How I lost my mother to dementia

Growing up in a nuclear family of four in Delhi, my childhood was fairly happy. I say fairly because it is now coloured by adulthood desires of what could have been. I didn’t know any better then and for all I can recall, it was happy enough.

My father was the sole earner, Ma, giving in to Dida’s (my maternal grandma) desire, chose to stay at home, not that she would have preferred to have been a housewife. One of the most social creatures I have known, Ma found every reason to be out, not for her the homely tasks of cooking and tending to children. Though she did these chores stoically, and in record time.

She made friends everywhere she went, knew almost everyone around, joined the local Bengali club for a sewing and knitting class, made more friends, tried her hand at yoga, saw films with the “girls” and, much later, was part of kitty party groups too. She went to the Kali Bari, volunteered to officiate at the library, every member came to know her, and more importantly, she came to know every member, by name.

And yet, if you see her today you will find all this extremely hard to believe. That person curled up on the bed, blanket over her head is not even a person anymore, let alone my Ma. 

Wafting through one day to another without knowing if it is day or night, if she has eaten or is yet to do so, is that dinner or breakfast, giving incoherent answers at one time and making perfect sense at others... resigned to the clutches of dementia.

If you came here looking for hope, I am sorry but I have none to offer. If, however, you are wondering how to cope, perhaps you can gain something from my experience. If not, at least you would have come to know of this silent disease of the brain that creeps up and catches one unawares. 

You can check here for more on the disease.

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