Son writes novel on extraordinary experience caring for ailing mother after dementia diagnosis

Shocked by Betty’s ailing health and the realisation she had dementia, George put his own plans on hold to become her carer until the end.

As Betty’s mind fragmented, George, from Missouri in America, rose to the challenges of caring for someone in the grip of dementia.

My mother was scared but would not speak of her fears — they were locked up tight. She kept her secrets. I kept mine. That was our way; we struggled with words.

I imagined anything that would make her a little happier. I knew that her days were numbered in the house, built by my father.

I polished the silver, fixed her meals, bought her new bracelets, left Peppermint Patties under her pillow, drove her to her battalion of doctors.

Her days were filled with little hurts. She bruised easily in the end and was petrified of falling. It is what she feared above all.

It became hard to get my mother excited about anything, even going to the city.

A few years back, when I took Betty into St Louis for the periodontist, we stopped at Saks department store where I wanted to buy her a new outfit.

It was there that I noticed the depression that had settled into her, her lethargy. She looked tired and was unable to summon the energy to shop for new clothes.

I found it terribly difficult when my mother was sad, angry with herself, tired of trying, even living.

I found it physically exhausting and challenging even in terms of small things like remembering when all her appointments were or when she took what pill.

But it was the depression I felt when she was depressed that almost slayed me, the pain she felt that I could not control that sent me to bed myself, unable to face her.

I came to the point where I had to be satisfied if I could find one thing each day —  a fancy dessert, a ride to a pretty place, a little gift — that made her smile.

Sometimes, out of nowhere though, I could see the little girl my mother once was in her eyes. She was funny and sweet, bossy and mischievous.

She worried that after she died, I — a man alone — would go untended. I tried my best to show her I am OK.

I reminded her of all the things she did, said time and again that whatever happens, I will never forget the things she did for me. But it never quite seemed to sink in.

There have been so many Bettys. But I think I liked that one the best — the old lady in the flannel gown and slippers. She tried so hard.

She was my rock and I am convinced that, at some level, she survived long enough to give me — a gay man whose life she has never understood — a place to call home.

Bettyville by George Hodgman (Two Roads, £9.99) is out now.