'The neighbours suspected I was kidnapping my own mum. The truth was so much worse.'

This is an extract from Dementia: Who are you and what have you done with my mother? by Sarah Jones.

Our meeting with this doctor finished with an exhortation to get Mum to stop drinking.

He told us her condition would worsen rapidly if she didn't stop and that if she could somehow curb her wild behaviour she'd have a much better chance of prolonging her days.

He made it sound as if Mum had some sort of choice in the matter, her drinking akin to naughtiness that needed to be brought into line.

I know now it was a symptom of her dementia, caused by the diminishing self-control centre in her frontal lobes.

Watch: What is dementia? Post continues below.

He didn't tell us that. I've since had a lot of time to reflect on that meeting and the lack of advice and information we were given.

We left his office with more fears than practical tips, more questions than answers.

He told us nothing about symptoms or whether Mum should stay at home or go into care; he left us with no plan of action and no real understanding of what we were dealing with.

Our homework was to stop Mum from drinking and to obtain Power of Attorney and Guardianship – whatever they were.

End of meeting. All we knew was: Mum had dementia.

A picture from Sarah's childhood. Image: supplied.

My husband Ross and I and my brother Ben and his wife Julie became increasingly worried about Mum being left alone.

Dad led quite an active social life, heading to the gym each morning, drinking at the pub with his mates in the afternoon, popping out here and there. He was often not at home.

He insisted Mum would be fine alone. He also insisted she was more than able to keep cooking, even as she was becoming forgetful and leaving the hotplates on regularly.

It was like saying, 'I'll just pop into the casino for a spot of roulette, maybe a few hands of poker; the kids will be just fine to wait in the car,' on a 40-degree day.

It was anything but fine.

Despite our urgings, and even after the fire-brigade incident, Dad resisted our pleas and continued to leave Mum alone and ensconced in her role as head chef.

She continued to wash and iron Dad's clothes, cook his meals and generally look after him and the house.

In his defence, it must have been easier to remain in denial than to upset the apple cart after forty-nine years of matrimonial order and stability, not to mention very clearly defined roles.

But although Dad's attitude of complete denial was understandable, it was also a worry.

When he had to fly up to Queensland for a little over a week and presumed Mum would be fine on her Pat Malone (with which Mum strongly concurred), Ross and I insisted that she come and stay with us.

Neither of them was enamoured of this decision.

Well, to say that week was an eye-opener would be an understatement akin to saying the Great Wall of China is a nice little fence.

The extent to which Dad had been downplaying Mum's condition became vastly and immediately apparent to us.

Without a doubt, it was one of the toughest weeks of my life.

It was a sunny morning when Dad dropped Mum at our place on his way to the airport, waving her off as he prepared to wing towards the tropical north.

After taking Mum to her room, I offered to help unpack her bag and was caught between hysterical laughter and tears as I unzipped it to find an entire suitcase filled with shoes – a collection Imelda Marcos would no doubt have been proud of.

There wasn't a shirt, skirt, pair of undies or toothbrush in sight.

It was creative packing if nothing else.

A quick trip back to the family home was in order, to fill in the missing gaps and fix the packing faux pas.

The entire time she was away from home, my mother insisted she did not need anyone to look after her.

She was perfectly capable of being alone, thank you very much.

She wanted to go home immediately and told us ad nauseam. Who were we to tell her what to do?

She recalled the good old days when Dad, who spent the majority of his working life as a travelling salesman, would go away for three-week stretches, leaving her very capable self at home to keep the home fires burning.

Sarah with her mother when she was a child. Image: supplied.

(In reality, she may have literally kept the home fires burning ... to the ground, if we'd left her there solo.)

It was the most frustrating thing in the world, both for Mum, who sincerely saw no logic in being away from where she knew she belonged, and for us, trying to explain rationally that she wasn't able to look after herself anymore and couldn't be home alone.

It just didn't make sense to her.

As the week ran its course, Mum became aggressively insistent that she be allowed to 'Go home!'

She was looking dangerously thin by this time; wielding her massive suitcase (now stowing more than just her impressive shoe collection) out the door, threatening to 'Walk home if she bloody well had to', she was quite a sight to behold.

Her luggage was almost as big as her!

At one stage, she managed to lug it down the front stairs and was on her way back to where she lived.

It was a 14-kilometre walk, mind you, which would have taken a good couple of hours even for the Hawaiian Iron Man Champion, let alone a woman in her seventies with a jumbo piece of luggage in tow.

We let her go for a few minutes and she made it across the road and down a few blocks before I sent my son to tail her on his skateboard and try to waylay her until we could bring the car around.

That was the easy part.

Mum's bloodcurdling screams certainly aroused the attention of the neighbours, as did her high-decibel pleas for someone to 'Stop this woman' (that was me, by the way) from 'kidnapping' or, even worse, 'abducting' her.

I had her by the hand but didn't want to use force, especially with the whole suburb out among their front garden shrubbery, eyeing me with great suspicion, on the verge of dialling triple zero.

Eventually I managed to coerce her into the car (prayer helped) and we drove back to our place, which I'm sure she now viewed as a heavily guarded, impenetrable fortress.

Dementia: Who are you and what have you done with my mother?is written by Sarah Jones. Image: supplied.

On another memorable (for all the wrong reasons) occasion, Ross was forced into playing reluctant bodyguard.

Mum wanted to walk to the shops. He told her he'd be happy to go with her and that it really wasn't okay for her to go alone.

'Don't be ridiculous,' was her predictable reply.

She broke out via the door, busting through our feeble defences, crossed the road (without looking) and began her expedition on foot.

Ross followed her out and calmly explained again that he'd need to come with her, or she'd have to turn back – information not met with much avidity from Mum, to say the least.

He proceeded to stand in her way. Coming from a place of sheer frustration, I'm sure, Ross was assailed by a series of punches and kicks from his very own mother-in-law.

It was like an episode of The Benny Hill Show.

Listen: For more on the heartbreak, guilt and love that comes with caring for a parent with dementia, listen to this episode of Mamamia Out Loud. Post continues below.

Not long after this, when trying to prevent Mum from making one of her spontaneous, speedy exits, I too bore the brunt of her new-found aggression.

She launched herself towards me like a screaming banshee, pushing me off balance and sending me toppling down the front stairs.

Not even the sight of her daughter laying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the steps was able to arouse a tincture of tenderness or remorse.

She clambered over me to make her escape without so much as a backward glance.

If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn this woman was an imposter.

Dementia: Who are you and what have you done with my mother? by Sarah Jones, is available now.

The book cover for Sarah Jones' memoir Dementia: Who are you and what have you done with my mother? Image: Amazon.

You're not alone. Caring for ageing parents brings up big emotions — grief, guilt, love, and everything in between. Here are some real stories to explore:

• 'When my mum finally agreed to go to therapy, a 5-word confession turned my world upside down.'

• 'The hardest parts we don't talk about when our parents get older.'

• 'It's such a shift in dynamics.' The complex emotions of caring for your parents.

Feature: Supplied.