For the past nine years, my mother-in-law has been living with dementia. It started as forgetfulness. Now, it has advanced to a stage where she no longer recognizes space, time, or relationships most of the time. We have always lived together since I got married. Today, she lives with us without knowing who we are. She does not know how we are connected to her.
Her sleep cycles are altered. Nights are broken with her sudden awakenings, and we find ourselves awake with her, our own rest scattered into fragments. It is exhausting, yes, but never deliberate; just another reminder that the “old amma” is irreversibly gone. Before dementia, she let us sleep in on weekends until mid-morning. She would always warn the maid not to disturb us after our long work weeks. Now, she wakes us up early on weekend mornings with questions like:
“Why are you still sleeping? The sun is already up!”
Over the past decade, we have watched a strong, intelligent woman slip away into anonymity. She was a science graduate, an ex-employee of the Reserve Bank of India, and a teacher. I often recall the woman who invited me into her home and our family. Now she clings to my presence like a shadow. She trails me from room to room. She constantly searches for my husband, i.e., her son. She often mistakes him for her brother and refers to him as “your husband.”
Sometimes she becomes anxious. She is convinced her two small children have gone missing. She believes they are with their father who passed away long ago. At other times, she slips back in time and asks for her mother, saying things like:
“Please tell my mother I’m safe. Tell her I won’t be coming home today, so she doesn’t worry.”
There are moments when she insists she needs to go “home”; not here, but her childhood home. Convincing her otherwise never works. So, I resort to pretend-play. So whenever she tells me to inform her mother, I quietly assure her, “Don’t worry. I’ll send her a message and tell her you are safe,” and she sits back satisfied.
Just yesterday, she packed her bags for her imaginary journey. She asked for her purse, and I gave her one. She peered into it and looked up at me, worried.
“I’m not finding my money.”
I slipped two bills inside. She hesitated, embarrassed:
“I’ll return it to you, I promise.”
I assured her, “It’s fine. You keep it.”
Then she pressed on:
“I need to go to my mother’s place. My mother will be waiting. Can you please drop me?”
I tried logic: “Why don’t you have tea first? Then dinner, and leave tomorrow?”
But she shook her head firmly.
“No, no, no. I can’t stay here till tomorrow. She’ll be worried.”
I explained I didn’t know the way but she was insistent.
Then I changed my strategy and said, “I am scared of uncles.”
She looked surprised, “You know them, how come?”
I smiled: “Yes, I know everyone. But what if they shout at me?”
She softened:
“No, no, they won’t shout. I guarantee.”
So, we put on our shoes. My daughter and our maid watched in amusement as we prepared to “leave.” But as soon as we neared the lift, I saw she was too frail to go further.
I said gently: “See, if you don’t know the way, it’s better to wait for Rajeev. He can drive you. You won’t get any bus from here.”
She paused, thought for a while, followed me back, and settled back into her chair. A little later, after some reflection, she came and said quietly:
“This is only my home, right? I don’t have to go anywhere?”
I nodded: “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”
She sat back, finally satisfied.
This is dementia. A life of constant disorientation, where home is always somewhere else, and comfort is always fragile. These pretend plays are becoming a regular affair in our home. When you can’t change things, it’s better to accept them and move with the flow.
For us, it is often exhausting. For her, it is confusing and anxiety-inducing, and seeing her in that state is heartbreaking. Yet, through our little gentle “lies,” in those fleeting moments of calm, she feels safe. She believes she is finally home. And in those moments, we find our own peace too. Dementia may steal memories, but it can’t steal feelings. She may not know who we are, but she knows we are her safe place. Sometimes, that is enough.
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