This is the last picture of my mom and me.
By the time it was taken, Alzheimer’s had already taken so much. Her words came less often, and our roles had quietly shifted. She didn’t know who I was anymore — and I held the memories for both of us.
This is something people don’t talk about enough. Sometimes, the person you love is already gone in every way that matters, but their body is still here. So you keep showing up anyway. You sit with the silence, the blank stares, the ache of being forgotten.
Even if she didn’t know me, I knew her. I still do. Her smile — that was still hers. I held onto it like an anchor.
Grief softens with time, but some days still hit differently. Birthdays especially bring a lump to my throat. She would have turned 82 tomorrow. I wish I could celebrate with the version of her I remember. But today, I’ll just sit with the love, the loss, and everything in between.
If you’ve walked through dementia with someone you love, you know the ache of holding on and letting go at the same time. You know what it’s like to mourn someone twice. And you know how much love can remain, even in the silence.
Reach out when you're ready; you don’t have to go through it alone.
Happy almost-birthday, Mutti. I miss you every day.
Annika Schaefer
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