Before Dementia, She Was Mom
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Today marks one year since my mom went home to be with Jesus.
Your hand was the first to hold mine.
Mine was the last to hold yours.
And His hands hold you now.
A sacred circle of love.
For eight years, I walked beside her through dementia. For the final three, she lived with my husband and me, and caring for her became a 24-hour-a-day part of our lives.
I miss her like crazy.
But I do not miss dementia.
I don't miss watching pieces of the woman I knew slowly disappear. I don't miss the exhaustion, the worry, or the heartbreak of loving someone so deeply while watching a disease change so much about them.
Even now, when I hear the stories of other sons and daughters caring for a parent with dementia, my heart aches. I know firsthand how sacred that responsibility is—and how incredibly exhausting and lonely it can sometimes feel.
But one year later, something in my heart is changing.
I don't want dementia to be the loudest chapter in my memories of Mom.
Because before dementia, she was Mom.
She was an amazing mother and a wonderful grandmother. She had a servant's heart and spent so much of her life helping others. She loved, gave, served, laughed, and left pieces of herself in the lives of people fortunate enough to know her.
Dementia may have changed what we saw during those final years, but it never changed who she was to God.
And it certainly didn't get to keep her.
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.”
— Revelation 21:4
Sometimes I try to imagine her now.
Whole.
Clear-minded.
Free.
No confusion. No frightened moments. No body or mind betraying her. No dementia.
Just Mom—completely restored in the presence of Jesus.
And perhaps part of my own healing is learning to let those final difficult years become smaller while all the beautiful years before them become bigger again.
To remember her laughter.
Her kindness.
The grandmother she was.
The mother she was.
The people she helped.
The life she lived.
The treasure she truly was.
Grief has taught me that we can miss someone terribly and still be grateful they are free. We can shed tears over what we lost while rejoicing over what they have gained.
So today, I am not honoring dementia.
I am honoring my mom.
And Mom, if I could tell you just one thing today, it would be this:
You were so much more than the disease that eventually took so much from you.
You were loved.
You mattered.
You made a difference.
You were a gift to our family and to so many others.
And what a comfort it is to know that the last chapter of your story wasn't dementia after all.
It was Jesus.
A Prayer for Those Still Caring
Father, today I pray for every son, daughter, spouse, and family member caring for someone they love through dementia.
Give strength to the exhausted. Comfort the brokenhearted. Provide rest for the weary and grace for the moments when they feel they simply cannot do one more thing.
And in the midst of the disease, help them remember the person who is still there—the life lived, the stories told, the laughter shared, and the love that dementia can never erase.
Thank You for my mom.
Thank You for allowing me the privilege of being her daughter and, eventually, one of her caregivers.
And thank You most of all that she is no longer confused, hurting, or diminished.
She is home.
She is whole.
And she is Yours.
Until I see you again, Mom.
For eight years, I walked beside her through dementia. For the final three, she lived with my husband and me, and caring for her became a 24-hour-a-day part of our lives.
I miss her like crazy.
But I do not miss dementia.
I don't miss watching pieces of the woman I knew slowly disappear. I don't miss the exhaustion, the worry, or the heartbreak of loving someone so deeply while watching a disease change so much about them.
Even now, when I hear the stories of other sons and daughters caring for a parent with dementia, my heart aches. I know firsthand how sacred that responsibility is—and how incredibly exhausting and lonely it can sometimes feel.
But one year later, something in my heart is changing.
I don't want dementia to be the loudest chapter in my memories of Mom.
Because before dementia, she was Mom.
She was an amazing mother and a wonderful grandmother. She had a servant's heart and spent so much of her life helping others. She loved, gave, served, laughed, and left pieces of herself in the lives of people fortunate enough to know her.
Dementia may have changed what we saw during those final years, but it never changed who she was to God.
And it certainly didn't get to keep her.
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.”
— Revelation 21:4
Sometimes I try to imagine her now.
Whole.
Clear-minded.
Free.
No confusion. No frightened moments. No body or mind betraying her. No dementia.
Just Mom—completely restored in the presence of Jesus.
And perhaps part of my own healing is learning to let those final difficult years become smaller while all the beautiful years before them become bigger again.
To remember her laughter.
Her kindness.
The grandmother she was.
The mother she was.
The people she helped.
The life she lived.
The treasure she truly was.
Grief has taught me that we can miss someone terribly and still be grateful they are free. We can shed tears over what we lost while rejoicing over what they have gained.
So today, I am not honoring dementia.
I am honoring my mom.
And Mom, if I could tell you just one thing today, it would be this:
You were so much more than the disease that eventually took so much from you.
You were loved.
You mattered.
You made a difference.
You were a gift to our family and to so many others.
And what a comfort it is to know that the last chapter of your story wasn't dementia after all.
It was Jesus.
A Prayer for Those Still Caring
Father, today I pray for every son, daughter, spouse, and family member caring for someone they love through dementia.
Give strength to the exhausted. Comfort the brokenhearted. Provide rest for the weary and grace for the moments when they feel they simply cannot do one more thing.
And in the midst of the disease, help them remember the person who is still there—the life lived, the stories told, the laughter shared, and the love that dementia can never erase.
Thank You for my mom.
Thank You for allowing me the privilege of being her daughter and, eventually, one of her caregivers.
And thank You most of all that she is no longer confused, hurting, or diminished.
She is home.
She is whole.
And she is Yours.
Until I see you again, Mom.