A personal story of Alzheimer’s, love and memories that stay
My mother has Alzheimer’s…
A sentence that still feels difficult to write. Because although the illness is now a large part of her life, she is so much more than that. She is not simply a woman with Alzheimer’s. She is my mother. A kind, caring woman. A grandmother. Someone who was always there for others. Someone who showed love through small gestures, through attention, through caring, through simply being there.
Together with her, I am creating a memorial page.
Not because we have to think about saying goodbye yet, but because how she is remembered matters to me. Not for the illness that is slowly changing her, but for the person she has always been. Her warmth. Her voice. Her laugh. The songs she sang. The photographs from years ago. The moments that tell the story of her life, her love and what she means to us.
In the early days, when her memory was still better, we sometimes talked about it. She was afraid of what lay ahead. Afraid of losing herself. Afraid of the moment when her memories would disappear.
Sometimes she would ask, 'What if I can’t remember any of it?’
And we would say to each other, ‘Then the love will still be there. And you can feel that.’
Those words have stayed with me ever since.
Her memory has deteriorated a great deal now. Our conversations have changed. Things that once came naturally no longer do. But feelings remain. Closeness. Holding a hand. Looking together. Listening together.
We often look through old photographs together now. And despite everything, she can still tell me very clearly which photos she likes and which she does not. Sometimes I see something change in her face. Recognition. A smile. A gentle response to an image from a time that may no longer be entirely clear, but can still be felt somewhere inside.
A guitarist visits her care home every week. He makes music with her and they sing songs from years ago. Songs she always used to sing at home. As soon as the music starts, something special happens. As though a door opens to a place that words can no longer always reach. I record those songs.
It is a small thing, but a precious one. So we can keep them. So we can listen to them again in the years to come. So her grandchildren can hear her voice. So we can return together to memories from long ago, even when her own memory struggles to find the way.
For me, that is exactly what preserving memories means.
It is about more than saving photos or keeping music. It is about holding on to love. Continuing to see someone as the person they truly are. Not as a patient. Not as an illness. But as a person. A mother. A grandmother. Someone who has lived a life full of meaning.
The Beloved stone we are creating together will become a tangible keepsake. A small stone holding so many stories. Photos she loves and has chosen herself. Music that belongs to her. Moments that show who she is. Her voice, her songs, her love.
For her. For us. For her grandchildren and everyone who loves her. So that, in the years to come, they will not simply hear that their grandmother had Alzheimer’s. They will be able to see and feel who she was.
Because memories may fade. But love remains.
Stories that touch
Beloved stones ®