A year later. Mum’s dementia is slowly getting worse.
I constantly have to problem solve to get around the next difficulty.
I walk down the corridor and pass the bathroom. I see mum with her pants pulled down, her top pulled up, and she is wiping herself. She has forgotten to close the door again.
I scold: Mum, you must close the door!
Then I explain, as calmly and clearly as I can: There are other people, young men, that live in this house who will feel uncomfortable seeing you almost naked!
Yes yes, I know. It was just this time, mum says, apologetically.
I feel cruel and a bully. I’m trying to train her, but realise it’s time to shift my approach. It is hard for her to remember those things, like closing the bathroom door after her. Her dementia has stepped down (or stepped up) another notch.
I’m losing mum and she’s losing me.