TREVOR WOOD

Do you want to hear a sick joke?
It was April Fools’ Day when I was told I was in the first stages of early onset dementia. Nice timing, eh? They really caught me out this time.
It was in the afternoon, which shouldn’t count. My dad would have gone mad. Until he did go mad, that is. He was a stickler for the rules before he fell victim to this pernicious disease himself. After that, not so much. Maybe passing his rogue gene on to me was a posthumous slow-release prank of the worst kind.
I didn’t notice the date at the time – as you can imagine I was a little preoccupied. It was only when, several months later, my consultant suggested I kept a diary to monitor my condition that I made the connection.
That was more than six months ago and I’ve recorded every little incident along the way, both good and bad, looking for a pattern of decline that, thankfully, hasn’t yet materialised.
It’s a random list of mishaps, forgetting the odd name, the occasional fall, even the times I lost my temper – I’m a detective chief inspector, for God’s sake, an ability to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation is in the job description. But back then I thought everything was a symptom. I like to think I’ve calmed down a bit since, or maybe I’m simply not noticing the signs – which in itself could be another sign I guess. And so it goes on, second-guessing has become second nature. Is that also a symptom? Is it starting now? Or am I just getting old and a bit clumsier?
There are other things in the diary. The day I vowed to stop drinking to try and slow things down. Then there are the days where I broke that vow, occasional enough not to be a bother. So far. The first time I successfully completed the Guardian’s cryptic crossword is written in capitals. I haven’t managed to finish it since.
The day I left my wife is in there too. And the day she found out why. Some quite big stuff really – but symptoms of the disease? Probably not. Symptoms of my need to exert some control over my life and my subsequent failure to do that? Most definitely. I couldn’t help thinking how much more fun it would have been if I’d kept a similar diary when I was a teenager; my first drink, my first kiss, the day I discovered masturbation. The list goes on.
Looking back at my notes, the one thing I can safely say so far is that I have a lot fewer fucks to give than I used to. I take more chances and it’s not just the fools I can’t be doing with, I don’t suffer anyone gladly. No one at work seems to have noticed yet, so maybe I haven’t changed that much, though one of my detective sergeants has been giving me the occasional side-eye so I may be wrong about that. If she has worked it out she doesn’t appear to have shared the information with anyone. Perhaps she’s keeping it for a trade-off of some kind? I’m certainly not in any kind of hurry to become the talk of the station – I don’t know how many days I’ve got left before my brain starts to scramble but I’m not spending them sitting in the basement looking through cold cases.
I do worry that I’m getting reckless. I guess you could call that a symptom. Maybe I should think more carefully before I jump into things with both feet? If my boss got wind of that thought he’d know I was losing it; it took him two years to persuade me to do one of his ridiculous risk assessment courses and even then I disappeared on the first morning to take charge of a murder case. As motives go, my desire to get out of that room was probably as strong as the actual killer’s hatred for their victim.
I guess my main take, going forward, is that I need to be more careful, apply the brakes a little more quickly, especially where my team are involved. I’ve got nothing left to lose, my days are numbered anyway, but I wouldn’t want any of them to get hurt and if I carry on like I have they surely will be.

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