Society hates those coping with dementia
From our UK edition
The carer on my mother’s doorstep took one look at me and addressed me in a slow, patronising bellow. ‘Hello Mrs Kite!’ she yelled, as I answered the door. ‘And how are you feeling today?’ I informed this uniquely annoying woman – for all carers are annoying in their own distinct ways – that I was, in fact, the patient’s daughter. She apologised but the universe had made its point. My hair was standing on end, I was still in my pyjamas at 9.30 a.m., I had chest pains. In the dead of night, I had been woken by my mother standing over me with a pair of kitchen scissors. In the dead of night, I had been woken by my mother standing over me with a pair of kitchen scissors A few days earlier, she had fallen in her living room and broken her wrist.