It's not called "the long goodbye" for no reason. The tentacles of dementia contract and expand, they give, and they take, and they take, and they take.
From the devoted husband as carer, nurse, partner and friend who sits fearfully watching his beloved wife of sixty-plus years slowly fade a little each day, who anxiously overcompensates as his wife begins to forget even the most precious of memories.
The excitement and nervousness of her wedding day, the building of the house that became a haven and a home for a family of three sons.
The joy of learning she was pregnant for the first, second and third time. Cradling those boys in her arms as newborns, overcome with elation and pride. The woman, who for a long time cared for her niece in need. This beautiful, patient, caring and loving soul became the foundation, the linchpin, the mainstay, the beating heart of a family blessed by her presence in their lives. The cog on which everything turned.
Delighting in the birth of her six grandchildren...the joy of feeling them grasp her little finger for the first time...the memory...gone...tragically forgotten.
Is it not enough that this thief, this intolerable disease, robs a husband of his wife, his life partner, his best friend? Because the carnage doesn't end there.
From the loyal sons who sit by their mother's side holding her hand whilst peering into her blank and vacant baby blue eyes, hoping against hope for a morsel of recognition, an inch of awareness, a moment of lucidity, a token of acknowledgement at their presence.
These sons have now only their precious memories of a mother who loved them with all her heart. A mother who never judged, nor demanded, was never angry or bitter, but it's too late to share their memories with her again, to tell her what she means to them and have her understand in return, to thank her for so selflessly raising them in a cocoon of warmth, happiness and devotion.
These three sons owe her their life. How can she ever know how much she is appreciated...so much left unsaid, so much left unfinished.
To the lifelong friends who will never again share a cup of tea and share stories of their past and the woes of growing old together.
This mother of three inherited me and I consider myself to be incredibly blessed. Not such a mother-in-law but more of a mum. Caring, loving, supportive and kind, generous, non-judgmental and never difficult. I love her with all my heart...if only she remembered...if only she was aware.
My mum-in-law, my second mum is failing, but I see her when I look into my son's blue eyes, he got them from her, and they will forever be a reminder of how precious she is and has been to us all.
Slowly the light fades...a falling victim to an insidious and cruel disease. A disease that impacts every facet of our existence. Like a snake it slithers through our lives leaving trails of tragedy, each one of us with our own story, each one of us grappling with our own loss to contemplate.
We all have our own precious memories, our own individual stories...perhaps the importance of sharing them before we cannot, is thoroughly underestimated. I wish I had talked to her more so I could help share hers, now, they are lost to me, and her experience lost to us all.
It is so important to me that my boys remember the best of their Nan, the beautiful woman who helped give them life...whose blood courses through their veins.
So, speak up, spread your truths, share your stories, spin your yarns. They don't have to be grammatically perfect. Life isn't perfect. If it were, we wouldn't so often be saying the long goodbye.
