"Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences."
--Sylvia Plath

Breakfast was once eaten enthusiastically. Mum declared everything delicious, especially the marmalade she ate every day, but professed never to have eaten in her life. Near the end breakfast was a miserable exercise in spoon-feeding. Using the telly as distraction I might force another mouthful in.

Dementia, I discovered, isn’t just common — the UK’s biggest killer for a second year running — and it’s about more than lost memories. It stole Mum’s bearings so she couldn’t orientate herself (“Where am I?”), her family (“Who are you?”), her mobility (“What do I do with my feet?” when I urged her to walk) and, in the end, it stole her.

Sometimes dementia is a loaded gun; you’re going to get the single bullet in a chamber anyway, whatever you do: Russian Roulette. Sometimes it isn’t. The only thing that I know for certain now is that it is not inevitable with age.

People asked me afterwards, a little incredulously: “Was it really so sudden?” Yes. One day, late in 2019, between lunch and tea, my mother forgot me. I sat across a table from her at one meal and she was entirely confident who I was. That evening: “Tell me”, she asked, “When did we first meet?”

OCD is complex and commonly misunderstood, with a limited number of treatment options. But in recent years, the mechanisms in the brain and body that drive it are finally being pinned down, revealing an elaborate picture involving genetics, various brain networks, the immune system and even the bacteria in our gut. In turn, this growing understanding is opening up new possibilities of tackling this life-sabotaging condition.

The evening my mother forgot who I was — who I am — was just like the one that had come before, and the one before that. Weeks of evenings all alike. I puzzled about that later. Why that evening? Why so sudden? So that at lunchtime she knew I was her daughter and by nightfall she didn’t. Six hours later. That’s all it took.

The Tsimané are an indigenous people from the Bolivian Amazon in South America. You have probably never heard of them. I had not. I had to look up how to pronounce Tsimané: chee-mah-nay.

And yet this small group is extraordinary. A few years ago, scientists studied them to understand their exceptional heart health: 85 per cent had almost no evidence of the calcification of the arteries that is the marker for atherosclerosis. Even those who did have some had very little.

Depression, says Professor Craig Ritchie, the chief executive and founder of Scottish Brain Sciences, “may well be an upstream trigger for physical health”. It might even have been a significant risk factor for the Alzheimer’s disease that my mother suffered from in the last six years of her life.

People may present with depression later in life as a consequence of dementia but increasingly, research points to depression in early and midlife as a risk factor for developing dementia.

In a photograph of my mother on my desk, she is smiling broadly, an even, white-toothed smile. It was taken 18 months before she died. Her dementia was evident everywhere in our lives by then – but not in that picture: from the photo you’d never guess. She looks self-possessed and whole. In fact, she looks like a commercial for geriatric dental care with that wide, white smile.

A kind reader wrote to express gratitude for the Post’s series of articles on dementia. He was 85 years young and still active, although only going to the gym “four times a week now”, which made me smile. In his spare time, he listens to music CDs.