I held my mom’s hand every day. Of all the things I could tell you about those last months, that’s one I keep coming back to. There was so much I couldn’t figure out how to make better. Holding her hand was something I knew how to do.
We’d had one good year together in Colorado before the decline. I think about that year alongside everything that came afterward. It belongs to our story, too, even though the harder months can take up so much room when I try to remember.
Dementia changed her life, and it changed the way we spent ours together. My mom had been independent. Watching her need more help was difficult enough. Knowing she was aware of what she was losing made it harder. I wanted to help her, and there were things I simply couldn’t give back.
The last nine months were the hardest. I could be there. I could love her. I could hold her hand. And still, things kept changing. It’s difficult to explain what that feels like when you’re used to trying to do something about what’s wrong. You keep looking for what you can do, even as the choices become smaller.
Near the end of her life, I read Psalm 15 to her. Faith was there with us, in the middle of something I would never have chosen. I didn’t have to understand everything to read those words to her. I’m grateful for that now, because there’s still so much I don’t know how to put into words myself.
She died on Christmas Eve, December 24, 2025.
People call dementia a long goodbye. I understand why. There were changes to grieve while she was still here, things I already missed about the way we’d been. But all that time watching her decline didn’t make me ready for her to be gone. I could have been missing parts of our life together for months and still want another day holding her hand.
She was my best friend. Being her daughter was woven into how I understood myself. As her needs changed, I spent so much time thinking about what I could do for her. Looking back, I’m beginning to make room for how much it meant to me simply to be there with her.
I believe I’ll see her again. That hope matters to me. So does being honest about how much I want her here now, and how little the word “prepared” seems to mean when it’s your mom.
I keep returning to that memory of holding her hand. At the time, it was something I could still give her. Now I think about how much I needed to be able to reach for her, too.