치매 초기 증상을 점검해 보세요!(8 symptoms of dementia, ENG SUB)

this video makes me reminiscing what my mom did recently.. asked same questions again and again, suddenly become very rude to us ( to point makes my sister and me cried) and hopefully, those who seeing this video pray for my mom's health

A healthy lifestyle doesn't guarantee prevension but it helps a lot to enjoy life before any kind of disaster.

Thanks for making this vid

나레이터분도 세로가 아니라 가로로 찍어주시면 영상에 그냥 insert 된 느낌을 지우고 영상 완성도가 올라가 보일것 같아요! 그리고 완전히 더빙을 해주시던지 아니면 완전히 나레이터님 위주로 찍으시고 주위로 애니메이션을 그려넣는 방법 둘 중에 고르시는게 좋으실것 같아요. Monotonous 하게 말하시다가 모든 말끝을 다~ 라며 길게 끄시는 습관도 편히 듣게 되진 않네요. 유익한 채널인 만큼 더 구독자가 늘길 바라는 마음입니다.

my nanny has dementia and is in a care home, i havent seen her in ages and now she has forgotten me :(

My grandpa had dementia and once he was trapped in a shopping mall after it was closed coz he couldn’t remember where he lived. My dad went to look for him all night and found him next morning in a park. Afterwards he could only go out with my grandma, and carry a card with family contact on the neck.

I have a story: Recently I wrote a tragic novel on the life of émigrés. The novel is titled… Well, I don’t remember what it is called, I will look at the manuscript and write in the title later. Though I have been writing this novel approximately two and a half years, I can’t say that it was too hard. The work advanced quite easily. As soon as I wrote one line, in my imagination the second line would emerge, and after the second — a third one. I had no difficulties in the description of nature, or inner states of protagonists, and the plot developed as if on its own. The plot, by the way, is super simple. A Russian émigré writer finds out that his wife is cheating on him with his closest friend, the painter. He confronts her, and she has no choice but to go to the painter. As soon as she left, he understands that he can’t live a moment without her. He calls her and she immediately returns because she can’t live without him. But having returned to him, she realizes that she can’t live without the painter. The situation gets more complicated because the writer and the painter can’t live without each other. All three curse each other, blame, and avow love. They try to solve this problem in different ways. Now the writer kicks her out of the house, now the painter. Sometimes she herself leaves one for another. Sometimes she leaves them both. Sometimes the writer leaving both of them goes away somewhere but then he can’t stand it and returns. Another time the painter goes away. Then they decide to live all three of them together, and live suffering with jealousy and hatred. Then they understand that they all should totally part ways. At the end they gather in the painter’s studio, all three in formal evening attire. They put on a Schubert record and in candle light they drink champagne. The champagne is, of course, poisoned. In a nutshell, that’s the novel. I put a full stop (finished it) about a month ago and immediately brought the manuscript to the publisher. Yesterday the publisher invited me to his place. We were seated in soft leather armchairs in his office decorated with portraits of his best authors (my portrait, certainly, was among them), between us stood a coffee table on which lay some book with the title page down. Before starting a conversation the publisher offered me something to drink – coffee, tea, cold water, normal water, warm water. I asked for coffee. He peered out of the door and made a request. A secretary brought in coffee and left. Stirring coffee, the publisher looked at me closely and said, “Listen, Vladimir, you wrote a terrific novel!” “Yes,” said I humbly, “I think so too.” “When I was re-reading it I was in tears.” “Me too,” I admitted. “And the last scene when they are in candle light and listening to Schubert drink poisoned champagne is monumental. Unprecedented in the world literature.” “Yes,” I agreed, “I thought so too.” “But, Vladimir, listen to me closely. The thing is that we already published this novel two and a half years ago.” “You published it before I wrote it?” I was surprised. “Oh no, far from it. But two and a half years ago you wrote this novel, and we published it. It went with great success, it received excellent press (reviews), you got a prize for it and made a wonderful acceptance speech.” “This can’t be,” I objected. “Do you really think that I don’t remember what I already wrote?” “I don’t think anything,” he said with a sigh, “but here is your manuscript and your novel in print.” He turned the book on the coffee table face up and offered it to me. I felt sick. I saw that the printed novel, just as the manuscript is titled… Right now I can’t recall title but I will look it up and tell you later. Feeling upset, I put the book and manuscript into a briefcase and went home, forgetting to say goodbye to the publisher. At home I placed in front of me the book and the manuscript and started comparing. When I was reading this I was crying. Interestingly, I didn’t just write word to word the same novel, with the same title, and with the same amount of chapters and words, but even punctuation marks were the same. This is especially surprising because I usually put punctuation marks haphazardly. All night long I weeped. I was thinking, what happened? I am not that old yet to be affected with such a deep dementia. For two and a half years, day after day, I was writing this novel with passion and inspiration. I was laughing at my fantasy, or showering with tears… Everything was going so well for me… And now what? By morning I decided that as soon as I get up, I will immediately go to see a doctor. Of course, the maladie has gone far but there must be some cure for it. It was dawn when I finally fell asleep. Upon waking, I decided to postpone my visit to the doctor. I thought, oh well, I wasted two and a half years on nothing, to hell with them. It’s too bad, of course, but I am not going to waste time on doctors’ visits but will delve into a new novel right away. Moreover, I have a terrific idea. The plot is super simple. A Russian émigré writer finds out that his wife is cheating on him with his closest friend the painter. He confronts her, she leaves, other different calamities happen (I haven’t thought of it all yet) but the whole thing ends when three of them gather in the painter’s studio, put on Schubert’s record and drink poisoned champagne in candle light. As a matter of fact, I have it all figured out, and in about two — two and a half years. I will, most likely, finish this novel.

The old guy that used to live in our house has dementia and he forgot that he he didn’t live here anymore and that he lived at a retirement home or something ( idk how he got out and remembered where he lived ) but he came in our house uninvited and started looking for his wife who had passed away 2 years ago

😍❤️👍🏼😍❤️👍🏼💋💋🌹🌹