ESSAY | MENTAL HEALTH
Grieving the Living
Dementia means saying goodbye again and again
The first time was maybe six years ago at a family gathering. She called my sister the wrong name — and not my name, either. A completely random one, with no context at all. She caught herself and made a joke. We were grateful to wave away the awkward moment and move on to other topics.
Then, nearly five years ago, I gave her a call on my way home from dinner with a friend, just to check in on her. She asked where I’d been, who I’d had dinner with, and whether we’d had a good time. I’d answered each in turn. Then, with no other conversation in between, she asked me where I’d been, who I had been there with, and whether we’d had a good time.
My answers were far more hesitant. This time, she didn’t notice. She didn’t say, “oops, I just asked that!” and laugh, like anyone would when they realize they’re conversing on autopilot. She was waiting to hear my answers.
Did we really just have the same conversation twice?
This is how dementia entered my world. It started slowly, seeping in from the corners where you could miss it. Where you could excuse it by saying, “Oh, she’s just getting older.” Then it sped up and gathered momentum, becoming a monster and eventually tearing down…