Watching a once-independent woman experience cognitive decline has been one of the most excruciating journeys I’ve walked.
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The first signs of dementia in my mother surfaced around eight years ago. It crept in silently and almost unnoticed. Dementia is progressive; medical intervention cannot reverse its effects; at best, it can slow the progression.
Watching a once-independent woman experience cognitive decline has been one of the most excruciating journeys I’ve walked. As her primary caregiver, I’ve been through waves of frustration and sadness. Over time, I’ve come to accept this reality. At least she is, more often than not, in a happy space—detached from painful memories, living in a dreamlike trance.
Forgetfulness is the most visible trait. Supporting someone through it requires patience, empathy, and a generous sense of humour. Patience, because it’s tough answering the same question repeatedly. Empathy, because they genuinely don’t remember. And humour: because as a caregiver, laughter is a creative tool to cope.
My mom, now in her eighties, continues to find solace in music. While she no longer enjoys stepping out as much, car rides become little windows of stimulation. Before heading out, she insists on carrying her essentials: purse, walking stick and her water bottle. I use these opportunities to play her favourite songs, ABBA or Boney M.
Given her shortened attention span, it’s the conversations we have during these drives through Bengaluru’s infamous traffic that I find most telling. Her recent curiosity has been the daytime running lights (DRLs).
“Why are they keeping their lights on in broad daylight?” she asks, frowning.
“Such a waste of energy! I hope you don’t have yours on too.”
I reassure her mine are not. She beams in approval.
Moments later, after we disappear and emerge out of a crater-sized pothole, she exclaims, “These roads are in terrible shape! Why aren’t they fixing them?”
BBMP, neevu keluttiddiraa? (are you listening?) Even your senior citizens remain unimpressed.
And then, as ABBA’s Dancing Queen starts playing, I hear her ask again,
“Where are we going?”
“To your sister’s place, Ma.”
“Why are we going there?” “For a family gathering.”
This prompts her to check her purse for cash, an old habit. You should never visit someone’s home empty-handed, she reminds me. A few minutes later, it’s déjà vu. We’re back to DRLs, potholes and queries. All while ABBA serenades us in the background.
But here’s the thing: amid all this repetition, my biggest learning has been how to live in the present. My mother teaches me that every single day. To stop being consumed by the past or the uncertainties of the future. To focus on the now. Just this car ride. This song. This moment.
As I navigate another pothole, I steal a glance at her, happily humming, alive in her own gentle loop and in the present, to the unshakeable rhythm of Dancing Queen.
Ma, thank you! You have taught me to appreciate the melody amid all the din.