Running on empty while loving someone who’s forgetting

I haven’t visited my dad for a while. We went away on holiday and, when I got back, it was a mad scramble to catch up on work. Weekends have been packed with swimming lessons, swimming galas, children’s parties.

It feels like one of those phases when life becomes a very long-distance run: all you can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other and try not to think about how much your body hurts, how tired you are. Get the kids ready for school, drop them off, rush to work, rush back to school, cook dinner, put them to bed, collapse. Then start all over again.

I know I need to go and see my dad, and I’ll have to plan another visit over Christmas too. Like last year, he’ll be in the care home for Christmas Day. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s also the best place for him. He hardly knows us now. He has his routines and the familiar people around him, and it wouldn’t be kind to wrench him out of that just so we can feel better about where he lives.

It’s so much more complicated than it looks from the outside. I always thought I would care for my parents, no matter what happened, but it turns out that advanced dementia requires specialist support I simply can’t give.

If it were me with dementia, I’d rather be cared for by professionals than by my own family, no matter how much they loved me.

I saw someone comment on an Instagram post the other day, saying she couldn’t believe people “leave” their parents in care homes. It cut deep—right in that guilty place I think all family members of people in care homes carry.

And then there’s the fact that I still haven’t visited him this month, and the month is nearly over.

But visiting is often painful, and I feel like my presence unsettles him. Imagine someone you barely recognise coming into your calm, predictable day, trying to hug you and asking questions you no longer have the words to answer. I bring sweet treats to soften the blow, but I can tell he doesn’t love me being there.

Sometimes it takes me back to being a child, sensing that my presence was irritating to a parent, that maybe they didn’t always want me around. You feel too loud, too demanding, simply by existing and needing things.

My dad famously didn’t want children, and my mum persuaded him otherwise, so the feeling that I’m encroaching on his peace has a long history for me.

When a family member has dementia, it brings every old wound into sharp relief. It’s like the winter sun shining low through the windows, suddenly revealing how dirty the glass has been all along. Dementia shows up the smears and imperfections in your relationship.

It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote here, but it feels good to get my feelings down on paper again. I highly recommend writing about your loved one with dementia—if only to help you process the tangle of feelings it brings up.