Dementia is a cruel disease that affects millions of people worldwide. From memory loss to confusion, it can be devastating for both the patient and their loved ones. But what happens when the person with dementia doesn’t seem to care about their declining mental state? This is the situation faced by many families, including the author of the Dementia Diary, whose mother has been diagnosed with this condition. In this article, we’ll explore the emotional struggles of coping with dementia, and how the diary became a source of support for the author during this difficult time.
As a parent, our children are the center of our world, an integral part of our every day. Even when we are apart, they are always on our minds. I never thought I could forget my own children or the bond that connects us. It’s unimaginable. However, as my mother battles Alzheimer’s disease, I am forced to confront the reality that the connection between parent and child can be severed.
My friend once said of her own children, “They’re in my head, from the moment I wake to the moment I go to sleep.” I understood what she meant because I feel the same way. I thought my mother would feel the same way too since she was such a powerful figure in raising us. However, I was wrong. It’s not that my mother cannot remember who we all are and who we are to her, but it’s that she doesn’t seem to care.
My siblings and I are left puzzled, wondering why our mother seems unfazed by our presence. It’s as if there is no invisible, umbilical cord connecting us anymore. It’s difficult to comprehend, especially since we are witness to our own children’s fierce protection and love towards us. They can’t bear the thought of us forgetting them, and neither can we.
Whenever the topic of children arises in conversation, my mother asks, “Do you have children?” in a tone that you might adopt with a new acquaintance, politely, distantly inquiring. When I answer with “Three,” she asks how old they are. Mum has lost sight of the math of any of this long ago; nothing adds up anymore, not her age, mine or my children’s.
Once, I tentatively broached the subject of my mother’s seemingly unavailable children, asking, “Shouldn’t they be looking after you?” She replied, “I expect they’re too busy.” She excuses the absence of my siblings with ease, as if it’s a normal occurrence.
It’s painful to realize how detached my mother has become from her children. We don’t talk about her children much anymore. Instead, we talk about her parents often. If my mother tells a story, it will be about her parents’ death. However, the narrative changes every time, and the details are never consistent.
Sometimes, my mother lays the responsibility for her father’s death at her mother’s feet, saying things like, “If only mummy hadn’t made him go.” My grandfather died in the hospital following a stroke, not the exotic tropical disease of my mother’s storytelling. And yet, my mother’s grief is always raw, regardless of the details.
Aside from her parent’s passing, a lesser preoccupation is money. She often asks, “Where’s my money?” and states that she needs to pay for things. It’s unclear what these things are, and she often forgets about the conversations we have. We’ve told her several times that her son Rob handles her finances, but the information never sticks, and she always forgets.
A few days ago, I found my mother “tidying” up her things in her room. She had moved her possessions from one drawer to another, from table-top to bed and back. She was pale and teary, holding my father’s old passport, which she had uncovered while tidying. The word “CANCELLED” was stamped across every page, and she thought the holder was dead. He was. But she believed the holder was Rob, my long-forgotten father.
She wailed, “My son! My son is dead!” but I gathered her up in my arms and explained that it was dad’s old passport.
It’s moments like these that remind me that the primal instinct of motherhood can briefly, boldly reassert itself. Even as my mother’s memory fades, my love for her remains, and I strive to cherish every moment we have together, even if it’s in the present moment alone.
