Son’s Regret, Father’s Silence

I have seen countless elderly patients, each one carrying a story, each one teaching me something about fragility, resilience and the ways in which society deals with age. Their caregivers too are part of these stories, some hopeful, some heart-wrenching. This month, as we held exclusive Alzheimer’s clinics at Moul Mouj Health Centre, many such stories unfolded before me. After a recent Weekly Greater Kashmir Doctors Mic podcast on Alzheimer’s disease, I received a call that left me shaken. The caller was in tears, confessing guilt and regret, and requested that I write about one story, without names, so that others may learn. What he shared with me is a tragedy, but also a lesson, one that must be told.

The story is of a senior retired officer, a man once admired, respected and loved in his youth. He was a disciplined man, known for his sharp memory and remarkable leadership. Colleagues remember him as someone who walked into a room and commanded instant respect, his voice clear, his judgment sound, his presence reassuring. In his active years, he was the kind of officer who solved problems before they escalated, who extended a hand to his juniors and who carried the aura of integrity that made him both feared and loved. He was not just an officer but also a compassionate human being, a man who cared for the community he served. For decades, his life was marked by order, respect and honor.

But then came the cruel thief of memory, Alzheimer’s. It began subtly, as it often does. He misplaced things, repeated questions, sometimes forgot familiar names. Soon, he lost his way in his own locality, once having to be escorted back home by a neighbor who found him wandering in confusion. These were not mere lapses; they were early signs of a disease that strips away one’s very sense of self.

Instead of recognizing the illness for what it was, the family and caregivers responded with silence and stigma. They feared society’s cruel labels—pagal, madman—and worried more about gossip than about care. Rather than seeking medical help, they isolated him. They hid him away from friends and visitors, keeping his condition a secret. What should have been an environment of love and support turned into one of shame and concealment.

His condition worsened rapidly. This year’s one hot summer day, the window of his ground-floor room was left open. Confused and restless, he climbed out and wandered away. When his family discovered he was missing, panic set in. Only a few close relatives even knew of his illness, and together they began searching frantically. Day turned into night with no trace. On the second day, anxiety grew into desperation. The neighborhood whispered, but few truly understood what was happening. On the third day, there was a chilling sight: dogs barking furiously in the paddy fields. When people went closer, they found him—an old man barely breathing, lying helpless in the mud. Stray dogs had attacked him, tearing flesh from his foot. He was rushed to the hospital, but the damage was beyond repair. Dog bites, dehydration and massive blood loss claimed his life.

This was not just a death, it was a preventable tragedy. The son, who had agreed to isolate him out of fear of stigma, now carries unbearable guilt. On the phone with me, his voice broke as he confessed, “After listening to your podcast, I realized my mistake. Rather than isolating him, we should have shown more compassion and sought care. We thought we were protecting our family’s honor, but in truth, we abandoned him.” His words were raw, his regret immeasurable.

He went on to say something that has stayed with me: “Awareness is everything. Dementia is just like any other disease. If he had cancer, we would have rushed him to the best doctors. But because it was memory loss and strange behavior, we chose silence. Now nothing will bring my father back, but if others can learn from this story, perhaps his death will not be in vain.”

Alzheimer’s is not madness. It is a medical condition that demands understanding, timely diagnosis, and compassionate care. Stigma isolates, ignorance destroys and neglect kills. What this family endured, and what that officer suffered, should stir us all. Behind every confused glance, every forgotten name, every restless night, is a human being who once laughed, worked, loved and mattered. They still matter.

We must begin to speak openly about dementia, to shatter the silence that suffocates families. Awareness must reach every household so that no son, no daughter, no caregiver has to live with guilt and no elder has to die such a lonely, preventable death. Alzheimer’s takes memories, but our response must be to give more love, more patience and more dignity.

The retired officer is gone, his story now an aching reminder. But perhaps, in telling it, we honor him. Perhaps, in remembering him not for how he died but for how he lived, with dignity, service, and honor, we can find the courage to treat every patient of dementia with the same dignity. If even one family reads this and chooses compassion over concealment, if even one elder is saved from isolation because of this story, then his suffering will light the way for others. And that, maybe, is the only redemption left.