Dementia

By Kesenia Murray

A once-heroic man whose life crumbled after a fateful, five-year disappearance on a mysterious island—now languishes in a care home, haunted by “Them.” His ramblings seem like the nonsensical ravings of a dementia-stricken mind, until a startling outburst shatters the family’s reality.

My grandpa has had dementia for longer than I have been alive. He spends his days pacing, talking to himself, and attacking the orderlies who care for him. From what my family members tell me, he used to be an amazing man—a man whose hard work and determination always paid off. A man who would go to the ends of the earth to care for his loved ones, stopping at nothing to make sure they were fed, clothed, and happy.

As it was told to me, one day, that all changed. He was around thirty-five when he was tasked to go on a mission trip to an island where disease was devastating the local people. The trip was only supposed to be a month long, just enough time to find out what disease they had and its possible causes. After kissing my grandmother goodbye and hugging my father, he left for the unknown island.

No one heard from him for the next five years. A search and rescue team went to the island to find his group of twenty coworkers, but they didn’t find anyone. The island was completely empty of all signs of human life. No shelters, no clothing strewn about, or signs of a fire pit. It was as if human life had never touched the island, period. My grandma lost all hope after three years and gave up the search.

Five years later, my grandpa showed up on my grandma’s doorstep, rambling about “Them” and speaking incoherently. My grandma tried for a few years to get her husband back on track and fix his life, but sadly, nothing she did could stop his ramblings.

He was diagnosed with dementia and placed in a care home for the mentally deranged. My family visits him every couple of months. Sometimes he recognizes us; sometimes he doesn’t. Today, however, was completely different from any other visit I’ve had with him.

I showed up at my normal time, seven in the evening, bearing cookies and his favorite pop, ready to spend some time with him. I walked into my grandpa’s room and saw him hunched over in the fetal position at the end of his bed, rocking back and forth. I placed my hand on his shoulder gently, trying to soothe him. He screamed so loudly I thought I must have hurt him. He jumped up, placed his hands on my shoulders, and shook me.

“They’re here, they’re coming. I knew it would happen, I knew they’d get away, they’re here, and they’re coming!” he yelled as bloody tears streamed down his face.

The orderlies rushed in, pulling me out of the room and injecting my grandpa with a calming serum. As I stood out in the hallway, I caught a glimpse of breaking news. The inhabitants of my neighboring town had all come down with dementia.