Missing You

Mom rides in the car beside me, on the way home from daycare. This is part of our weekly routine. Routine is essential in caring for someone with Alzheimer’s. There is not much to say, only, did you have a good day?

“Yes,” she always says, “what else can you do?”

Sometimes this same answer frustrates me when I pick her up.

But today, when the weather has finally cooled, and the afternoon sun catches her cheek on the drive home

and we drive by the brand new memory care center I think of admitting her to every time we pass by

it doesn’t bother me as much.



I know the ladies at the day care center have had a wonderful day with her. One showed me a picture on the phone. She played the piano today at the center. Of all the things she couldn’t remember, that she did recall, sitting at the piano.

Today they also played the African drums I got for them at the music festival last week. I convinced the man from Senegal to give me these beautiful handmade drums at a good price so I could donate them to the center. The day care ladies raved how the group loved beating out rhythms on the drums today. How it brought smiles to their faces.

But mom doesn’t remember the drums either. As I ask her the more questions about her day, halfway home she blurts out, “I think I need to go home to daddy. I need to check on him and see how he is doing.”

I pause. “Mom,” I tell her, “he’s already gone.” Beneath her little grey head and small pale eyes a look of shock registers

“He is? How long has he been gone.”

“Sixteen years. Since Lauren was a baby. You have been living with me for seven years.”

Her face, empty of any recognition, falls. “How come I don’t remember.”

I say nothing.

We make the turn at the corner, past the cemetery blocks from my home.

“Who is at home with Daddy?” she asks.

I repeat the same answer I gave a few minutes earlier.

I get the same empty look, a sense of grasping for recollection.

She hadn’t missed him.


Then this morning I see this video of Glen Campbell. I remember watching him on the Ed Sullivan show in the living room where my parents lived for 40 years. I remember the album cover by my dad’s old stereo.

And now, I grasp the meaning of his song, “I’m not Gonna Miss You”.

For the beauty of Alzheimer’s in a soul like my mother’s is that there is no pain. Only recollections she holds onto momentarily like tears or raindrops that melt away.

And once she lets go of the tear it is gone. Wiped away.

The only pain is mine.

But if that tear can grace her cheek then melt into oblivion then I must let my own do the same.

I already miss her. The her that would ask about my day, or chat over coffee with me.

But she doesn’t miss me. Her eyes still light up when me or my kids walk into the room. She still reaches and argues for a kiss “that I can feel” in the evening when I say goodnight.

And when I struggle over what is the right thing to do I remember. She feels no pain. She only lives in the moment. So her momentary tears and frustrations are easily dissolved and forgotten

while mine linger in my heart and burn a hole in my soul,
especially as I hear the words that Glen Campbell sings in that familiar voice:

I won’t be missing you
I don’t know the pain you feel
Or the things you do and say each day
I only know you are the last one I say good bye to
And I’m not going to miss you


8 thoughts on “Missing You

  1. Oh Vi. So touching. Just spent a few days with my folks and felt some of these same things. It’s a hard road for those of us still in our right minds. And I use the word “still” with great hope that we stay in our right minds till the end. Love you.

    • Jul, i hope you enjoyed your time with them. I know your mom did and needed your presence and support so much…..we will keep plugging away and trusting and growing and finding the good moments in it all. Love you

  2. So sad, Vina! I heard the Glen Campbell song and was thinking of my Aunt who is 94 and all that she repeated over and over when we saw her last weekend. It’s heartbreaking. Grace to you!

    • Diane, it is a heartbreaking disease to see in our loved ones. His perspective in his song is amazing, and his words are so spot on. Bless you and your aunt who is 94!

  3. Christina Martin

    Vina – thanks for your words and your insights. i am reading them on the eve of our drive to Carmel for a family “celebration of life” for my dad’s twin brother, Hans, whom we lost to Alzheimers complications a few weeks ago. your words echo what my father has said…that his brother has been gone much longer than a few weeks. for months, i know he missed him terribly though Hans was still alive. it is/was painful to watch my father morn each moment he faced his brother over the last 2.5 years, knowing he was loosing his brother of 81.5 years, day-by-day. my father owed his life to his brother for keeping him alive during the war (pow) and yet, he was helpless to change his brother’s end times. cherish the fragments and tears of her fleeting memories. your presence I’m sure eases her. -Chris

  4. Chris, it must be difficult for your dad as they were so connected as twins, and all they experienced together. You are right, the grieving begins many years before, and we are powerless to change any of it. The peace comes in knowing they live only in the moment. I’m sorry for your loss, may you enjoy the beauty of Carmel and of being together as family. Love you….

  5. Chris (Doelman) Martin

    Love you too…hug your mom tor me. You are right…knowing Hans lived only in the moment and didn’t recognize the loss, is peaceful and somehow full of grace. We laughed at his child-like enjoyment of chocolate milkshakes..chocolate anything! I will miss those “in the moment” memories.

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