The circle of loss (and learning)

I first met Nyah's Mum, Mrs P, in early 2014 when I went with Nyah to visit her at her rest home.

I had heard about her long before that, of course. Nyah's outpouring of stories revealed much about this woman's past. But I had no idea what the future would hold for the two of us.

I was Nyah's 'friend,' introduced anew at every visit.

"Do you remember my friend...?"
"Of course I do..!"

Usually that was on a Sunday when my children were with their father. We bought flowers from the market across the road from our house and included them in our weekly photo of our market produce. Nyah paid attention to their colour and scent, trying to find flowers that could be enjoyed by a woman with failing eyesight.

In September that year Mrs P needed to be moved into more specialist care due to her dementia. Myself and Nyah's son in law loaded up my car and his and moved her belongings three suburbs over.

Some days Nyah struggled with the person that the dementia had turned her mother into. She researched and talked to people about how to manage this for herself. Her mother's aggression. Paranoia. Despair. Some days I saw this when I visited with Nyah, and saw how this became so circular. I saw the skills that Nyah learned to help both her and her mother manage these distressing moments.

But at other times Mrs P engaged us with her sharp wit and brilliant sense of humour. Dementia had taken many things, but this showed through.

In December 2015 Nyah went on a week long trip for work and I said I'd stop by and visit her Mum. My first solo visit. And it was great. I, too, had learned how to chatter to her and we talked about the trees outside, the weather, where Nyah was.

"She's in Holland!"
"NO..!?"

There was some despair as Mrs P didn't believe Nyah would be back to visit. But then we got talking about cats, and she asserted quite convincingly that she had brought her cat out from England when she emigrated. I asked her how, and with deep earnestness, but a twinkle in her eye, she said "In my suitcase."

We both laughed the kind of laugh where you can throw your head back and revel in the moment.

That's when I knew we were friends. But only for that moment.

And the moments where I trimmed the flowers while Nyah and her Mum talked.

The moments where her and I would 'gang up' on Nyah in a conversation that was supposed to be too sophisticated for a dementia patient.

In the moment I brought my children to meet her for the first time.

"Haven't you grown!"

"She's a nice lady," said my daughter.

In the moment I sat and jiggled her hand to stop an apnoea episode in the emergency department of the hospital after she'd broken her arm.

In the moment she confused me with a female relative on account of my shape and stature.

In the moment I pinned up and rearranged paintings and photos in the room of the private hospital room that was to be her home for less than a week.

In the moment when I chatted to her, wiped her face and held her hand in her morphine haze.

In the moment I had the privilege of accompanying her daughter to say what would be her final goodbye.

I blew a kiss to my friend as we left. I'd never done that before.

Life is a knitting together of moments, but for dementia patients, every moment is the only one.

That is my loss. The loss of moments of laughter and joy.

But I've learned.

I've learned about love.
Devoted love.
A daughter's love as roles become reversed.

And I've learned how to be in the moment.
 Look at the trees.
Watch the people going past.
Make someone laugh
.

And hold onto that smile you see.

It may be the only moment you have.