Personal essay: A granddaughter's love amidst dementia

Annabel!” exclaimed my grandmother, delicately pronouncing each syllable as if my name was ingrained in her mind. It once was. Every Friday night for as long as I remember, my family and I would wind up at her navy-blue front door for Sabbath dinner. The outside light illuminated the early-night sky, and a faint yet enticing aroma of home cooking could be smelled through the door’s crevices. She remembered that we were coming.

Each week my grandmother, whom we called Mama, cooked something different. Whether it was a crispy-topped fish pie served with golden brown potatoes or a hearty chicken and vegetable stew made in a cast-iron pot, she never required a cookbook. She knew each recipe by memory from decades’ worth of indulging in her love of baking. One thing that never changed, however, were the two silver-glazed candlesticks that burned brightly at the centre of her round oak kitchen table. As an emblem of our Jewish heritage, she never forgot to proudly light them. But one day, the candles irrevocably lost their light.

When my Mama first had trouble recalling my name, her bright blue eyes stared blankly into mine, and her pale pink lips quivered with confusion. “Annabel,” I recited, deliberately stressing each syllable for her to digest, as she was once able to do. From then on, I was forced to articulate my name in this manner. Each time I caught a flicker of hope in her knowing nod, but it was always a matter of moments before the light switched off and she had forgotten my name once more. Dementia is an increasingly common disease that has robbed the minds of nearly 55 million people worldwide, and my Mama was one of them.

In the early stages of her dementia, my family and I clung to our weekly custom of visiting my Mama for dinner. But as we pulled into the light-grey gravel driveway, her outside light was off, feeding into the void of the pitch-black sky. Not even the faintest whiff of aromatic herbs and spices could be discerned at the front door. She’d forgotten that we were coming. I knew that our Friday nights would never be the same again.

The love and joy that had once been so plentiful in my Mama’s home slowly drained away through the gaping holes in her memory. The candlesticks that formerly filled her home with light were hidden behind the sombre glass cabinet. Her pots and pans of various shapes and sizes, along with the assortment of ingredients that had always been strewn across the kitchen, were tucked away in a small oak cupboard.

I was never able to truly grasp the reality of my Mama’s dementia, and I don’t think I will ever be able to. The woman who was first to pick me up from school in her silver Aygo. The one who sat down and played Monopoly with me for hours, no matter how fed up she may have been. The one whose feet I used to stand on while we slowly waltzed across the living room to ABBA songs. How could all of those fond memories just be gone?

I felt so lost; the person closest to me went from knowing everything about me to not knowing my name. I craved that nostalgic feeling and felt compelled to replicate the sweet memories that we had once shared, so I did. In the latter stages of her illness, I often found myself back outside her eccentric blue front door on Friday evenings. She never knew that I was coming. On each visit, I’d strike a match and light the Sabbath candles, which sparked a reflective glow in her eyes. I’d take the ABBA disc out of its fragile plastic casing and carefully place it into the silver CD player. My Mama instinctively smiled as she sat in her plush chocolate-brown armchair and slightly tapped her feet in rhythm with the music.

I’ll always remember the last time I saw my Mama - the last time dementia got the better of her. She laid beneath her white cotton duvet, fast asleep. She looked so frail and helpless; I couldn’t help but feel tearful. I perched on the bed beside her and placed her calloused hand in mine. Her eyelids gently cracked open, and I caught a glimpse of her sparkling blue eyes. “What’s my name?” I whispered with a flicker of hope, but she was unable to respond. It has been a year now since my Mama passed away, and I still think about her every single day. While she may have forgotten my name, I will always remember hers.