The Weight of Remembering
In these later years, I can look back far enough to feel life slipping through my fingers like sand from a tightening grip.
Memory’s a funny thing—it lets you hold onto both the precious and the painful, a blessing some days, a burden others. I’ve never been one for countless photos, but they serve as evidence of what was—visual prompts for the past, stepping stones of experience you can share with others.
When I was a kid, we lived near my school, and mum would wait outside with the other mothers when the bell rang. She always stood out—maybe she was truly the most striking, or maybe she just made more effort than most.
She’d be happy, I think, that I’ve got that particular memory locked away safe.
As I write this now, I don’t know what’s ahead in my own journey. Will I still be present in my mind? If I am physically here, will I even recognize myself?
When the Familiar Becomes Strange
Why these deep reflections stirring in me lately?
Last time I spoke with my mum, she handed the phone to my dad mid-dinner—she was busy at the table, slipping food to the dog. This was odd for her. We’ve had beloved pets forever—all well-fed and cherished—but never once fed from the table.
Things change. I don’t take the ordinary moments for granted anymore.
She started slow—losing small pieces of herself. During our calls, she’d ask how I was doing, then ask the exact same question mere minutes later. I initially thought she was just being her attentive self, checking in twice because we didn’t talk often enough, our lives too consumed by the everyday.
I didn’t see the subtle signs of what was creeping in.
Guardians of Vulnerability
My dad’s British, in his 80s now—for better or worse, us Brits maintain that stoic composure, and discussing tender emotions is territory reserved for black sheep like myself.
I understand him, though. He protected us from life’s sharp edges—pain, worry, fear—for as long as humanly possible. He’s weathered his own storms—a stroke claimed the use of his left arm, years of exercise and staying trim didn’t spare him—but he remained steadfast.
When mum’s condition worsened, he cared for her until a doctor finally said it was becoming too much. She’s in a care home now, receiving full-time professional attention.
The Silence of Presence
Her care home is nearby—dad visits for about 20 minutes, explaining it’s simply too heartbreaking to stay longer.
She doesn’t respond to him, just sits quietly, seemingly detached, clutching a soft toy for comfort. A small solace, perhaps, wherever she is locked inside.
He confided that seeing her this way truly hurts him. That admission landed with tremendous weight. After all he’s endured throughout life—losing her vibrant spirit stings most deeply, like watching the final chapter draw inevitably closer.
Is she still present somewhere inside? Aware but trapped? Does she have access to memories—ones she’s lost within, or perhaps awareness of my dad sitting patiently beside her? I wonder constantly what she perceives in her world now.
Doorways to Elsewhere
I often think of my grandmother, mum’s mother.
During my teenage years, I’d visit her—in her most vulnerable state, staring intently out the window at a park that existed only in her mind. To the rest of us, it was long gone, a London landmark miles distant. But the vision seemed to bring her contentment.
Who’s to say definitively she didn’t truly see it? And likewise, who’s to say mum doesn’t perceive something beyond our understanding—something dementia conceals from our perspective, like those near-death experience glimpses of what might exist beyond?
Perhaps that toy serves as an anchor, or maybe the window in her room opens into somewhere more peaceful.
The Burden of Farewell
Dad grows weary, and the care facility costs a small fortune—no respite for good souls, it seems. For those of us watching from outside, it’s a prolonged ache—witnessing her gradual fading, bearing the emotional and financial toll.
When he sits beside her, does she recognize his presence, or has she journeyed elsewhere entirely?
All I have to offer is love—for her, for my steadfast father, for everyone I’ve lost along the way. Whether people leave by choice, illness, or life’s natural conclusion, what more can we really do? Study the condition? Philosophize about meaning? Research new treatments?
I claim no expertise here. I’m simply a guy watching this unfold, searching for understanding.
Finding Comfort in the Storm
Mum once raised PAT dogs—therapy companions for children in hospitals—her meaningful way of giving back. Now the tables have turned, and she’s the one needing comfort, with that small toy representing all she has left to hold.
Perhaps existence in a care facility isn’t entirely bleak if you have something to grasp or a view where you can lose yourself. Maybe someday we’ll look back on dementia and find clarity—in whatever form of awareness might follow this life.
For now, it remains a quiet sorrow, a price we reluctantly pay, and a hope that somewhere inside, she finds moments of peace. What’s your perspective on losing those you love gradually—have you discovered any way to make sense of this particular heartbreak?
Have you experienced dementia in your own family? I’d welcome your thoughts below—better to share while memories remain clear.
