Daughter of Dementia

A poetic reflection on a "missed" birthday. Repost from 2/14/23.

Dementia cuts are not always deep, but they are many. Today the slice came from the one person who was very intimately there in the beginning, on that very special day 36 years ago when I entered this world and her life, not remembering to tell me happy birthday. For those who can relate or those who are trying to understand, the below poem provid

es glimpses into what it can feel like to field the comments and pity from others and to wrestle with the guilt and sadness one can feel on the lucid side of the relationship. Much love to you all this Valentine’s Day.

Your mom never showed up

Or she showed without a dish

She seemed really confused

Or she forgot to bring a gift

Your mom lied to us

She’s just not the same

She is difficult to talk to

Always the same refrain

If others’ remarks are bad

My own misgivings are the worst

The impatience, the lack of understanding,

Aways putting myself first

She is my mom for goodness sake

Why can’t she take care of me?

I want to pick her brain

To know our family history

I want to tell her about my day

To learn about my early years

So I can pass down to my daughter

What qualities of mine were also hers

“Mom, you just told me that”

I often heard myself say

Of course that wasn’t helpful

I learned along the way

She is the sweetest soul

And would put anyone above herself

To see her suffering alone

Losing her own mental health

It’s a slow burn.

Of joy, time, and memories

This disease is a thief.

It stole the person who made me me.