I’ve just finished reading Sally Magnusson’s book about her Mother’s battle with dementia, ‘Where memory goes’. It is very well written and very sad, like so many many threads on the forum. I do not believe that we, living with the reality of dementia, will learn too much new about the illness from this book. There was not much there that I hadn’t experienced myself or read about on here. What was new, to me, were the conjectures on what actually constitutes memory. But S. Magnusson’s Mother was fortunate to be cared for, in the main, by three devoted daughters. They all had busy lives with families and problems of their own. Indeed, one of them lost her husband to cancer during the course of her Mother’s illness. Their love for and devotion to their Mother was very moving, and illuminates the whole telling of the prolonged illness, making it a very worth-while read. My other reaction, to the story, was an ignoble and jealous one and it shames me to tell of it. My two sons tend to stay away and seem content to leave the whole caring business to me. Fortunately, my dear wife, lacking all insight, is quite oblivious of this. But I am not, and find myself, at the end of long, and worrying days of coping with dementia at close quarters, harbouring dangerous levels of hurt and resentment. Would it have been different if we had had daughters? I daren’t let myself think about it!