himself once told me that if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. What a funny saying, one I still do not fully comprehend. I appeal to you reader, do not waste the precious time that you have with anyone in your life. Mend broken relationships yes, and let go of the ones God tells you to. Above all- learn to love, and may that love be as close to the love God describes in 1^st Corinthians chapter 13 as humanly possible. I love you dad.

Mum and Dad holding hands in the hospital