Lydia Moore

Maureen & Lydia’s story x

New Year 2022. I started it as I had done for over a decade: alone.

I’d been what some would call an ‘orphan’ after Mum walked out in 2010. I lost my dad shortly after. Two parents, six months. A whirlwind.

Skip forward 12 years, 72 breakdowns, more therapy than you can imagine, and I was on my feet for the first time in forever. An amazing new job, even better prospects, a nice home… that little ginger kid had actually made it.

But then a message came in late May. One that would change everything and more.

My uncle had passed away, my Mum’s last brother. A link that made me think of nothing but her. In that moment, a decision was made: she needed to know. Despite everything, she deserved that much.

I was terrified. I’d not seen her since I was 14/15, and things weren’t ideal at that point. She wasn’t a well woman. My childhood was anything but idyllic, or rainbows and fairies.

I spent the morning in a mix of crying, vomiting and talking myself out of even going to look. The decision to go was hard enough to make, let alone follow through with. But big-girl socks were pulled up, my hair was brushed, and I was out the door, unsure of the woman I’d return as.

After 12 years and 7 days — 627 weeks — I found my Mum.

It took hours. Walking between pubs, off-licences, asking local alcoholics if they knew ‘this woman’ whilst showing them an incredibly outdated picture, unsure if she even looked the same anymore.

Eventually, someone knew her name. They were confident she used to live down the road. Before I knew it, I was standing in the front room of a stranger, being told my Mum had dementia and had been put into a care home just down the road.

Dissociation doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I heard the words, but they felt miles away. I knew I was standing up, but one light push and I’d have fallen. At first, I even argued that it couldn’t be the same woman. She had multiple sclerosis, yes, but dementia? Absolutely not. She was only 60?!

Of course, from there, my immediate stop was the care home in question.

This was still post-COVID restrictions, so a mask was needed. I found myself standing behind a door that might give me answers. The time between knocking and getting an answer felt like a lifetime.

Eventually, a woman answered. I asked for my Mum by name and lowered my mask.

The woman’s face softened and she responded simply:

‘We’ve waited for you to come.’

I was sat down in their reception and fed a decade’s worth of information in 5–10 minutes, while they got my Mum out of bed and downstairs to, I guess, ‘meet me’ for the first time all over again.

It was confirmed that she did, in fact, have dementia. She had for a while. She had declined rapidly over the previous two years and was now bed-bound. She spoke a little, but not much. She knew she had a daughter, but not the woman I was in that moment.

My entire life was flipped upside down in an instant.

Everything I thought I knew, I didn’t.

Within the space of an hour, I went from the woman I was going into 2022 as, to a girl faced with the fact that her Mum was dying.

‘Fast-track end of life’, to be more precise.

When she first walked out, her dementia was starting. As an adult, it makes sense. The strange stories she’d tell. The irrational and erratic behaviour. Not being able to remember things like my birthday or how old I was that year.

But as a teenager, that was weird. Incomprehensible.

My Mum was just classified as ‘crazy’, and we left it at that.

We met again that day, and a new bond was built.

We cried for the life we’d lost. We spent the whole afternoon saying very little, but the understanding was mutual. We needed each other for this final journey.

From that moment, her and all she came with became my focus.

I couldn’t leave her to face this alone. I wouldn’t let her die with no one by her side.

We spent the most magical seven months together. Good days and bad.

We shared our last birthdays together, something I never would have expected. Sang together. Rewatched programmes we once loved. Battled sepsis on multiple occasions. Comforted each other when we couldn’t comfort ourselves.

She even fed herself, despite being told she couldn’t.

So much was said. Even more was done, although she couldn’t talk or walk.

We just understood.

Before I knew it, I was with her daily. Forever proud of the things she was achieving and hoping she’d hold on for a little longer, so I could have the Mum I’d always wished for.

In October of that year, she contracted sepsis again. This time, all treatment was stopped. She had become too weak. Her body would no longer accept the treatment, and it would be cruel to continue.

A shotgun Christmas was had. A day by her bedside, trying to make one last memory together.

In true Maureen fashion, she defied expectations and made it home even after that!

Every additional day was a blessing. We spent more time gathering memories and making life as good as it could be, despite everything.

Some days she knew who I was. Others, I was just a friendly stranger. I learnt to accept that and appreciate the days when she would remember even more.

Eventually, she took ill again and passed away on the 22nd December that year, nearly exactly seven months to the day we met.

Not one day in that time was regretted.

They were difficult, exhausting and emotionally testing, but every second was worth it.

Dementia is not something I would wish on anyone. A slow goodbye is correct. But sometimes it felt like I was saying goodbye over and over again.

It can be lonely for those around a loved one who has been diagnosed. A world of unknown and uncertainty. A desperation to fix everything that is breaking, whilst having no control at all.

The support offered by Dementia UK  is invaluable. The difference between feeling alone and being seen.

That’s why I plan to support this charity again this year and walk 62 miles in October.

Not only in memory of my lovely mother, but for everyone else who has experienced this awful illness. Whether diagnosed themselves or supporting someone who has been.

It’s a long road, with more bumps than you can imagine, and having access to resources and help truly makes all the difference.

If you can spare anything at all, please consider donating.