When my sister was 21, she was diagnosed with dementia. She had survived a malignant brain tumour diagnosis when she was 10, but her cancer was inoperable and sat directly on her hippocampus, the part of the brain responsible for memory formation.
My sister moved in and out of what I would call “reality”. She spent days talking to people I couldn’t see, laughing at jokes I couldn’t hear. I would cajole her into playing Scrabble with me, and after a couple of hours she might say something “normal”, like, “How are you, Jackie?” She just needed mental stimulation, I would think. If I could play Scrabble with her every day, she would come back to me.
