Asking The Same Questions. Repetition and Dementia

As my mum’s dementia progressed, the questions kept coming. Sometimes they weren’t even really questions. They felt almost accusatory.

Where was I going? Why was I going? When would I be back? Why hadn’t I told her? What time was the appointment? Who was taking her? Why did she have to go?

I would answer her, and then a few minutes later, she would ask me again.

And again. And again.

I’m not going to pretend I handled it well every time, because I didn’t. I would get impatient and say, “I’ve already told you that. Don’t you remember?”

And then one day, I caught myself.

Don’t you remember?

Of course she didn’t remember. She had dementia. What was I doing?

That was when I started looking into what dementia was actually doing to her wee brain. She might not have remembered what I had told her, but she was left with the feeling that something was happening. She knew there was something she should know, something she had perhaps forgotten, and she was desperately trying to make sense of it.

For me, every time she asked the same question, it felt as though she was fighting the dementia. She was trying to hold on to the answer, trying to understand and trying not to let the disease take it from her. The question might have disappeared from her memory, but the worry was still there, so she asked again.

Appointments were a perfect example. I learned not to tell her about one until perhaps an hour or two beforehand. If I told her the day before, or even too early that morning, neither of us got any peace. She wouldn’t remember what the appointment was, but she would know there was something coming. Then the questions would begin, and with every answer, I was really just giving her something else she would struggle to hold on to.

To anyone else, not telling her earlier might have looked as though I was keeping something from her. I wasn’t. I was saving her from hours—or sometimes an entire day—of unnecessary worry.

That didn’t suddenly make it easy. I was still tired. I still became frustrated, and there were still times when I answered more sharply than I should have. Understanding why something is happening doesn’t stop you from being human.

I also began to realise that I was the only person she felt free enough to do this with. Around other people, she was often in host mode. With me, it was continuous. She could question me, accuse me, shout at me and become upset with me because, deep down, she knew I was her safe person.

It didn’t always feel like a compliment at the time. It felt exhausting. But looking back, I understand that she wasn’t deliberately giving me a hard time. She was having a hard time—and I was the person she trusted enough to show it to.

Will knowing all of this make the questions stop? No. They may become more frequent, and there may come a day when they stop for a reason you would give anything to change.

That day is coming for my mum now. She often mumbles incoherently. I can still see the questions on her face, but she can no longer find the words to ask them.

And now I find myself repeating the same question to her, over and over, hoping for some kind of response. Anything. Funny how the tables turn.

There were times when I would have given anything for a break from those questions. Now, I would give anything to hear some of them again.

We’re only human. We become tired, impatient and frustrated. We get things wrong, and then we try to understand and do things differently the next time. That is all any of us can do.