It begins anew—the relentless cycle, a punch to the gut, a jolt to the heart.
Stage One: Denial
“Have you spoken to Mom?” The question I dread hearing from my three siblings.
“Yes,” I reply, squeezing my eyes shut before asking, “Why?”
“She just seems… off,” comes the response, filled with hesitation.
“No, I haven’t noticed,” I lie.
I hang up, trying to erase the conversation from my mind. I immerse myself in my day—playing with my kids, tackling homework, preparing a lackluster dinner that we pretend is gourmet. I sit at the kitchen table, fork in hand, chewing while mentally shoving her condition into the farthest corner of my thoughts. I smile at my son as he animatedly discusses his latest Lego Star Wars adventure, nodding along as if I’m riveted. I wipe my daughter’s mouth and encourage her to use her fork while she hums a tune from preschool. We all gather around the table, and once again, I convince myself it’s not really happening. Not again.
Stage Two: The Resurgence
Then my phone rings. “Mom” flashes on the screen. I feel a surge of resistance to hit decline, but I can’t ignore her call. I long to hear her voice, to cling to a fragment of her old self, so I answer.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, holding my breath.
“You’re coming to see me for Spring Break, right?” She speaks rapidly, her Southern accent thickening.
“Um, I haven’t thought about…”
“I’m cleaning out my closet,” she interrupts. “Do you want that brown suit we bought together at Dillard’s? You could wear it to work.”
“Mom, I don’t work anymore.” It’s been seven years since I last held a job.
“Oh.” There’s a pause as she processes this, but she quickly moves on. “I’m so alive right now. I’ve never felt better!”
Her enthusiasm paints a picture of the woman I once knew—vibrant, energetic, but I know better. I visualize her home, once immaculate, now a chaotic mix of disarray. Clothes strewn across the floor, dishes piled in the sink. Her treasured teapot collection, once neatly displayed, now scattered throughout the house, gathering dust. My father, weary and worn, tries to navigate the mess, all while I brace for the inevitable crash.
“I’m glad you feel good,” I lie, knowing the truth. She’s not well. But in this fleeting moment of clarity, she feels great.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, forcing down the lump in my throat.
“I love you, too.”
“I know.”
And I do know, which prepares me for the next stage:
Stage Three: Anger
My phone lights up again, “Mom” for the eighth time today. I sigh, knowing I shouldn’t answer, but I can’t ignore her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I don’t know what your problem is,” she snaps.
“I don’t have a problem.” My teeth grind.
“You and your father are awful. Do you think I’m a child?” The preacher’s wife, who once never cursed, now unleashes a torrent of harsh words.
She’s overheard a conversation between my dad and me, discussing her care. She’s tormented him to his breaking point. The sick version of her despises him, attacking everything about him. I worry for his safety.
“No, Mom. I don’t think you’re a child.” Even though we sometimes treat her like one. My dad has disconnected the stove to prevent fires and removed her car battery to keep her from driving. We whisper about her behind closed doors, tiptoeing around her like a ticking time bomb.
“Mom, please stop being angry with me.”
“Your husband should leave you! He deserves better!”
“I know, Mom.” I agree, hoping to shorten the conversation.
She doesn’t understand why I can’t visit her or why I won’t let my children see her like this. She can’t grasp the need for them to remember the vibrant Grandma who always had candy in her pocket, the one who sang off-key but joyfully.
“I’m sorry you’re mad at me, Mom.”
“Of course, you are. You don’t care about me.” Then she hangs up. I set my phone down and cry. My mom is sick, and I can’t answer the question: “Why?”
She’ll call me at least twenty more times that day, and I’ll answer every single one of them, absorbing her harsh words because she’s my mother. I know she doesn’t mean it.
Stage Four: Absence
Days pass without a call from “Mom.” Yesterday was her birthday, and I simply wished her a happy one. Today is my birthday. Normally, she would recount the story of my birth, down to the last detail—the labor, the hospital, the joy of my arrival.
But this year, she forgot.
It stings, but I remind myself it’s not her fault; it’s the illness, it’s the sickness in her brain.
I check my phone repeatedly, and her name doesn’t appear. It’s okay, I tell myself.
She’ll return. She always does.
In the meantime, I sift through my collection of cards, seeking a piece of her—something that captures the true essence of her voice. I discover a note from thirteen years ago:
“Here’s your mail, Sweetie. Sure do miss you so much. Love, Mom.”
I miss you too, Mom.
Summary
Loving someone with dementia is a complex journey filled with cycles of denial, fleeting moments of clarity, anger, and ultimately, deep sorrow. It’s about holding on to memories while grappling with the painful reality of their absence. In the face of illness, love endures, even when it feels like the person you once knew is slipping away.
Keyphrase: Loving Someone with Dementia
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