It happened unexpectedly, a feeling I did not anticipate, a depression as I walked away from Mom’s residence. For the first time in a long time since Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s more than eight years ago, I felt that she was no longer there. This goes against my whole outlook on Alzheimer’s. Despite all the hurdles and obstacles, all the anger and unpredictability, the overwhelming sense of loss, I have always made a conscious decision to find joy in Mom’s existence. W

Mom was so delighted to see my dad today. It was as if her grey existence suddenly became bright, as if she knew she was missing something—or someone—in her life, and she could relax. She didn’t want to be there but we managed to sit and talk with her as she had her coffee, walk with her a little, sing a few songs. Mostly she shushed me so that she could talk to Daddy, serenading him with a slew of nonsensical words. Then it was time to go. We left her listening and singing a

It’s taken me a good while to figure out and accept that my best visits with Mom are fleeting—short, intense half-hour “dates” that allow us to connect and shower each other with love. We don’t seem to be able to sustain more than that. Either Mom’s mood changes, or I run out of things to engage her with, or there’s a program in the ward that she’ll benefit from. I still carry with me the idea that a visit should last a long time, that I should occupy her for as extended a ti