Today, I spoke with my mother. For many, such a conversation is a mundane part of the day, akin to personal grooming rituals. However, for me, it has been a while since we’ve had a genuine exchange.
She cut straight to the point. I greeted her, and she remarked that she might not recognize me tomorrow. Hearing those words, I sank onto my kitchen floor, phone pressed to my ear, struggling to hold back tears. I assured her that she would always know me, that she is incredibly strong, and that she has conquered formidable challenges in her life.
She repeated “I love you” several times, as if it were the last chance to say it. I echoed her sentiments, fearing it might be one of the last times she hears it.
This piece has been modified from an earlier publication. I composed it some time ago, and as I reluctantly ended the call with her today, the words I penned resonated in my mind.
I keep every voicemail from her. Friends often mention that my voicemail box is full, and I pretend it’s due to my laziness in deleting messages, but the truth is, I can’t bring myself to erase them. They may one day be all that remains of her.
The thought of losing her is a constant shadow over me. I grapple with the idea of losing the mother I know now, who is not quite the same woman she was just three years ago. Each year brings changes, and I fear a time when she may no longer recognize my face.
As strange as it sounds, death would feel more straightforward. It’s a permanent state, often perceived as fair. My mother, however, has dementia, and her mental state fluctuates. Some days, she is almost her old self, but those moments grow less frequent. One day, I fear that those fragments of her personality will be all that I have left.
The artist Glen Campbell captured this experience beautifully in his song “I’m Not Gonna Miss You,” which he recorded after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. The poignant lyric “I’m still here, but yet I’m gone…” conveys the one-sided grief that his family would experience.
I often picture a day when I visit her, and she doesn’t know my name or who I am. The thought shatters my heart.
What terrifies me even more is that one day, she may not even recognize herself. She may forget her five children, her carefully maintained home, and the countless friendships she forged throughout her life. The memories of her humor, her Texas accent, and her ability to make anyone laugh will fade. She won’t remember her childhood adventures or the thrill of riding a bull.
She’ll forget her first kiss, the joy of childbirth, funny childhood stories, and tender moments like the night she kissed me goodnight. She might not recall the encouraging words she shared with me as I entered kindergarten or the advice she whispered before my wedding: to always prioritize myself.
She won’t remember. She won’t remember. She won’t remember.
The most terrifying thought of all is that she might feel lost and afraid, with no one to comfort her when she doesn’t recognize anyone, or even herself.
There’s a song a friend shared with me that often plays unexpectedly from my music library. Each time, it brings me a strange sense of comfort. I want to be her solace. I hope that when she finds herself in that dark and frightening place, she can simply “be still and know.”
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In summary, the experience of having a loved one with dementia is filled with uncertainty and fear. I grapple with the inevitable loss of not just my mother, but the essence of who she is. The memories that define her will fade, and all I can do is cherish our moments together while I still can.