This is the bit I don’t like admitting.
My gran was an alcoholic. It was always there. Not loud, not dramatic, just part of who she was. Something everyone knew and no one really knew what to do with.
Then she got dementia.
That changed everything. Or maybe it just made things clearer.
She ended up in a home. Visiting her was hard. Not just practically. Emotionally. She wasn’t really her anymore. Conversations didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes she didn’t know who I was. Sometimes she did and it made it worse.
So I didn’t go as much as I should have.
That’s the sentence that sticks in my throat.
I had reasons. Life. Work. Kids. Tiredness. The feeling of not knowing what to say or how to be in that room. The guilt was already there, so avoiding it felt easier than facing it.
Now she’s gone and those reasons don’t mean much.
What’s left is this heavy, quiet guilt. Not the dramatic kind. Just a constant thought in the background. I should have gone more. I should have tried harder. I should have pushed past the discomfort.
People say dementia changes things. That the person isn’t really there anymore. That they wouldn’t have known. That it’s different.
That doesn’t fully help.
Because I knew. And I still didn’t go.
Some days I can rationalise it. I did what I could at the time. I was surviving my own life. I didn’t abandon her on purpose.
Other days none of that matters. I picture her sitting there. Waiting. Or not waiting. And either option hurts.
Grief mixed with guilt is messy. There’s no clean way through it. You can miss someone deeply and still be angry at yourself at the same time.
I loved her. I know that. But love doesn’t erase regret.
I don’t know how to make peace with this yet. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Right now it just sits there with everything else.
If you’ve lost someone after addiction or dementia, and you’re carrying that same kind of guilt, you’re not broken for it. It doesn’t mean you didn’t care.
It means the situation was complicated and painful and human.
I wish I’d visited more.
That’s the truth.
And I’m still learning how to live with it.
My gran was an alcoholic. It was always there. Not loud, not dramatic, just part of who she was. Something everyone knew and no one really knew what to do with.
Then she got dementia.
That changed everything. Or maybe it just made things clearer.
She ended up in a home. Visiting her was hard. Not just practically. Emotionally. She wasn’t really her anymore. Conversations didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes she didn’t know who I was. Sometimes she did and it made it worse.
So I didn’t go as much as I should have.
That’s the sentence that sticks in my throat.
I had reasons. Life. Work. Kids. Tiredness. The feeling of not knowing what to say or how to be in that room. The guilt was already there, so avoiding it felt easier than facing it.
Now she’s gone and those reasons don’t mean much.
What’s left is this heavy, quiet guilt. Not the dramatic kind. Just a constant thought in the background. I should have gone more. I should have tried harder. I should have pushed past the discomfort.
People say dementia changes things. That the person isn’t really there anymore. That they wouldn’t have known. That it’s different.
That doesn’t fully help.
Because I knew. And I still didn’t go.
Some days I can rationalise it. I did what I could at the time. I was surviving my own life. I didn’t abandon her on purpose.
Other days none of that matters. I picture her sitting there. Waiting. Or not waiting. And either option hurts.
Grief mixed with guilt is messy. There’s no clean way through it. You can miss someone deeply and still be angry at yourself at the same time.
I loved her. I know that. But love doesn’t erase regret.
I don’t know how to make peace with this yet. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Right now it just sits there with everything else.
If you’ve lost someone after addiction or dementia, and you’re carrying that same kind of guilt, you’re not broken for it. It doesn’t mean you didn’t care.
It means the situation was complicated and painful and human.
I wish I’d visited more.
That’s the truth.
And I’m still learning how to live with it.
