Random people - the plumber, the condominium manager, any government representative - were, she was certain, stealing from her, conspiring against her, staging bizarre events. She was forgetful, fretful and, in the latter stages, paranoid and delusional. She wanted my brothers and I there at all times, but was by no means interested in receiving our advice. She couldn’t take care of herself, neglected her hygiene, was increasingly at risk of falling - but she was bitterly opposed to Homecare and, at the same time, adamant that she remain at home. The challenges associated with offering support and care for a parent suffering from dementia emerge slowly at first, then rush at you all at once, shaking their fists. It proved to be more a chore than a comfort, and nothing was ever a replacement for my actual presence, which she never recalled, even when it was recorded in the book - even if it was only minutes ago. Mostly, she forgot about it until I arrived to remind her, then she would labour to draw together a few thoughts, and hastily put it aside. I had hoped my mother would draw comfort from it between visits, that it would provide her with something to do. By “didn’t work,” I mean, in comparison to other solutions, it was immensely successful. By “mixed success,” I mean it didn’t work. The book held notes and drawings and was intended as a way for us to exchange stories back and forth. As my mother’s memory collapsed, we initiated something my mother and I called our “conversation book.”
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