The person I'd like to describe is my aunt Lan, who lives in Haiphong, in northern Vietnam. For the past five years she's looked after my grandmother, who's eighty-eight and has dementia.
My grandmother used to be very independent. She sold vegetables at the market until she was nearly eighty. But now she often doesn't know what day it is, and sometimes she doesn't recognise us, so she can't be left alone for long.
My aunt's day revolves around her. She gets up at five to help my grandmother wash and dress, then prepares soft food because she struggles to chew. She keeps a notebook of her medicines and appointments, and she's learned to calm her down when she gets confused in the evening, usually by playing the old folk songs my grandmother loves. My aunt used to be a primary school teacher, but she reduced her hours to part-time so she could be at home in the afternoons. My cousins help at weekends, but most of the work falls on her.
I feel a mixture of admiration and, to be honest, a bit of guilt. I admire her patience enormously. My grandmother sometimes asks the same question twenty times in an hour, and my aunt answers every time as if it were the first. But I also feel guilty because I live in Ho Chi Minh City and can only visit a few times a year. Seeing how tired she gets has made me think a lot about how families share care. Last time I visited, I took over for a week so she could have a proper rest. It was exhausting, and it made me respect her even more.