I dread the day that Mia tells me she doesn’t remember her Dad. Or her mum. It will likely happen.

She’ll forget their voice, face, mannerisms. It will hurt. Memories are important.

They’re important to me at any rate;

My memories of feeling like I let a friend down pushes me to reach out to those in need.

The memory of self-loathing and sadness I felt at the hands of people who were my friends, pushes me to stand up for myself and strive for better.

The memories of those who have passed away, helps me keep them alive. Their laugh, bad dancing, friendships, the way they’d eat. All of it.

I bring this up not to depress you. There is a story here.

Earlier this week I went to visit my Grandma; she lives in a nursing home now, and I don’t visit her nearly as much as I should.

Nan is Greek, has been her entire life. (boom boom). She was valedictorian of her high school, can speak 7 languages and write in 5 of them (or something like that).

As her dementia has advanced, she more conversely speaks Greek – she still talks in English, but you can see the struggle.

As I sat at the nursing home, watching her interact with Mia, lapping up the attention and love, I started taking photos of her. With Mia. Just by herself. Photos are important too.

She forgets who I am a lot of the time. Most of the time really. She’ll ask Mum ‘Who is that lady’ in Greek. I’ve heard that phrase a lot. I know that phrase now. I also know the look in her eyes when Mum tells her that I’m her grand-daughter. The disappointment. She hates the fact she can’t remember. She always apologises, I always tell her it’s OK.

And it is. She can’t help her dementia. Mum explains who I am. Who my sister is. Who Mia’s father is. We show her photos. Mum gets sad, I try to make them laugh. It seems hollow, though. Heartbreaking.

This isn’t The Notebook – we can’t tell her a story and she magically remembers everything for a while. That’s unfortunately not how this works. We tell her stories, spend time with her and then we leave again.

It destroys mum. Mum wants to visit more. Wants me to visit more. Wants me to go in by myself. I had to tell Mum recently that I’m not comfortable visiting by myself. I can’t speak Greek. Nan doesn’t remember me either. The only one she seems to constantly remember is Mum. Does that make me selfish? Yeah. Maybe.

Nan loves hanging out with Mia. It’s interesting to watch. The reality is, though; Nan doesn’t know that Mia is the daughter of her son. The son that passed away. Mum tells her. Reminds her of this.

It destroys mum. Mum lost her youngest brother and now watches her mum forget more and more every week. I can’t even think of what will happen when Nan passes away; the guilt Mum will feel (Because, you know, she’s Greek, and Greeks love guilt).

When the hospital told us that Uncle Murray wouldn’t get better, when we realised that we’d have to tell Nan that he was going to die, someone suggested for us to not tell Nan that he died. Let her live her last few years thinking that Murray was alive and well.

It was a ridiculous, stupid, fucking awful decision to make.

We obviously told her. Gave her a chance to say goodbye to him. Watched her break down and feel the all too familiar pang of loss. Watched my other Uncle tell her to pull it together. That he was with his Dad now. (Let’s park that one).

Does she remember that?

I don’t know that she could cope with those memories. Nan was always a tad melodramatic. (One of mums childhood best friends summed it up best recently when she said ‘You know what? For someone who constantly said they were dying, she sure has done well to make it to 85’)

Murray was Nan’s pride and joy, the golden child, the best son ever.

So, maybe it would be OK if she didn’t remember him.

She wouldn’t have to live every day with the memory of losing her 2 husbands and her youngest son.

Wouldn’t live with the constant reminders.

In the moments that she remembers Murray; which version does she remember? The young and happy one? Or the one laying in a hospital bed?

Does forgetting some of your most painful memories help you live your life?

Maybe. Maybe Nan having dementia is a blessing in this situation. Maybe the pain we feel having to remind her, remind ourselves, maybe that’s better. Better than her living the last few years of her life remembering her most painful times. Or maybe I’m just wishful thinking. Maybe suggesting that her dementia is helpful, is just a way I can cope with another stupid painful time.

I don’t know. I’ll never know.

At what point do our memories push us backwards, instead of propel us forward?