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Dementia doesn\u2019t take everything at once. It takes pieces\u2014small moments, memories, and pieces of identity that don\u2019t always come back.<\/p>\n
For my mother, it happened slowly, until there came a point where I could no longer safely care for her at home. She would wander without awareness of danger, forget simple things like the stove, and move through the house as if unfamiliar with it.<\/p>\n
I had been trying to avoid the decision for a long time, but eventually I had to face it. I placed her in a care facility called Willow Creek Nursing Suite.<\/p>\n
It was not an easy choice.<\/p>\n
On her first night there, she held my hand tightly and asked me not to leave. I did anyway. I remember sitting in my car afterward, unable to start the engine for a long time.<\/p>\n
After that, I visited when I could. At first, often. Then less and less.<\/p>\n
Work, distance, and emotional weight all played a role. Each visit became harder in its own way. She would hold on when I tried to leave, not fully understanding why I had to go.<\/p>\n
I kept telling myself I would come more often. I meant it\u2014but life kept pulling me in other directions.<\/p>\n
Then one morning, I received a call from the nurse.<\/p>\n
She had passed away during the night.<\/p>\n
The voice on the phone was calm, professional. I understood the words immediately, but one thought hit me harder than anything else\u2014I assumed she had been alone.<\/p>\n
When I arrived at Willow Creek Nursing Suite, I was surprised by what I saw.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s room was not empty.<\/p>\n
A caregiver named Sarah was sitting beside her bed, holding her hand.<\/p>\n
She looked exhausted but peaceful, as if she had not left for a long time. She quietly apologized for still being there, as though she needed permission.<\/p>\n
Then she explained.<\/p>\n
After her shift had ended, she had chosen to stay. She didn\u2019t want my mother to pass away alone.<\/p>\n
She had brushed her hair, read passages from a worn copy of Tennyson, and spoken to her gently through the night. Not in a dramatic way\u2014but in a calm, steady presence that filled the room.<\/p>\n
It was simple care. Quiet, consistent, human.<\/p>\n
Later, while going through my mother\u2019s belongings, I found something unexpected.<\/p>\n
A small notebook tucked into her nightstand.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t hers.<\/p>\n
It belonged to Sarah.<\/p>\n
Inside were daily notes\u2014short, careful entries describing small moments I had never seen.<\/p>\n
My mother humming softly.<\/p>\n
A faint smile after having her hair brushed.<\/p>\n
Brief moments of awareness that might otherwise have gone unnoticed.<\/p>\n
The entries were not medical reports. They were observations filled with attention and patience.<\/p>\n
In the final pages, Sarah had even written about me\u2014my visits, my presence, and my mother\u2019s reactions when I was there.<\/p>\n
Reading it, I realized something I hadn\u2019t allowed myself to fully accept.<\/p>\n
Even in her final stage, my mother wasn\u2019t simply \u201cgone\u201d while still alive. She was still being seen. Still being cared for. Still responding in ways I didn\u2019t always witness.<\/p>\n
That notebook didn\u2019t remove the regret I carry.<\/p>\n
But it changed how I hold it.<\/p>\n
It reminded me that even when I couldn\u2019t be there, someone else was.<\/p>\n
And sometimes, that doesn\u2019t erase the weight\u2014but it makes it a little easier to carry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Dementia doesn\u2019t take everything at once. It takes pieces\u2014small moments, memories, and pieces of identity that don\u2019t always come back. For my mother, it happened slowly, until there came a point where I could no longer safely care for her at home. She would wander without awareness of danger, forget simple things like the stove,…<\/p>\n