Remembering Not To Forget

A lot of what you hear about dementia is pretty depressing. And, not going to lie, it can be pretty depressing. I miss my mum. The capable, intelligent woman who raised me is gone. There are flashes of her every now and again, but there are days when she isn’t really there at all, and I know that the last traces of her as she once was are slipping away. I feel cheated that I was only just starting to get to know her as an adult rather than a sulky teenager. I feel guilty that I live in London so I’m not there every day to make the most of time with her, and to help her when she’s frightened because she doesn’t know what’s going on, or to give my dad more help with the worry of making sure that she’s ok.

The story that inspired this blog was one I told to a friend – when I told her she said that you only ever hear sad stories about dementia, and that we should do something to share the happier ones. So here goes…

Over Christmas we noticed my mum’s fascination with mirrors – if she was a bit upset then standing in front of one and pulling silly faces was a sure fire way of cheering her up. She was fascinated by it – sometimes seeming to know that it was a reflection of her, but sometimes asking who it was or explaining that she’d been having a chat with the lady next door! It was incredibly sweet and seems to have lasted as a tactic for cheering her up, so long may it continue.

Her quick wit is also still in evidence every now and then– on a recent visit a few family members were discussing the pills they take for various ailments. My mum’s deadpan response? “Well, it’s better than being dead.” Ever the nurse…