Today is my Mom's birthday. She is 86. The last of her family.
She has survived the loss of my Dad, the love of her life, eighteen years ago. Plus two brothers, two sisters, two sisters-in-law, a mother-in-law, an aunt (at 101), nieces, nephews and countless friends. She has shown amazing adaptability, grace and good cheer in spite of it all.
Last November, she was diagnosed with mild-to-moderate dementia.
With the right help, we were able to keep her in her own home. Then things changed drastically in late September. Now she is here with us, 225 miles from the town where she has lived her whole life.
We are on a new adventure, and it goes like this: A few nights ago, she didn't know who I was (but she did know my dog's name). The very next night, I sat on the edge of her bed and we reminisced for half an hour about when she and my Dad were dating -- including where she first met him and the first thing he said to her. I held up a photo of her wedding party, and she knew everyone's name and who was alive (most are not).
Last night, I took her to a pre-birthday dinner and concert. All her life, she has loved music. I wish you could have seen how her face lit up. I tried to memorize the moment, to store it on a micro-chip in my heart for the future. And then I held her hand tightly, to keep her from slipping away.
A few years ago, I wrote "What I Meant to Say" for her. It bears repeating today.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
