In this poignant narrative, which underscores the complex emotional landscape faced by families dealing with dementia, a husband welcomes his wife back home for the first time since her admission to a local rest home’s dementia ward. Despite his frequent visits to the nursing facility, the homecoming marks a significant moment in their journey. The story sheds light on the inevitable emotional distance that dementia creates between loved ones. The husband’s struggle to reconcile with the presence of this “new” person in their shared space is palpable. Ultimately, the act of bringing her home serves more as a gesture for the person with dementia than for the husband himself, illustrating the profound challenges that accompany this relentless condition.
Back home for a short while
How did we come up with the idea? My wife needed to go to the hairdresser, which was near the place we had lived for over twenty-five years. A good opportunity, suggested my youngest daughter, to let her come home again. After all, it had been half a year since she was admitted to a nursing home.
Early in the afternoon, my wife and daughter clattered up the stairs. I was delighted, but at the same time tense: could something happen that we hadn’t foreseen? One of her carers had assured me that it couldn’t hurt unless I made a habit of it – which I wasn’t planning to do.
“Well, here we have Mrs Abrahams, come in,” I called with ironic solemnity as she took the last steps. She gave me a smile, kissed me quickly, and walked into the hallway, where she immediately started looking at some artworks on the walls. Then she stepped into the living room with us. She said little and looked around with a neutral gaze, like someone visiting for the first time and cautious of making a pronounced judgement.
Then she also approached the walls here to take a closer look at the paintings and etchings. They met with her approval, especially if they depicted cats – and there were quite a few, partly thanks to her influence. “Look at that cat! Beautiful!” She pointed enthusiastically at a cat sitting alone in a cluttered living room with a view of an empty meadow in a coloured pencil drawing by Roos de Lange. Cats are often lonely, Roos de Lange must have thought.
Then she stood for a long time in front of a large painting which she had looked upon daily from the sofa, for about fifteen years. The painting was by Lili Freriks,and showed a cat lying stretched out asleep in the glow of a large lampshade. She was almost speechless with admiration; she had never seen anything so beautiful before.
That applied to everything, even the stone figurines of cats she had collected and now held lovingly in her hands. There was, curiously enough, one exception: the serene portrait of a German or Austrian woman from the thirties. “Looks familiar,” she muttered.
It was the only sign of recognition in the few hours she spent with us. The living cat in our house, which she had known for about five years, was observed with surprise: “A cat!”
It was as if she was walking around in an unfamiliar museum, a place for passers-by, with me as the gallery attendant. Yet she had mainly furnished this museum herself, largely according to her taste and sense of arrangement.
We sat together for a few relaxed hours. Small talk. The conversation went in all directions, except that of coherence. We had become accustomed to that by now. Dementia does not follow straight paths, only winding ones that end somewhere in a dense fog.
The end of the afternoon went smoothly. I had anticipated that she might resist leaving, but that was not the case. We suggested taking a little walk and brought her back to the nursing home, where dinner awaited.
Tomorrow she would have forgotten it all again, but today she enjoyed it.
The author, Frits Abrahams, is a columnist for NRC, a Dutch newspaper. His wife has dementia and was admitted into full-time care six months ago. The text above has been adapted for a New Zealand audience. The original text was published in the NRCV edition on the 19th of February, 2025.
