Chapter 42: Unwelcome Reality Continued
October 22, 2025
You know, after all of the things we experienced through mom’s journey with cognitive decline and then an official diagnosis of dementia, you would think that the grieving process after her death might go a little easy on us.
No such luck. Dementia and grief are their own unique versions of hell. And it’s surprising how similar they are in their complete unpredictability and uniqueness to each person.
Through some of the reading I did, I started to understand – though I’m not sure I ever fully accepted – that in dementia, grief is not a singular occurrence, it’s just a continuous process. Once you start to grieve the loss of something related to the affected person, you don’t really stop. You just keep accumulating new layers of sadness and loss as something else goes wrong, or a previously-routine task or process becomes difficult, or totally impossible, to navigate.
I’m surprised by some of the unexpected things that can set me off into temporary emotional breakdown. Then there are the everyday upsetting observations or thoughts that are more obvious. But even then, the intensity of the emotions can feel all over the map.
Take for today, as an example. As usual, I called dad a few hours into my day just to see what he was up to. He wasn’t home, so the call to the house’s landline went to voicemail.
For years – and I mean likely a solid ten at least – my dad’s voice on the outgoing message has remained the same. “Allison and Aurelio are unavailable. Please leave a message.”
Not today. Dad had changed it…and now, only his name is on the message.
Does that make sense? Definitely.
Is that a healthy, tangible way for dad to acknowledge that mom is no longer here? Absolutely.
Was he obligated to consult me or otherwise ask anyone permission to make the change? Of course not.
Did it set me off and cause me to feel like I couldn’t breathe? Yup. Yup, it sure did.
I didn’t end up leaving a message. I couldn’t. It was just too much to process and accept, I hung up write away so he wouldn’t hear me crying into the phone.
Sometimes, I fantasize about forgetting that mom is gone and then calling the house to ask to speak to her. Not to upset anyone, but just to help me live in a world where maybe I can pretend like she’s still here. That hasn’t happened even once. And now with the reminder on the outgoing message, I know it never will. Reality doesn’t seem to care that it’s unwelcome.
Honestly, grief is the worst.
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