When medicine can only delay the inevitable

By Akhilesh Upreti

The neurologist was blunt. “No, dementia can’t be cured,” he said firmly. “At best, we can slow it down.” The answer was simple and straightforward. Yet, I found it hard to accept. “What does it mean,” I asked.

“It means that your mother will never be the same again. The best we can do is to slow down its progress.”

“And how do you do that,” I asked.

‘We will watch her response to the medicine,” he said. ‘Whenever needed we will increase the dosage.” He was also clear about one more thing. “My role ends here. After that you and the family must take over.”

It’s a conversation I often remember whenever I look at my mother. “Have I done enough?” is the question that plagues me constantly.

Her decline has been slow, but very evident. She hates leaving the bed. You have to cajole her to come out and sit in the sun. Our terrace overlooks the children’s play area and there is plenty of activity in the afternoon. But she is not interested.

She has stopped using her phone and refuses to take calls. The phone that was a great source of socialisation in the past does not interest her anymore. She has handed it to me for being kept safely. This is in sharp contrast to the days when she spent hours gossiping on the phone. It was almost like a lifeline for her then.

She has even stopped doing her daily puja. This kept her busy for a good 45 minutes every morning and half an hour in the evening. Now, the puja items have been kept in the side cupboard.

She has also stopped watching TV. There was a time she was glued to it. Now, she refuses to watch it. “I have forgotten everything,” she says.

The relatives and friends who visited us regularly have gradually melted away. This is what ageism does. People don’t know how to connect with the elderly. They prefer to stay away.

So, how does my mother spend her time? By lying in the bed. The nursing attendant makes sure that she has a bath every day, and that she leaves the bed for the living room to have food. That is all the activity.

I realise that this is what the neurologist meant when he wanted the family to step in. Give reasons to my mother to live. She has nothing to look forward to. Every day is as dreary as the day that is over.

I also understand this. But any effort to bring her out of her self-imposed isolation is rebuffed. The answers are pat. “I don’t have the strength to get up,” is her standard response.

The night promises little respite. “I lie awake through the night,” she tells you again and again.

Her fears of people watching her, wanting to hurt her have further compounded the problem. She wants a family member to stay next to her once it gets dark.

It is like a vicious circle. The more she isolates herself the more the chances of her recovery lessen.

How much can the medicine do? It can only delay the inevitable. Her mind will continue to crumble, and we can only watch it helplessly.

Read also:
When the dementia medicine pushed my mother to the edge
The last event in an elderly person’s life
I missed my mother’s first symptoms of dementia, you should not