Missing Her Before She Was Gone

My mom passed away Sunday, August 30, after a nine-year journey with Alzheimer’s.

I didn’t write here last week because I was in Virginia with her.

The call came late Monday afternoon. I was checking my granddaughter in for her first dance class of the season when I saw the hospice nurse calling. I didn’t answer.

I got Brooklyn settled, walked outside and returned the call.

Somehow, I already knew.

Rich and I left that night. We drove a few hours, slept at a hotel, and finished the drive Tuesday morning.

And then, for the next several days, I had the privilege of helping care for my mother during the final days and hours of her life.

It was an honor.

I’m still trying to understand exactly what I feel now.

Numb? Maybe.

Relieved? Yes.

Empty? Definitely.

The strange thing about losing someone to Alzheimer’s is that grief doesn't begin when they die.

I’ve been grieving the loss of my mother for years.

I've missed her even while she was still physically here.

Every once in a while, though, we would catch a glimpse of her. Something she would say. A look. A wink. That laugh.

For just a moment, there she was.

And those moments became precious.

There is another piece of this story that I’m not quite ready to tell yet.

The Sunday before that hospice call, I made my first purple soap.

While I was in Virginia with Mom, my daughter and granddaughter came to my house and cut that loaf for me. They sent pictures, and I watched it over FaceTime.

My mother.

Me.

My daughter.

My granddaughter.

Four generations, woven together in a way I couldn't have planned.

Someday, there will be a purple soap made in Mom's honor. I've known that almost from the beginning of Act III.

But that story is for another Saturday.

Today, I simply want to say:

I love you, Mom.

I have missed you for a very long time.

And now I miss you in an entirely different way.