I found this note that I jotted down while in Minnesota visiting my mom and dad a few weeks before my mom died:

I must have written a record of that moment in my notes app so I wouldn’t forget it. In the late stage of my mom’s battle with Alzheimer’s, she always responded to my dad, my siblings, and me. She knew we were her people, while she couldn’t call us by name. Even so, moments where she would lock eyes and say something so clear were such a gift.

I’ve been thinking a lot about memories lately. First, because my mom had Alzheimer’s, and so she forgot everything, and that concept of losing memories is just terrifying and tragic. Second, in the final months of her life, I was storing up moments to hold on to them forever.

When I reflect on my mom, so many memories crowd into my head. Here are the ones that filter up to the surface most clearly right now:

Standing in the elevator in our apartment when I was in high school. We were on our way to a concert wearing the same orchestra t-shirt. I looked in the elevator mirror and was struck by how much we looked like each other. At the time, I was appalled, but as I got older, I was proud of our similarities.

The night after I had my second baby. She went out to get groceries with my oldest. We got a call a couple hours later that she’d been in an accident, and everyone was ok, but she was a bit banged up, and she and my kiddo were at the hospital. Scariest call ever. I’d just birthed a baby, and we spent the night at the hospital with my mom.

The day she told me she had Alzheimer’s. I already knew, but she’d gotten an official diagnosis and wanted to tell me and my siblings face to face, so we went out to coffee at the Hastings bookstore, which is no longer open. It’s a Goodwill now. Interestingly, shortly after she told us, she moved into a state of denial, which was a challenging phase to navigate.

Teaching me how to make fruit bread in cans. We used to keep 15 oz cans (like from canned fruit and tomato sauce) leading up to Christmas so we could bake little fruit bread loaves to pass out as gifts to friends. I hated those breads when I was in high school. Later I had a neighbor who would bring over Christmas fruit breads she baked in cans, and I loved them. It goes to show when your mom does it, it isn’t cool. Someone else does it? Neatest thing ever.

Getting so frustrated with teenaged me when I wouldn’t do my chores. She had these bonkers phrases like “I’m so mad I could spit nails”. What a visual. And to my teenage brain got not much more than an eye roll. Poor Mom, I really gave her a run for her money.

Dyeing her hair when she was 40ish. She went back to school to get her Bachelor’s degree when I was in 1st and 2nd grade. I think she dyed her hair to look a little less “old” in class with all the 20-somethings. I remember watching her lean over the sink to wash the dye out. I was so fascinated by the whole process. Side note: she finally stopped dyeing her hair, which is probably why I never covered up my gray. Her salt and pepper hair was so cool, and I wanted to be just like her.

Alzheimer’s may have claimed her memory, but the essence of who she was persists in these fragments that I carry in my heart. It’s in these memories, both heartrending and heartwarming that I can revisit the thread of love that Alzheimer’s could never unravel.