Pardon me while I rant for a minute --
Dementia is a thief. A slow, deliberate one that doesn’t just take memories but chips away at the person you knew, leaving someone familiar yet entirely different in their place.
My mother has dementia, and every day is a ride I never signed up for. It's a roller coaster with no clear end, no real breaks, and no way to predict whether we’re about to climb, plummet, or barrel through a sharp turn that leaves me breathless. One day, she’s somewhat herself, just a little lost, maybe, but familiar. The next, she’s angry, paranoid, and convinced that I’m the enemy. And I never know which version I’m going to get. And there are times when she thinks I'm her brother that passed away years ago. It's awful seeing her slowly put the pieces together. She feels like she loses her brother again every time it happens.
It feels like my dad is having to raise a child, except the child is my mother, and saying that out loud makes me feel guilty. But the reality is that children grow, while dementia only takes.
And then there’s the cruelest part of it all: when I look at her, I see my mother. The same face, the same hands, the same person who raised me. But the version of her I knew is slipping, replaced by someone unrecognizable. She's like a stranger trapped in my mother’s body -- sometimes. A mean stranger, some days. And that might be the hardest part. Because no matter how much I tell myself it’s the disease talking, those words still sting.
Some days, I want to run. Some days, I want to scream. And some days, I just sit in the quiet, trying to hold on to whatever pieces of her are left. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone.
--End Rant--
Dementia is a thief. A slow, deliberate one that doesn’t just take memories but chips away at the person you knew, leaving someone familiar yet entirely different in their place.
My mother has dementia, and every day is a ride I never signed up for. It's a roller coaster with no clear end, no real breaks, and no way to predict whether we’re about to climb, plummet, or barrel through a sharp turn that leaves me breathless. One day, she’s somewhat herself, just a little lost, maybe, but familiar. The next, she’s angry, paranoid, and convinced that I’m the enemy. And I never know which version I’m going to get. And there are times when she thinks I'm her brother that passed away years ago. It's awful seeing her slowly put the pieces together. She feels like she loses her brother again every time it happens.
It feels like my dad is having to raise a child, except the child is my mother, and saying that out loud makes me feel guilty. But the reality is that children grow, while dementia only takes.
And then there’s the cruelest part of it all: when I look at her, I see my mother. The same face, the same hands, the same person who raised me. But the version of her I knew is slipping, replaced by someone unrecognizable. She's like a stranger trapped in my mother’s body -- sometimes. A mean stranger, some days. And that might be the hardest part. Because no matter how much I tell myself it’s the disease talking, those words still sting.
Some days, I want to run. Some days, I want to scream. And some days, I just sit in the quiet, trying to hold on to whatever pieces of her are left. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone.
--End Rant--