05-07-2025
My mother has Alzheimer's. Caring for her has taught me something valuable
Written by Malathi Renati
The first signs of dementia (Alzheimer's) in my mother began to surface around eight years ago. It crept in gradually, so gently that it wasn't immediately obvious, until I noticed her regularly reaching for the newspaper to confirm the day of the week. Dementia is progressive and unfolds in seven stages — mom's in her fourth. Medical intervention cannot reverse its effects; at best, it can slow the progression.
Watching a once-strong and meticulously organised woman experience cognitive decline has been one of the most excruciating journeys I've been on. As her primary caregiver, I've been through waves of frustration, helplessness, sadness, and, at times, hope. Over time, I've come to accept this reality for what it is. At least she is, more often than not, in a happy space, detached from painful memories, living in a gentle, dreamlike trance. I don't want to downplay the challenges, but I'd rather focus on the learnings, lessons that have helped me grow as a person and in my role as a caregiver.
Forgetfulness is the most visible and defining trait. And to support someone through it, you need a healthy mix of patience, empathy and a sense of humour. Patience — because it's tough answering the same question over and over again, (and no, they don't derive any twisted joy from putting you through repeat mode). Empathy — because you know they're not doing it on purpose, they genuinely don't remember. And humour — because as a caregiver, laughter is one of the ways to help you cope and preserve your sanity without burning out.
My mom, now an octogenarian, has always found solace in music. Of late, FM radio has been her loyal companion during her moments of solitude. While she no longer enjoys stepping out as much, car rides to the doctor or family gatherings become little windows of stimulation — new scenes, sounds, and interactions. Before heading out, she insists on carrying her essentials: Purse, walking stick, water bottle, and her snack dabba. I use this opportunity to play her favourite songs — ABBA or Boney M — music that lifts her spirit, gets her swaying, humming, or tapping her feet.
Given her shortened attention span, it's the conversations we have during these drives through Bengaluru's infamous traffic that I find most telling. One of her recent obsessions has been the Daytime Running Lights (DRLs), now mandatory in cars (post-April 2019) and two-wheelers. As a once-confident and safe driver herself, she's unimpressed.
'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 from a crater-sized pothole, briefly airborne and thoroughly rattled, 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?'
'We have a family gathering — you'll get to meet everyone.'
This prompts her to rummage through her purse to check if she has enough cash — an old habit. You should never visit someone's home empty-handed, she reminds me, and the kids must always receive a small gift while parting.
A few minutes later, it's déjà vu. We're back to DRLs, potholes, destination queries and purse checks. 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 yet another traffic jam, I steal a glance at her, happily humming, alive in her own gentle loop and in the present, to the unshakable rhythm of 'Dancing Queen'.
The writer is head of Policy School, Takshashila Institution
