This is a poem my Mam wrote when my Grandfather had Alzheimer’s.
\n<\/p>\n
My Mind’s Eye In my mind’s eye, I see thin, clutching hands constantly searching for ‘jobs to do’.<\/p>\n In my mind’s eye, I hear mixed up, disjointed words and sentences, in a muttered and mumbled tone.<\/p>\n In my mind’s eye, I see the blank look, the uncomprehending stare, In my mind’s eye, I thank god for my mind’s eye. poem by Mary Skinner<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" This is a poem my Mam wrote when my Grandfather had Alzheimer’s.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[59],"class_list":["post-37","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-articles","tag-alzheimer"],"gutentor_comment":0,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/37","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=37"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/37\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=37"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=37"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.graeme-skinner.co.uk\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=37"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n<\/strong>I see a shuffling, unsteady confused old man wandering along corridors towards locked doors.<\/p>\n
\nI see a straight back,
\nstrong legs striding through woods, along fields,
\nwind on his face, his dog running beside him.<\/p>\n
\nI see strong hands sawing heaps of logs to warm us all on a winter’s night.
\nI see careful hands, mending broken toys.
\nI see gentle hands, stroking, stroking his beloved dog’s head.<\/p>\n
\nI hear the strong, tuneful voice as he ings in the choir,
\nor recites a poem, remembered from a long ago school day.<\/p>\n
\nas his family visit, longing for any sign,
\na sign that he knows and remembers us.<\/p>\n
\nI see a family man,
\nproud, in his own quiet way of all of us,
\nloving, in a way that his generation often did, without words.<\/p>\n
\nFor its ability to remind me of a different Dad,
\nA Dad not lost to us forever in this living hell they label Alzheimer’s.<\/p>\n