By Gillian Wortley
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January 31, 2025
It was two years, two months and 16 days ago that my mother was told that she had vascular dementia. The brain scans indicated she had suffered some strokes that had resulted in permanent changes to her brain. Her geriatrician suggested to her that she should consider not driving any more and that she begin to make arrangements for increased support if she wanted to stay in her own home. I could hardly believe these words; they seemed impossible, a mistake, a joke, perhaps something that this doctor told all her patients. My mum continued to be the most intelligent person I knew. I depended on her opinions, her feedback and her perspective on almost every aspect of my life. I knew my brother felt the same; he would take her through the minutia of his decisions, his financial planning, house purchases, and the plans he and his wife had for their children during their long weekly phone calls from Vancouver. My mum had spent one year taking care of his daughter during a year abroad in Florida where she studied dance at a ballet academy, a crucial step towards her present career as a dancer with the Stuttgart Ballet in Germany. Similarly, she took care of my own daughter when she moved up to Collingwood, Ontario to train as an elite cross-country skier with the Ontario Nordic Ski Team, racing at a national level. My sister’s life was equally intertwined with mum’s. Her family bought a cottage in the village our mum retired to, a sleepy, enchanted summer paradise, perched on the cliffs above Lake Huron, world famous for its sunsets. We all enjoyed long summers together, taking turns hosting family dinners, entertaining, laughing, swimming and enjoying the beach. We were a family who benefitted from the commanding presence of a brilliant, captivating, beautiful and inspiring matriarch. My mother truly was the centre of our large, bustling, extremely vibrant family with her three children who adored her and nine grandchildren who considered her as their beloved “Gabby”. I read and reread the doctor’s scrawled notes that day, with her recommendations for everything from further testing to commentary on the accompanying brain scans. I had dozens of questions: would her dementia progress quickly? Would this mean her independence was coming to an end? Should she live with one of us? What happens next? How can we help her, preserve her dignity, save her? Exactly two days later, on a cold and dark November night at 11:00 pm, she fell on the steps to her porch after walking her little Pomeranian. This fall represented the onset of a rapid decline in just about every marker of her wellbeing. After 2 weeks in and out of the hospital she came out a very different person. She was consumed by the pain from her back injury, was extremely confused from hospital induced delirium, and on heavy pain medication. What now? My sister asked. Nursing care, the doctor responded. We had absolutely no road map for how to proceed, all of us anxious, bereft, and completely at a loss. I cared for my mum over the next five months at our home, loving her, physically rehabilitating her, until we secured a place for her at a beautiful independent living senior’s residence in Toronto, near the neighbourhood she grew up in Rosedale. She is in a small apartment and has made some wonderful friends and receives the most loving care from the caregivers and staff. Mum has had her ups and downs, her dementia continues to progress, notably more significantly after an illness. Despite this being her greatest fear prior to her diagnosis, mum still lives a life that she values and has gratitude for, each day. She loves our visits and the continued devotion and love of her grandchildren. She has regained her hearty laugh and love of conversation she shares with new friends in her new community and she adores the twice weekly music concerts at her seniors home. She promises us that she intends to be sticking around for some time, excited to see how the lives of her grandchildren she has been so invested in continue to unfold, their careers and their romances. Despite struggling with memory, especially short term, her vocabulary is still superior to mine as she artfully constructs her sentences for maximum impact. During my last visit with her, I had to remind her of today’s date and that she was approaching her 89 th birthday, but she sang an entire verse of a song from “Me and My Gal” and correctly remarked, “this is definitely Chopin” that we were listening to on her speaker. Dementia is a cruel, cruel disease, but my advice to anyone whose loved one is suffering from it, is to remain there to witness, love and appreciate the essence that is there, within the confusion, to find that essence, be present with it, let it comfort you, and hold it dearly, with gratitude, every single day.