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This is Dementia/pre-Alzheimer. This is also my Mom.

The nanosecond when I recognized the woman who raised me, the tenderness and connection that has alluded us for 6 years. It betrays her isolation of mind, body and from family lost over time; only a daughter left to care for her. Each member of her circle is now distant history, even the living. It belies her bitterness that her body cheated her of independence and control.

'Age is just a number'; not when you’re approaching 90. Each year defies statistics; it symbolizes survivorship, and it screams strength. You carry each day with a fight against an inevitable, stubbornly hanging on to the remnants of self and maintaining your identity. Each morning is an exercise to reaffirm your character, vowing not to lose sight of your own independence. Dementia deals a challenging hand to this poker game, but you stand opposed to any other outcome but winning.

With bated breath, each year awaits the day you can exhale as another milestone is conquered. An octogenarian of quiet strength and a force of character. Her mere presence teaches us about life and acceptance, with grace. The stopwatch is running. During the hardest, painful paths to navigate, just smile.

This is a survivor, a fighter, an optimist and defiant one. In the remote calmness of her oneness, she continues to dream of better days. Maybe a trip to her homeland or England; dreams never to come to fruition. Yet if the only point to longevity was purity of spirit, naivety, and gentleness then she has found the elixir. We learn to appreciate the subtleties of a glance, smile, recalled memories and a touch to hang on to our bond.

Or simply the look in her eyes, lovingly seeing her daughter take her picture! 

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