My mother sent me a text message telling me my father has dementia. My response wasn’t very gracious because I didn’t know how to respond (‘I’m so sorry to hear that’ is a terrible cliché).
I don’t know what I’m meant to think or feel.
What I think … is that the only experience I have with dementia is from watching The Notebook. And to me, not remembering who you are, who you’re with or where you are doesn’t seem like the worst thing that could happen.
What I feel … is probably not as sad as I should feel.
My dad is old and his body has been worn down from years of manual labour. He has severe arthritis, high blood pressure, type one diabetes and has suffered a series of minor strokes.
My mother is his primary caregiver and she enjoys looking after him. She counts the pills, checks his blood sugar levels, drives him to the specialists and gives us weekly updates on his current health issues. In a bizarre way, they’re both happy in their roles of the Needy and the Needed.
I’m sad that my dad will slowly crumble into someone who no longer remembers my name. I’m sad that the tanned builder who used to take me to the beach every afternoon will soon disappear. But that strong, dark-haired hero I remember has been gone for decades.
Parents disintegrate and dissolve before our very eyes. It is sad because it is inevitable.
So in a weird way, I wish my dad a safe journey on his road to madness. May he find it a place of peace and release.
And may my mother find strength as she watches the man she loves slip into a stranger she no longer recognises.
That’s the hardest part. When I imagine her pain, it makes me sad. Maybe even sadder than I’m meant to be.