My mom died.
It was expected and sudden, anticipated and shocking. She’s gone. I miss her.
In August of 2015, my mom was diagnosed with Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD). In the fall of 2017, that diagnosis changed to Alzheimer’s disease. On December 21, 2018, the cruel disease of dementia took the final piece of my mom away.
It’s been a little more than three months since she died. It’s been even longer than that since I’ve had a conversation with her. While dementia stole my mom away from me little by little and piece by piece for more than ten years, I was not ready for the immense pain that came when dementia finally stole her physically from me as well.
Some days I think that I’m going to be okay. Most days I feel like I’m barely hanging on by a thread. I call the day a win if I get out of bed. It’s a double win if I put on real pants (hello, comfy pj pants). My house is a mess, I can count on one hand how many meals I’ve cooked for my family, and the mountain of laundry growing in the hallway is beginning to creep into the kitchen. I just can’t get motivated. I know what I need to do, but I just can’t seem to do it.
I know my mom is in a better place. She’s no longer suffering. I know this. I just wish it didn’t hurt so much to miss her.