By: Mia Thompson
I had a conversation with my mom today. I know many of you likely chatted with your mothers too, maybe about something as mundane as what to cook for dinner or which show to watch. But for me, those casual exchanges have become a rarity.
When I greeted her, she bluntly mentioned that tomorrow she might not even recognize me. Those words hit me like a freight train, and I found myself sitting on the chilly kitchen floor, clutching the phone, fighting back tears. I assured her that she would always know who I am, that she’s a fighter, the strongest person I know.
She repeated “I love you” several times, as if she were trying to imprint those words into my memory, and I echoed her sentiments, wishing to hold on to that connection as long as possible.
I save every voicemail she leaves me. Friends often tease me, saying my inbox is full, but the truth is, I can’t bring myself to delete them. One day, those messages might be all I have left of her. The thought of losing her sends a chill down my spine.
The mother I once knew is fading, and each year brings new changes. The fear of her not recognizing my face one day looms over me. Death, while painful, is a finality that feels more straightforward than watching someone slowly slip away. My mom has dementia, and her mind oscillates between moments of clarity and confusion. I dread the day when her lucid moments become scarce.
There’s a poignant song by Glenn Campbell, “I’m Not Gonna Miss You,” that perfectly captures the emotional toll of this disease. The lyrics echo a sad truth: he’s still physically present but feels invisible. I often imagine visiting her one day, only to be met with a blank stare instead of a smile, and my heart breaks at the thought.
What frightens me even more is the possibility that she may forget herself entirely. She may not recall her five children or the pride she took in her home. The memories of her vibrant personality, her laughter, and her knack for making friends in any crowd might vanish. She won’t remember her adventurous spirit, the time she rode a wild horse, or what it felt like to have her first kiss.
She won’t hold onto the memories of her children or the moments that made her who she is. The simple bedtime kisses, the encouragement on my first day of school, and the advice she offered right before my wedding—those precious memories may be lost forever.
And the thought that she could feel scared and alone, without anyone to comfort her in those moments of confusion, terrifies me the most. I just want to be there for her, to let her know that she’s never truly alone.
There’s a song a friend introduced me to that often plays unexpectedly, offering me a strange sense of comfort. I hope that when she traverses that dark and scary place, she can simply “be still and know” that I am always there for her.
If you’re navigating the complexities of family, especially regarding home insemination, check out our other posts like this one on the artificial insemination kit to find support and information. For more resources on pregnancy, visit Healthline for excellent guidance.
In summary, the fear of losing my mother to dementia weighs heavily on my heart. The thought of her not recognizing me or forgetting her life’s milestones is a constant source of anguish. Yet, I hold onto the hope that I can provide her with comfort in her darkest moments.
Keyphrase: dementia and caregiving
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