Both Moms with Dementia

1-2 You Damn Bitch!

I was often called a good daughter growing up. I especially enjoyed spending time with grandmothers. Even when I got married, I was happy to hear that there was a grandmother who lived with my husband’s family. Wherever I went, grandmothers were always under my care. After marriage, my dream was to build a two-story house where I could take care of both sides of parents. However, during the early years of marriage, we couldn’t afford to make that dream a reality. When we finally gained the means to do so, both mothers, unfortunately, had already developed dementia, and my dream remained just that—a dream unfulfilled.

As I grew older, so did my mothers, who became grandmothers. Living with them was not that difficult for me. Though I had older siblings and younger ones, I saw taking care of my mom as my natural duty. I even considered it an opportunity to spend more time with her and create precious memories. However, reality turned out to be different. Taking care of her gradually demanded greater sacrifices from me. I believed my sacrifices would ensure everyone's happiness and provide my mom with a fulfilling and contented old age, but as her unusual behavior increased, I grew more and more exhausted. Slowly, I found myself no longer the kind and devoted daughter I once was but instead becoming a bitter, unkind one.

Her aging, frail body, hunched back, and shortness of breath after just a little walking felt so uncouth to me that whenever I saw her appear in the distance, I couldn't help but scowl and wish I could run away. As her dementia progressed day by day, I found myself disliking her more and more.

My mom started speaking to me more harshly, scolding and berating me as if I were a mischievous schoolchild who never listened to her parents. One day, I was having lunch with some friends when I got a call from her. For some reason, her voice on the phone seemed so loud that everyone at the table turned their attention to me with curious expressions. After I hung up, someone asked, "Who was that?" Unable to hide it, I replied, "My mom." Suddenly, everyone’s eyes grew twice as big. “What? Can a mom really talk to her daughter like that? Dementia really is scary!” they said, each offering words of comfort with worried looks. I was mortified. But At least this time, she didn’t swear at me, so that was a small relief.

My mom hurt and upset me no matter where or when. Each time, I yelled back at her with an angry tone, returning her harshness in kind. I said countless words that must have deeply wounded her.

Then one day, in a singing class I attended as a hobby, we learned Na Hoon-a’s song "Hongsi" (Persimmon). That day, I couldn’t sing even a single line of the song.

<I think of the past. When the persimmons ripen, I think of my mom.
After spanking me with a willow branch to teach me a lesson,

she would turn away and silently shed tears.
When it was windy, she worried I might catch a cold.
If I didn’t eat enough, she feared I would grow weak.
She worried I might fall behind in this harsh world.
And she worried I’d get my heart broken by love.
I miss her. When the persimmons ripen, I miss my mom.>

The lyrics of the song seemed to reflect the image of my mother from the past. Childhood memories suddenly came to mind, like scenes from a movie.

I may have been the daughter my mom loved the most. She took me with her wherever she went. I vaguely recall riding on her back while going to the market. She was compassionate, gentle, and a mother I admired but that terrible thing called dementia turned her into someone I want to hide. Thinking of my mom being alone made it hard to control my emotions. Tears kept flowing uncontrollably. Eventually, the song instructor asked me what was going on, and after I explained, they kindly suggested that I bring her along.

I thought Mom, who used to sing well and was always full of energy, would be happy if I helped her and brought her along. However, contrary to my expectations, Mom only complained.

"What are you doing here? Is this what a singing class is? The teacher's singing skill is worse than me," and so on. I felt so embarrassed and sorry, not only to the singing instructor but also to everyone else there. I just wanted to disappear, like I could crawl into a hole and hide like mice.

Mom’s dementia was slipping further beyond comprehension. As her dementia slipped further out of reach, I found myself chasing after her, my frustration growing louder with every step I took “Don’t you know that? How many times do I have to say it! Is this really my mom? Why don’t you listen to me? Why are you so stubborn? Other families have kids causing trouble, but what’s happened to ours? Why does mom make things so hard for us?”

Whenever I faced my mom, she would glare at me with eyes like a tiger's, and without hesitation, she would lash out with curse words that were hard to even repeat.

“You damn bitch!”

“What did you say? You damn bitch? Do you want to curse at your daughter like that?”

“You damn bitch, what the hell is that about? XXXX, what’s going on with you?”

“Do you want your daughter to get cursed with a damn disease?”

I yelled back in response, but my mom's eyes, burning with fury, were so frightening that I couldn’t stay by her side any longer. As I rushed out of the house, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why has my mom become like this?” The more I thought about it, the more unbelievable it seemed, and my own situation felt pitiful. Tears kept streaming down my face, but in my anger, I decided not to see her for a few days. However, after just one day, the resolve I had made vanished, and I found myself heading back to her. At that time, I was so ignorant about dementia that I didn’t realize what my mom needed was love and understanding. Unable to comprehend the 180-degree change in her, I only accumulated emotional scars and unresolved bitterness.

In the midst of such changes in my mother, the words I casually spoke sometimes became thorns that pierced my heart. My mother's complaints and contradictions tested my patience, and more than ever, it felt like the relationship between my mother and me was drifting apart.