‘Hi, Mum’, said a cheery voice as I answered my phone in the middle of a bookstore. I froze. Because although I am a mum, it wasn’t either of my children on the other end of the phone. It was my own mother.

At that moment, with my phone in my hand, I didn’t know how to react. ‘Go along with it’ is often the advice given when dealing with people who have dementia. But should I remind my mum that her own mother died
40 years ago and that I am, in fact, her daughter?

My mum, Diane, was one of the first women to get a scholarship to Cambridge University in 1960s. She went on to have a 30-year career as 
a producer and director for the BBC. Travelling the world to war-torn countries, reporting news and current affairs, she was more comfortable in combats than heels. 

The first sign of a problem came in 2018, with increasing forgetfulness. It had been subtle at first: asking the same question twice over dinner.

Then came heightened anxiety over the smallest things. The woman who once got to an airport to fly across the world with an hour’s notice would call me every few hours to rehash our lunch plans at the café where we had met 100 times. This annoyed me and I asked myself, ‘Why is she being so ridiculously needy?’

It has always been just Mum and me. My grandmother died when my mum was pregnant – and my dad left at the same time.

Endless googling of ‘early dementia symptoms’ led to the conclusion that a visit to the GP was in order. The first step was a blood test to rule out any deficiencies – thyroid, vitamin B12, anaemia – that can change someone’s mental state.

Next was a referral to the memory clinic where Mum had comprehensive neuropsychological testing. And finally, a brain scan.

Then, in 2018, came the devastating diagnosis: at the age of 72, Mum had Alzheimer’s, the most common type of dementia. We attended the appointment together. I recall her being quiet for
a while and then saying, ‘Oh well, at least we can start rewatching our Jonathan Creek boxset – I clearly won’t remember any of the endings!’

I felt a range of emotions: relief that there was something wrong, anger that this was happening to us, and scared for what the future held. Would Mum ever meet grandchildren and be at my wedding? How long until she’d no longer know who I was?

In the first couple of years, the progression was slow. Then Covid hit. I guess we’ll never know if the isolation directly affected Mum’s health, but enough studies have been done to show that being isolated and unoccupied can lead to faster progression.

Visiting the flat of my once house-proud mum after not being able to do so for a few months during lockdown was shocking. Piles of rubbish, a fridge full of rotting food, cat poo on the carpet. My guilt was overwhelming: the woman who had raised me single-handedly really needed me – and I had let her down.

We relocated Mum to around the corner from our home and I fell into a carer role. I took over all life admin: shopping, cleaning, bills. Luckily I’d applied for power of attorney while Mum was still of sound mind. That’s something I highly recommend doing when caring for a loved one because the process is more complicated further down the line. It’s part of the advice given by Alzheimer’s Society, too.

Time-confusion is a common symptom of dementia but tools are available to help. Mum’s flat featured two dementia clocks that simplify time by writing it out – ‘three in the morning’ etc. A toddler clock at the front door stated ‘red means night, green means day’ and sensors on doors alerted my phone whenever they opened and closed.

I urge anyone in a similar position to reach out for help. From gadgets to coping techniques, Alzheimer’s Society has so much advice. The earlier the diagnosis, the better it is for all concerned.

It hasn’t been all doom and gloom, though. As Mum regresses into a childlike state, the simplest of things bring her happiness: the blossom on 
a tree, a good cup of tea, dancing to a busker in the street with my toddler. Pure joy was on her face every time she clocked my baby bump during my second pregnancy. ‘You’re pregnant!’ she’d exclaim.

Now living in a care home near me, she’s baking, painting and growing vegetables at an allotment.

I get to hold Mum’s hand and watch the faces of my children light up when they see her. We’re still making memories I’ll treasure for ever.