I got up from bed last night because I was tired of lying awake. I had things on my mind I wanted to write down. Feeling my way in the dark, I reached the kitchen where my notebook lay open on the counter. I found a pen and took the pad over to a comfortable chair, where I sat in the darkness, trying to see if there were words already written on the page. I didn’t want to write over anything but I also didn’t want to disturb the two sleeping dogs that were quiet in their crates so I went over to a nearby drawer and got out a small flashlight. I sat back down and turned on the light to illuminate the page, and wrote down my thoughts.

I sat in that chair a while, deciding what to do next. Having spent the previous day at the bedside of my mother and making decisions with hospice that would guide her final hours, I wondered if I should get dressed and go back to the nursing home now. Maybe that is why I was awake. After all, since she stopped speaking, I have depended on any clues about momma’s care in my own thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations. Maybe she was trying to tell me something.

Instead, my thoughts went to our newly arranged bedroom, where many of my mother’s needle arts grace the walls and bed. Using the flashlight to direct my path, I went to the other end of the house and lay down on the bed. Pointing the flashlight around the room, I could see the photographs of Momma arranged upon her antique dresser, the various framed needle art still on the floor waiting for placement, and the other needlework on the walls. I could feel the needle worked pillows on the bed against my arm and leg. I turned off the flashlight and tried to go back to sleep, hoping to find comfort in these beloved surroundings.

Instead of sleeping, it occurred to me that I had been like a flashlight in the dark, guiding my mother for the last eight years. Probably longer than that if you get down to it. The night Daddy died in 1996, I promised God I would take care of her. Probably not wise to make promises to God, but I felt compelled to do it, having watched Momma care for her own mother.  I began slowly by offering a helping hand as needed. I guess it was the decision to move to assisted living after the Alzheimer’s disease diagnosis that sealed our partnership. Since then, many times we have not known which way to go. The unfamiliar challenges and daily activities required planning, research, and inspiration. Careful attention to Momma’s needs kept me alert and engaged in every detail to keep her safe and loved. Although I was making my best effort to guide her, I often became weak, needing to find ways to charge my own batteries. My wonderful online friends and connections have encouraged me in countless ways. Advocating for other families has given me a sense of purpose and courage in our situation and allowed new and understanding relationships. Camaraderie shared with the many families and their loved ones and staff we’ve met in assisted living, memory care, and the nursing home have made them feel like my second family. But above all, knowing that God has been the guiding light has made this a blessed journey.

Psalm 119:105 has been our roadmap – ““Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” We’ve taken it one day at a time, moment to moment. By searching the scriptures, not only have I found reassurance, promise, direction, and the ability to forgive, but the proof of provision has followed.  Like the time her missing tooth partial was found with the help of a raccoon, or when  someone whispered in my ear that we might qualify for hospice, and when needed information came by watching an old VCR family video recording.

Momma has taught me so much in life.  By her side, I have learned how to cook with ease, sew creatively, budget wisely, give unconditionally, and most importantly, how to love. Now we wait together at the gate between here and there. She has run her race well and the finish is in sight. I am confident that someone will be by soon to take her from here. Then I’ll have to find my way without my mother’s company. However difficult it seems now, I believe more lay ahead. I don’t plan on going back to where we started, but I’ll forge ahead on a new path, equipped with all the lessons learned on our journey together. James 1:27 says that “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” Living in the world of dementia has been a holy experience and a privilege that will not be forgotten.

Farewell, Momma. It’s time to part ways. Our long walk together has been the most life changing time of my life. I can’t go any further with you but I expect to see you again one day. And on that day, I will eagerly run to you on that beautiful shore with open arms.