My Dad Keith's dementia diagnosis came as no surprise to any of us, except to him. He never fully accepted it, which, in retrospect, should have been expected – after all, he never liked being beaten by anything. By trade he had been a contracts engineer, overseeing complex construction projects from start to finish. He was a good father and a decent man – he provided for us, he looked after us, and he loved us.
I notice that I'm already writing about him in the past tense. But as I write, he's still physically alive. It's now seven or eight years since diagnosis, but the ravages of his dementia have taken a severe toll on his mind. He sits in a chair in the care home with his eyes almost permanently closed and barely responds to anything – he will drink when a glass is placed to his lips and eat when food is offered. And, happily, when Mum kisses him at the end of every visit, his lips also respond to hers.
At around the same time as Dad's diagnosis I coincidentally started learning to play the ukulele. Mum was still caring for Dad at home then, and as my playing improved, I would take my ukulele when I visited. I chose songs to play that my parents knew well – for example songs by Buddy Holly, The Beatles, The Monkees and Roger Whittaker – and we would sing them together. Dad absolutely loved these sessions, and I noticed that, even as his condition began to decline, he would 'come back' to us as soon as I strummed the first chord. He still remembered a lot of the lyrics and I started to appreciate that he was actually a really good singer. I sometimes recorded what we did for posterity and uploaded them to YouTube for family and friends to view – I have included links to a few of these 'performances' at the end of this article if you would like to see and hear them.
Since Dad moved permanently to the care home three years ago, my regular music visits have continued. As Dad's condition deteriorated and his conversation became muddled and eventually absent, for a good while afterwards he still responded to my music – he would remember the words and he would still sing along. It became my way of connecting with him when all other means were lost – and it was beautiful. And for that I will be forever grateful.
And then, after about another year of decline, he stopped singing along. It was tough. Really tough. But my music visits to the care home continue to this day, in the vain hope that somewhere deep inside he still hears me, and that he's still silently singing along with all the joy and the energy he ever did. And my visits are still appreciated by the other residents and staff at the home, who enthusiastically join in and sing with me and Mum, who always comes along with me.
As Dad's main carer through the first difficult years of his dementia, Mum has coped with it all incredibly well. There have been some really tough times, but her love for Dad is as strong as ever. She moved to a house a few streets away from his care home so that she can see him as much as possible – which she still does, in spite of her own recent dementia diagnosis.
So, my nominated object for this wonderful '100 Objects' project is my ukulele. Without it I would have lost those last few precious years of connection with my lovely, kind, funny and caring Dad.
Sweet Caroline https://youtu.be/yvWNE97ccsU?si=7b7Ik7ItcqXREhc9
Daydream Believer https://youtu.be/rgtDVNyM3kY?si=RBbUbA_vNHAnQ0CZ
Durham Town https://youtu.be/z-aFTpsZ5VY?si=FG0_BaBjiW_enuUK