MY grandmother still remembers me. For that, I am grateful. But each visit reminds me that she is no longer the same woman who once anchored my world.
She asks me, again and again, to take her back to her house – the house that still stands, filled with decades of memories but where she can no longer live on her own. Each time I explain why she cannot go and each time it feels like a small heartbreak – a reminder that dementia is not only about memory loss but about losing pieces of the person you love.
I often think back to the woman she was before this illness took hold. She was widowed at 47, left to care for six children, two of them still in school. She had no career, no official title, no pension waiting for her but she carried her family with a strength far greater than any of those things.
She cooked, cleaned and managed the household, ensuring every ringgit was enough for her children’s needs and for the family to carry on. For me, she was more than a grandmother – she was my second mother, a constant presence in my life.
She was there for every bruised knee, every heartbreak and every small joy. When I married, she cried as though I were her own daughter. When I became a mother myself, her happiness was doubled, as if life had rewarded her twice. Her love was steady and unconditional, the kind of love you never question because it is woven so tightly into your being.
Now, that love feels trapped inside an illness she cannot control. The warmth and patience that once filled her have been replaced by restlessness and agitation, and at times she lashes out at the very children who care for her.
It is hard to see her children bear the weight of caregiving. Their love for her is clear but so is their weariness. Each day asks more of them – in the long nights, in the difficult choices and in the quiet sorrow of watching the mother who once held them now slip further and further away.
This is the cruelty of dementia. It does not just steal memory; it steals the person you knew, piece by piece. It forces you into a strange kind of grief – one that begins long before death and lingers without closure.
And yet, my family’s story is far from unique. In Malaysia today, more than 8% of senior citizens aged 60 and above are estimated to live with dementia – a figure that translates into nearly 260,000 people.
With our population ageing rapidly, the number is projected to rise sharply in the coming years. By 2040, nearly one in seven Malaysians will be over 65 and dementia cases are expected to more than double.
This means more and more families will find themselves in this quiet struggle – piecing together home care, juggling work and children, and wondering if they are doing enough.
Yet, dementia care remains under-recognised and under-resourced in Malaysia. We do not talk about it enough, even though it is already reshaping the lives of hundreds of thousands of families.
That is why we must stop thinking of dementia as simply “old age”. It is not a normal part of growing older; it is a disease – one that strips dignity and tests love in ways most people cannot imagine until they are living through it.
When I visit her now, I do not expect her to be the grandmother she once was. Instead, I try to meet her where she is – even if that means hearing the same question 10 times, even if it means being patient with her anger.
Because when I hold her hand, when I sit with her in her confusion, I am doing more than comforting her; I am honouring the woman she has always been – strong, fearless and devoted.
If memory fades, then it is love that must remain. It is compassion that must remain. It is care – however imperfect, however difficult – that must remain.
I write this not only for my grandmother but for every family living through the quiet heartbreak of dementia. May we find strength in one another’s stories and may we remember that while memory may slip away, love – given and received – endures.
Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor at theSun. Comments: [email protected]
