The last few years of her life, Mom didn’t always know who I was. She knew who Linda was, but she didn’t remember that I was Linda. When she moved into assisted living, she called all the staff members with long, blonde hair by my name. I guess she remembered the younger, cuter me.
She seemed to remember the love, though. When she saw me, her eyes always lit up for a moment, as if she knew there was some special bond between us. When I told her I loved her, she always responded with I love you, too.
The last time I saw her, about a month before she died, she was unresponsive. She was in her geri lounger in the day room , supported in a sitting position by pillows and the tray across her lap. Her eyes were closed as I held her hands and spoke quietly to her. I told her how much I loved her and what a good mother she had been. I told her how much I would miss her but that it was okay to go with Jesus when He came for her. I told her I’d be along shortly and asked her to save me a place at His table. Her eyes fluttered a bit, but that was all. I like to think that somewhere, deep inside, underneath the ravages of Alzheimer’s, she remembered–but if she didn’t, that’s okay. I remember enough for both of us.