I spoke with my mom today. Many of you likely had similar conversations with your mothers as part of your daily routines. It’s those simple exchanges that often feel the most normal—just like putting on deodorant or running a brush through your hair.
However, my interactions with my mom have been anything but typical lately. Today, she got straight to the point. I greeted her, and she mentioned that she might not recognize me tomorrow. Hearing those words struck me like a blow, and I found myself sinking to the cold floor of my kitchen, clutching the phone tightly to my ear. I fought back tears as I assured her that she would always know me, that she is the strongest person I know, and that she has faced greater challenges throughout her life.
She repeated “I love you” at least three times, as if she feared it might be the last opportunity to express it. I echoed her sentiments, knowing how precious those words have become.
This piece was originally published on a different platform, but I felt the need to revisit it as I hung up the phone with my mom. Memories of what I had written in the past flooded my mind.
I save every voicemail from her. Friends often complain that my voicemail is full, and while I tell them it’s just my laziness, the truth is far more profound. I can’t bring myself to delete those messages, as they may someday be all that remains of her voice.
The thought of losing her is a haunting specter that looms over me. I grieve for the mother I still have, who has changed so much from the woman I knew just a few years ago. Each year brings new challenges, and I fear the day when she might not recognize my face at all.
Death seems like it would be more merciful—final and straightforward. But dementia is a relentless cycle. Some days, she seems almost her old self, while on others, she is a stranger to me. I dread the day when those fleeting moments of clarity will be the only memories I have left.
Glenn Campbell’s poignant song I’m Not Gonna Miss You resonates deeply with me. In it, he conveys the heartbreaking reality of living with Alzheimer’s, stating, “I’m still here, but yet I’m gone…” These words remind me that the grief of such a condition can often feel one-sided.
I envision a future visit with my mother when she may not even know my name. That thought shatters my heart. What terrifies me even more is the realization that she might lose her sense of self altogether. She may forget the milestones that shaped her life—her five children, her ability to make friends anywhere, her infectious laughter, and the countless joyful moments we shared.
She won’t remember her first kiss, giving birth, or all the funny childhood stories that made her who she is. She won’t recall the goodnight kisses or the words of encouragement she whispered before I got married. These memories are an integral part of who she is, and the idea of them fading away is unbearable.
What frightens me most is the thought of her feeling lost and alone, especially if she doesn’t recognize anyone around her, including herself. There’s a song that a dear friend shared with me, and it often plays unexpectedly from my music library. Each time, it brings me a sense of comfort, reminding me that I want to provide her support and reassurance.
I hope that during those dark moments, she can simply “be still and know” that I am always here for her.
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In summary, my mother’s struggle with dementia brings a unique set of fears and heartaches, particularly the loss of her identity and memories. I cling to the hope that even in her darkest moments, she will feel my presence and love.