TODAY, for the first time, my mother could not remember my name. She thought that, perhaps, it was Harry. The real Harry is the man to whom she has been married for 73 years. She cannot remember their wedding or their long life together.
Her care home is just across the park from my house, so I can visit her almost every day. The carers are kind and gentle. But I know that, increasingly, all we are doing is holding her hand as my mother continues on her faltering journey into this darkness.
I am not a man of faith; if I was, I would struggle to explain or find a reason for what is happening.
I know that I am hardly unique in this experience. But this is my mother, and I am losing her slowly.