A Week in Three Parts, Part 3

Having gone through the Ugly and the Bad, this is the Good part I didn’t expect.

The part where, in the middle of exhaustion and uncertainty, good things still found their way through. Not to make everything better, but to steady me, for just a bit longer, so I could keep going.

Part Three: The Good

With dementia, grief begins long before the final days. I had already been grieving losing my mom for three years. Grieving the way we stopped being family in her mind. Grieving the conversations that disappeared, the recognition that came and went like the wind that moved the clouds she loved.

Once Mom moved into memory care, every Thursday I made the drive from Orlando to Lakeland to spend time with her. 

Each time I showed up and found her, she’d look up with the biggest smile and say, “I know you!” And I’d say, “It depends on the day.” It became our familiar greeting, and somehow, she “remembered” it each time. I hold that as precious.

Thursdays were not times to recollect on old memories, but to spend time honoring who she was in the moment. Sometimes she’d sing. Sometimes she’d ask questions that didn’t make sense. Sometimes we’d just sit together and do puzzles.

I'm going to miss our times.

Some interesting, comical, and beautiful things happened during her last week.

The Interesting 

Mom turned 82 this year. 

As I was sitting next to her bed, I began calculating on my phone calendar how many trips I'd made to be with her. It was 82 weeks. And, when I closed out my calendar app, my phone battery sat at 82%.

I’m not the numbers person in the family. The Oldest is. But even I saw something meaningful in that. A unique fact I could hold onto.

To fill the time in that last week, I stayed busy with quiet things. I finished a word search book, 80 small-print puzzles. I colored 32 paint-by-number pictures. Nearly completed book #8 for 2025.

I discovered there was a daily image in the coloring app. The day I found this was the day Mom passed, although I didn't know that at the time. That day's image was a pair of cardinals, Mom's favorite bird. It landed like a message that morning, and I knew it would be Mom's last day. I just knew it.

In this image was one falling leaf, just one. And seeing that brought back a childhood memory of Mom reading to me The Fall of Freddie the Leaf, by Leo Bascaglia. It was a book about death and dying, and I found that one leaf in the picture to be symbolic of Mom telling me this was okay, she was okay, and that I would be okay. 

The Comical

Mom loved Mardi Gras beads, she had dozens of them, all different colors. On what would be her last day, she was dressed in an older nightgown, white with purple flowers, missing some buttons, a tear in the pocket. 

If that was to indeed be her last day, I couldn't let my mom “go out” like that. So I pulled out a brand-new black and white gown with butterflies, one she had not worn yet, and laid it on the edge of the bed. She hated wearing black, but it was her last new piece of clothing, and it was important to me for her to be properly attired when she left.

I had not been using the restroom in her room the whole week. I took the opportunity to leave the unit and walk a bit each time I needed to go. But this day I didn't want to leave her side. So, I went into the room's restroom and, lo and behold, on the back of her sink was a bag with her toothbrush, toothpaste, and the last strand of beads. And they were purple. I said to Mom, “You win. You can go out in your comfortable, old purple nightgown, and your beads will match.”

I put them on her wrist and her going-out outfit was complete. 

The Beautiful 

Knowing I was arriving each day before she did and leaving after her, the receptionist at the memory care ordered meals for me so I wouldn’t have to leave the room. She asked me the first time, and then she just kept the meals coming.

Mom's care team, who had seen me each week for almost two years, kept checking on me. They asked if I needed anything. I told them I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.

They brought a cart. Not just a cup. A three-tiered cart, stacked with snacks, carafes of coffee and juice, napkins—everything. It wasn’t about the coffee. It was care and thoughtfulness when I was too depleted to ask for anything more.

My Mom was more than the dementia. More than the dying. More than what the last few years or days could ever fully show. 

My Mom was funny, curious, loving, and strong. She showed up for people, cared deeply, and sacrificed for most of her life so she could give to others. 

And she always needed to be in control of her life and was a bit defiant towards those who sought differently. 

Part of that trait stemmed from her own life tragedies, which I understand. But I think, too, that part of it was because she wanted to be seen and heard. 

And when you saw her, even in the week leading up to her passing, she was seen smiling and heard laughing. 

U2's Bono said it like this:

Joy is the ultimate act of defiance.

So it makes sense that even at the end, her joy refused to leave.

The Ugly was real, the Bad was relentless, and the Good was unexpected. All were part of her final week—but they weren't the whole story. 

The whole story includes 

–the joy of who she was before, 

–the joy we were still able to share, in spite of the dementia 

–and every bit of joy and love that she will be remembered for and that will remain in the lives of those she touched.

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If you missed Part 1, click here.

If you missed Part 2, click here.