Navigating a relationship with a parent suffering from dementia feels like holding onto a ghost. You were once the person who sought to know every detail of my life, yet now, you seem to drift further away with each passing day. “Who?” you ask, when I try to remind you of our shared past. I grasp at memories—like the silly song about a turkey you used to sing to me—but you don’t remember. “What turkey?” you respond, leaving me at a loss for words. Even the mention of your dear friend, Harold, elicits a confused “Who?”
In our conversations, I struggle to connect. You tell me about plans to take a streetcar home and lunch at a restaurant, unaware that you haven’t left your room in a long time. I know that Harold has been gone for years, and yet you cling to memories that are not real.
Every phone call is a challenge. “What?” you reply, unable to hear me, followed by the familiar question, “Who is this?” The last time I visited, you asked me to leave after just half an hour, your agitation palpable. I sobbed on the drive home, and my husband, Mark, tried to comfort me with a dinner out.
Dear Mom, I find solace in writing, as it’s the only way I can express what I wish to say to you now. I want to remember all the sacrifices you made for me, to remind you how much I cherished those moments. Like that time in second grade when I failed a test centered around Christianity. You marched up to the principal, advocating for me as a Jewish child, demanding that they retract my failing grade. You even got an apology from my teacher, although it didn’t improve our relationship.
I recall junior high when I was denied entry into the National Junior Honor Society for being Jewish. Your fierce love drove you to confront the school board, even though they wouldn’t change their decision. We celebrated that day with a shopping spree, laughter, and hot fudge sundaes—moments I hold close to my heart.
During my darkest hours, like when my fiancé passed away, you flew in at dawn just to be by my side, providing comfort as I wept. You even came to stay with us for two months when I was critically ill, proving your love time and again.
Though you sometimes struggled to accept my choices, like my move to New York City and my various relationships, I know deep down you were proud of my writing. Yet, the memory of you walking into a bookstore and declaring that no one would show up for my reading still stings. When a negative review surfaced, you took it upon yourself to confront the bookstore about carrying my book.
It wasn’t until I became a wife and mother that I truly began to understand you. You were the youngest of eight siblings, raised by a mother who often overlooked you in favor of your twin brother. Your own struggles shaped you—like the buckteeth you corrected only later in life, and the heartache from being jilted before marrying my father, a man who often silenced you.
When I was 17, I could no longer bear the tension at home. I ran away, prompting you to threaten my father with divorce if I didn’t return. That moment—seeing you pack in disappointment when I came back—stayed with me.
Eventually, life changed for you after Dad passed. You traveled, found joy, and formed a close bond with my sister, although I sensed it hurt you that I was carving out my own path.
I was overjoyed when you fell in love with Harold at 90, sharing four blissful years together. I take comfort in the fact that your dementia progressed before you realized he was gone, and you still believe he’s with you.
Yet, I find it impossible to express my feelings to you now. I can’t share my gratitude for your love or confront the conflicts we had. The understanding we once shared has faded along with your memories.
I write about you in my novels—your essence lives on through characters like Miriam in Finding Home, who confronts love and loss. Even when I mention this to you, you don’t recognize the connection.
I realize, even if your memory were intact, you might not understand. You would likely say I am self-centered and too independent, just as you’ve always done. I feel silenced, knowing any defense I offer would be met with dismissal.
Watching you fade away is agonizing. I remember the night Dad died, and you held me tightly, crying for him despite your tumultuous past together. I have grappled with feelings of anger towards you, but mostly, I have loved you deeply.
And I miss you.
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In summary, the journey of caring for a parent with dementia is filled with both heartbreak and cherished memories. It’s a poignant reminder of love, loss, and the complexities of family bonds.
Keyphrase: What I Wish to Say to My Mother with Dementia
Tags: dementia, family relationships, caregiving, memories, loss, love, writing