Watching a loved one battle dementia is one of the most heartbreaking and complicated experiences anyone can go through. 
It’s a relentless disease, one that takes bits and pieces of the person you once knew, day by day. For my family, it's been the slow unraveling of a woman who’s been a beacon of strength and resilience — a lifelong educator, a two-time breast cancer survivor, and someone who has always been the rock we’ve leaned on.
But even the strongest people can’t escape the cruel grip of dementia, and watching it slowly claim my grandmother, piece by piece, has been devastating. It’s hard to describe the emptiness that settles in as you realize how much of the woman you loved is slipping away. What’s even harder is watching it affect the people I love the most — my children, my father, and, of course, myself.
As painful as it is, though, there’s a strange sense of gratitude that lingers. We are fortunate to still have her here, even as the disease steals little parts of her each day. It’s a double-edged sword: the heartache of seeing the decline, but also the blessing of being able to create memories, however fleeting, while we still can. The moments of clarity — those brief seconds when she’s really there — are like little gifts. They remind us of the woman she once was and the legacy she continues to leave behind, even as dementia erases more of her story.
What makes it even harder is knowing how much my children will one day have to understand this loss. They adore their great-grandmother. They grew up playing trucks on the floor with her, sharing stories and laughter. One day, they will have to say goodbye, and it breaks my heart to think of it. They will have to learn to live with the absence of someone they’ve come to love, someone who taught them the beauty of unconditional love, just as she did for me.
But the hardest part of all? Watching it through my father’s eyes.
My dad has been my hero for as long as I can remember, and seeing him grieve the gradual loss of his mother, piece by piece, has been almost unbearable. In 2012, we lost my Poppi, my dad’s father, and it was a devastating blow that altered the course of our lives. But this is different. Dementia doesn’t bring the sharp, sudden pain of death. It’s the slow, painful erosion of a person, and that’s hard to bear.
I think about how much I longed for the relationship my grandmother and I now share, especially after becoming a mother myself. We have a closeness I always dreamed of, one full of mutual respect and love.
And now, as I watch her interact with my children, I’m reminded of how special that bond is. There’s a part of me that is terrified about the inevitable loss, but also grateful for the time we’ve had and the memories we’ve made.
It’s hard not to feel helpless as we watch dementia take its toll on someone we love so dearly. But there’s a kind of beauty in the resilience she shows — in her quiet strength, even when she no longer remembers all the details of her own life. She has fought hard for every day she’s had, and in that fight, she teaches us all about the importance of holding on to what matters most.
Even in the face of this devastating disease, we are lucky.
We are lucky to still have these days with her, lucky to be able to witness her strength and love, even if it’s hard to watch it slip away. And as much as it breaks my heart to know that one day, my children will experience this kind of loss, I also know that the love and lessons she has given us will remain, long after the last piece of her is gone.
XX, Kelleen
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