There are certain moments in life that divide it into a before and an after. For me, one of those moments came during a doctor’s appointment with my mother. The doctor asked her a simple question: “Can you tell me the names of your children?”
I watched her struggle to answer. The names wouldn’t come. The woman who had raised five children, dedicated her life to her family, and spent years guiding others could no longer recall something that had once been second nature.
I remember sitting there, willing the answer to come to her, and that was the moment it truly hit me. This is really happening. Until then, there had been signs, small moments that were easy to explain away. But sitting in that room, there was no denying what was unfolding. My mother was changing.
And so was I.
Mama Lulu
My mother, or Mama Lulu as we call her, has always been one of the most remarkable people I know.
She believed deeply in education, kindness, and independence. After graduating from university, she began a master’s degree, but when life became busier and her family grew, she chose to focus her energy on raising her four children. She taught high school girls for several years before retiring early to dedicate more time to our education, ambitions, and future. She was the kind of person who always encouraged us to try. Whenever we were afraid of something new, she would say, “Don’t say you don’t know how to do it. Say you will try.” That simple advice shaped how I approached life. She taught us that confidence wasn’t about having all the answers, it was about being willing to take the first step. She also believed that every problem had a solution. You just had to keep looking until you found it. Those lessons stayed with me long after childhood.
Learning to Let Go
One of the hardest parts of Alzheimer’s is that it slowly takes pieces of a person’s story. Over time, my mother forgot she had siblings. She forgot parts of her career as a teacher. She forgot memories of family adventures and spontaneous trips that once brought her so much joy.
I later learned from neighbors that she had occasionally become lost while walking around the neighborhood and needed help finding her way home. That realization was heartbreaking. This was the woman who taught us to be independent. The woman who always knew where she was going. The woman who spent her life guiding others. Now she needed guidance herself.
There is a unique kind of grief that comes with watching someone you love slowly lose pieces of themselves. You mourn what has been lost while learning to cherish what remains.
What Caregiving Has Taught Me
When I stepped away from work to become my mother’s caregiver, I thought I was making a sacrifice. What I didn’t realize was how much the experience would change me.
Over the past few years, my perspective on life has shifted completely. Things that once felt urgent no longer seem important. I have less patience for meaningless conversations and more appreciation for simple moments. I notice caregivers differently now. I notice elderly people. I notice the quiet struggles that many people carry without anyone else seeing them. Most of all, I have learned that time is far more precious than we realize. Health, too, looks different to me now.
I used to think of health as energy, productivity, and longevity. Today, I see it as something much simpler and much more profound: the ability to live independently, to care for yourself, to recognize the people you love, and to participate in everyday life. These ordinary things become extraordinary when they begin to disappear.
The Gift of Perspective
As I’ve cared for my mother, I’ve come to understand her more deeply. I see her sacrifices more clearly now. I understand that she did the best she could with what she knew at the time. She loved us fiercely, believed in us completely, and gave us values that continue to guide us today. I miss our conversations about life. I miss her stories and her advice. But I am grateful for every lesson she has taught me and continues to teach me. These days, my goals are simple. I want her to feel safe, loved, comfortable, and happy. I want to create new memories with her, even when old memories fade.
Because while Alzheimer’s may change many things, it does not change love. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all. Love is not only found in memories or conversations. Sometimes it looks like patience. Sometimes it looks like showing up every day. Sometimes it looks like helping someone with tasks they once did themselves effortlessly. And sometimes, it simply looks like being there.
My mother taught me long ago to keep trying, to be kind, to help others, and to face life’s challenges with courage and grace. She taught me those lessons long before Alzheimer’s. And every day, in her own way, she continues to teach them still.
Dedicated to Mama Lulu, whose lessons continue to guide me every day.
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