
Guest on the show Sept à Huit on September 13, 2026, Guillaume de Tonquédec returned to the silent drama he is going through. On the occasion of the release of his work Your mother and I (Éditions Stock), the 59-year-old actor talks about the deterioration in his parents’ health. A daily life marked by the gradual loss of their bearings and by a disturbing reversal of roles.
A daily life disrupted by neurodegenerative disease
Facing the decline of those close to you is a real psychological ordeal. For the actor, seeing his parents diminish on a daily basis is a complex situation.
“It’s a tragedy, which means we don’t expect this”he confided on the set of TF1. Having become, in spite of himself, the “parent of his parents”, he must adapt his life to their growing inabilities, such as the impossibility for his father, who was too disoriented, to take the train to visit him in Paris.
This reality joins that of more than 1.5 million people in France affected by pathologies such as Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s. As clinical psychologist Amélie Boukhobza explained to us in a previous article, it is about “say goodbye to someone… who is still there. This is what we call a
white mourning“.
It is a process without ceremony or official farewell, where the person remains physically present while their identity fades.
The ordeal of white mourning and the loss of reciprocity
This particular mourning mainly occurs in the wake of neurodegenerative diseases. According to Amélie Boukhobza, these are
“these pathologies which eat away at identity, erase landmarks, break links. We then become the caregiver of a body inhabited by fragments of memories. We helplessly witness the progressive disappearance of the other – and sometimes of a part of ourselves”.
This alteration of the relationship profoundly modifies the filial bond. The absence of sharing creates a trying emotional void for the caregiver. “There is no more reciprocity, no more sharing. There remains a past that we try to keep at arm’s length. A one-sided love, nourished only by memory” underlines our expert.
Caregiver’s guilt in the face of exhaustion
Supporting a sick loved one involves a massive personal investment which can lead to contradictory feelings. Guillaume de Tonquédec admits it bluntly: between washing his mother and helping his father, he would sometimes like to see them “liberated” from their suffering, while qualifying this thought as “extremely selfish”.
This mixture of sadness, anger, hatred and resignation is common among accompanying people.
This ambivalence is well known to specialists. Amélie Boukhobza evokes this inner tension that many keep silent about. “On the one hand, the constant fear that it will get lost, that it will become more damaged. On the other, a thought that we immediately repress: that it should stop. Because it’s too hard. Because we can’t take it anymore. And immediately, the shame, the guilt.”
The practitioner reminds us that the most difficult thing is often not being able to name what we are going through. “Because there is no official death, no recognition of grief. No “real” mourning, they say. And yet, everything in oneself screams absence”.
How to get through this ordeal without getting lost
To avoid sinking in the face of the mental and emotional burden, caregiver associations and health professionals recommend several levers of action:
- Acknowledge your suffering: grant yourself the right to experience true mourning, even if your loved one is still alive;
- Breaking the isolation: do not remain alone in the face of your pain and seek support;
- Express your emotions : verbalize your anger, disappointment and experiences with peers or a health professional;
- Allow yourself some respite: resort to occasional assistance or structures such as day hospitalization to allow yourself some breathing space.
Guillaume de Tonquédec’s testimony highlights a reality shared by thousands of caregivers. Agreeing to get help and recognizing the legitimacy of one’s own suffering are the first steps to supporting a loved one while preserving oneself.