Today, I had a conversation with my mom. For many, this might be a mundane daily ritual, akin to applying deodorant or brushing hair. However, for me, it’s been quite some time since I’ve had a genuine exchange with her.
She didn’t tiptoe around the subject. I greeted her, and she candidly mentioned that she might not remember who I am tomorrow. Those words struck me like a heavy weight, and I found myself sitting on the cold kitchen floor, phone pressed to my ear, tears welling in my eyes. I reassured her that she would always recognize me, that she is incredibly strong, and that she has overcome greater challenges in her life.
She repeated “I love you” multiple times, as if each utterance might be her last. I echoed her sentiments, hoping she would grasp the depth of my feelings.
I save all of her voicemails. Every single one. Friends often tell me that my voicemail box is full and that they couldn’t leave a message. I feign indifference, claiming I’m too lazy to delete them, but the truth is more profound. One day, those recordings may be my only connection to her.
The fear of losing her haunts me. I dread losing the woman I know today, who has already transformed from the mother I cherished three years ago. With each passing year, she changes, and I worry that one day she may not even recognize my face.
Experiencing her gradual decline feels like a cruel twist of fate. Death, in its finality, can seem more merciful compared to the slow disappearance of someone you love. My mother’s dementia means her mind undergoes cycles—sometimes she is almost herself, and other times she is lost to us. I can only imagine the day when those fleeting moments of clarity will fade away completely.
Glenn Campbell’s poignant song, “I’m Not Gonna Miss You,” encapsulates the heartache of this experience. The lyrics, “I’m still here, but yet I’m gone,” resonate deeply, illustrating the one-sided grief that accompanies this condition. I envision a future visit where she no longer knows my name or who I am, and it shatters my heart.
What frightens me even more is the thought of her losing her sense of self. She may forget that she has five children, that she once kept a pristine home, or how easily she made friends wherever she went. I dread the idea that she won’t remember the joy of laughter, her quick wit, or even her adventurous spirit as a child.
She may forget pivotal moments—her first kiss, the day she gave birth to me, or the countless stories of her own childhood. She won’t recall dancing with my father or the times she tucked me in at night with comforting whispers. Most painfully, she won’t remember the advice she once shared, urging me to prioritize my happiness.
This thought terrifies me—imagining her in fear, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, unsure of who she is or where she is. There’s a song a friend introduced me to that often plays unexpectedly from my music library, providing a strange comfort amid this chaos. I want to be there for her, to reassure her that she is never alone.
During her darkest moments, I hope she can simply “be still and know.” I yearn for her to feel my presence, even if she cannot recognize it.
For those navigating similar journeys, resources like CDC’s Reproductive Health offer valuable insights into understanding and coping with such conditions. If you are seeking information on home insemination, check out Intracervical Insemination for guidance, and for authoritative insights on at-home options, visit Make a Mom’s Cryobaby Kit.
In summary, my mother’s struggle with dementia is a painful journey. The fear of losing her not just as a person but as my mother is terrifying. Each moment spent together is precious, filled with love and sorrow. I hold onto memories, voicemails, and the hope that she will always feel my support.