Dear Isabel

Dear Mom,

I know you’ll never read this letter, and if I were to read it aloud to you, I know you wouldn’t understand it. So I write this as yet one more way to soothe my mental health.

Even though the last four years have been increasingly difficult, I am grateful you are still here with me. My days are filled with nonstop care for you. I don’t get much rest, and my back is always sore. I dream of the day when I’ll be free to sleep when I want and need to. But that freedom will come with a price, meaning I’ll have to lose you first. I can’t even imagine what life will be like without you. To be honest, I don’t want to go through life without you.

I remember the days when I was a teenager, so proud of how beautiful you were with your long dark hair and radiant smile. In my eyes, you were a beauty queen who deserved a diamond-studded crown. I was proud to hold your hand and walk beside you wherever we went.

I cherish the times when you’d call me and leave a voicemail singing Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called To Say I Love You.” How corny I thought that was—but now I’d do anything to have that clever, funny, intelligent mom back.

Mom, I’m so grateful for the way you always told me you loved me and the little things you’d do when I least expected it. It’s because of you that I’ve survived some very rough times in my life.

Even though you are completely blind and advanced dementia has changed your behaviors and taken away the ability to perform even the simplest tasks, like brushing your teeth, there’s still a glimpse of that person you once were. Your humor shines through every once in a while, and when it does, it brightens my day more than you’ll ever know. It brings me so much joy that tears roll down my cheeks. Most importantly, your love is always there. I love it when you grab my hand and start kissing it over and over, telling me you love me with such passion. Love is one thing dementia cannot take away.

Dear Mom, there are days when the dementia affects your behavior in a very negative way. You become unmanageable and extremely stubborn. Sometimes you’re combative—you punch, kick, curse, and even bite. You’ve bitten me about a dozen times over the past few years, and it hurts, both physically and emotionally. Some days, I want to give up, and send you away to a care facility. But I won’t. I promised you that I would never put you in a home. I remember the day you told me, “Please, Rick, don’t ever put me in a home.” I could hear the yearning in your voice, an echo that lingers in my mind. But mostly, I won’t put you in a home because I love you deeply. You’re my mother, you’re beautiful, and you mean everything to me. I know I can give you far better care in every way than you’d receive in one of those places.

It’s tough, yes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you dearly, and I’m grateful to have you here with me—to hold your hand, feed you, and help you along each step of your life. It means so much to be able to be here for you. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

To my mother: I just called to say I love you!

💜🩷💙

With much love, RHC ❤️