Wendyl Nissen set out to write a simple story of her mother’s life and a guide for people dealing with dementia. But, as memoir writers often experience, My Mother and Other Secrets took on a life of its own, developing into a personal account of generational trauma and mental illness, and a journey to understand her own identity—a genealogical detective story of sorts.

As a child, terrorised by her mother Elsie (later Elis), Nissen assumed all mothers had three personalities and spent long periods in bed sedated by pharmaceuticals, like hers. At 17, sick of being shamed and insulted, Nissen drew away from her mother for the first of many times, the cycle of disengagement and slow thawing repeating over and over until her mother’s 2019 death.

It is not until Elsie begins suffering from Alzheimer’s, and both parents move to a unit on Nissen’s Hokianga property, that the “gift” of Alzheimer’s materialises; Elsie regresses to her sweet, childhood self and shares stories never-before told.

At the heart of My Mother and Other Secrets is a daughter trying desperately to find a way to forgive her mother; a determined and intelligent woman rifling through the documents and ephemera of family history in an attempt to give context to her mother’s jealousy and cruelty. For Elsie was a complex woman from a complex background, and from an era where secrets were kept.

Elsie was born and adopted in New Plymouth in 1933 at four months old, by a kind, chain-smoking woman, Olive, and her husband Harold. When the housekeeper becomes Harold’s lover and eventual wife, Elsie’s life becomes hell. Perhaps the most persistent image in the book is the new lover allowing her own daughter unlimited access to the cookie jar whilst Elsie was strictly forbidden. This initiates, surmises Nissen, a life-long battle with food and diets and an obsession with appearances, with disastrous impact on her daughter.

There’s an awful moment on a cruise in Nissen’s early 40s—by then a successful journalist and magazine editor—when Elsie announces to the table of diners: “Look at my daughter, the big slut.” And another earlier where Elsie insists on reciting a poem Nissen had written in front of her then teenaged-daughter’s new boyfriends just to watch her squirm. One wonders if these are the fingers of dementia already beginning to grip, for how can a woman be so cruel?

This book is also a portrait of women’s suffering and the stigmatisation of mental illness in the 20th century. A reader today can see Elsie’s reliance on prescription pharmaceuticals and alcohol was to escape her own traumatised mind, prompting Nissen to question—looking back over her mother’s complicated medical records—why doctors never recommended counselling rather than simply writing out another prescription.

My Mother and Other Secrets is told with Nissen’s usual journalistic precision and insight, with a structure that successfully propels the reader forward. At times, I felt Nissen was holding back emotions from the reader; that we were permitted only glimpses of the impact of all that trauma. I also felt that the addition of photographs—two sections of which the publisher tells me will be in the final production—and possibly a family tree would enhance the overall reading experience.

Nissen sensitively handles her tricky relationship with her brother, stating up front that he has his own version of events, and leaves him out as much as possible.

The book is also an ode to the good men in Nissen’s life: her elderly father (aged 88 and still living with her) and her husband Paul. I cheered when it was Paul’s turn to be read the poem of shame and he looks Elsie in the eyes and says: “Why would you do that to your daughter?” It is clear that his calm, long-lens view of the present and the past helps Nissen navigate the often-distressing fallout of research and real life.

And finally, My Mother and Other Secrets is an excellent handbook for those dealing with dementia—and there’s an estimated 70,000 New Zealanders living with the disease as of 2020. The End of Life Choice Act will address some aspects of life’s end but it would have not helped Nissen’s mother pass more comfortably.

In a similar manner to Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal, this book serves as a warning to think seriously about how we would like to see our end of life unfold and to be prepared for all eventualities that a slow death may bring. Nissen shares information about advance directives (why it is important to have one, how they are legally binding, as well as a template) plus useful tips and tricks for dealing with those with dementia.

Reviewed by Caroline Barron