My mom is 71 going on 7

But, at least, memory care is going well.

I visited my mom in memory care this week. It was my first time seeing her since she moved from assisted living to memory care in January. She’s calmer now. Less restless. Different. It’s both heartbreaking and oddly beautiful. This version of her is softer, looser, more uninhibited. Sometimes I wonder if she’s closer now to her truest self.

Ocala, Florida is nice this time of year. Cool in the mornings and evenings. I don’t need AC in my Airbnb apartment, and wake up to the birds chirping. I’ve been getting up early, working for a few hours, jogging, and visiting my mom in the afternoons.

She smiled when I arrived. A big smile. She was in the middle of eating lunch. An egg salad sandwich. I sat next to her as she ate it in two parts: first, the plain bread from the top, then the bottom half with the egg salad, like an open-faced sandwich. She struggled to bring the bread to her mouth without dropping bits of egg on her lap, but she got through it.

By the end, her fingers were covered in food, egg salad lodged under her nails. At one point, she tried to drink pudding from a bowl as if it were in a cup. It didn’t work, of course. It’s strange to watch her fumble through a meal like that. I suggested she wipe her hands on her napkin. She didn’t understand. I gave up.

I told her K. said hello. That we were just in New York. That my Airbnb here is cute and I’m happy to see her. She smiled again.

After lunch, we wandered to the back of the common area where a black-and-white movie was playing. Two love seat sofas faced the screen, surrounded by scattered chairs. The space felt calm. My mom sat quietly. So did I. She doesn’t pace or ask to go out anymore. She’s less agitated. Maybe it’s the memory care environment, maybe it’s her recent fall, maybe it’s both.

Every time I visit, it feels like something has progressed—mentally, physically, or both. New bruises. New behaviors. Her body is soft and fragile now. I guess this is just part of aging.

The activities coordinator appeared from a side door. She was full of energy, cheerful, and immediately got everyone’s attention, including my mom’s. That made me happy. Seeing her light up like that makes things feel a little easier. Or at least it’s easier for her. She doesn’t remember what came before. She doesn’t remember the frustration or the fear or the pain of slipping away. I’m grateful for that.

The activity of the day was filling plastic Easter eggs with chocolate for Sunday’s egg hunt (I’m curious how that’ll go?). Then they wrapped small boxes in tissue paper, taped decorative flowers to the top, and wrote their names on them.

My mom’s box

My mom is 71 going on 7.

My brother and I sat with her as she stumbled through the steps—open plastic egg, insert chocolate, close it, place it in the basket. She eventually got the hang of it and seemed so proud. We sat at the head of a long table, which also serves as the dining table. Our mom sat beside us. The rest of the table was full of women. No men. I’ve only seen two, maybe three, male residents total. It’s hard not to think about that, am I next?

The woman across from my mom was sweet. She mirrored our expressions and repeated things we said. When my brother asked, “How are you?” she repeated it back to him. She looked surprised, then frowned. Then smiled again.

Later, out of nowhere, she said, “Racism! Racism! Racism!”

We didn’t know how to respond. I mumbled “Trump” to my brother under my breath. A few minutes later, she turned to him and asked, “Are you in prison? Are you in prison?”

It was surreal, but not unexpected.

After the crafts, the staff brought out Rice Krispies treats with marshmallows on top. Snack time. Like preschool. The routine is oddly comforting—lunch, movie, activity, snack, movie, dinner, sleep. I’m not sure my mom knows what day it is, or whether she feels the passage of time, but at least there’s some shape to it.

I arrived at 12:30 pm, and by the time we were walking back to the movie area, it was nearly 3 pm. Time moves differently in there. Slow. Meditative. It’s like you’re in their world, and for a few hours, you adapt to their pace. You stop rushing. You stop expecting logic. You just sit with it.

Being in memory care feels like the last stop. But it also felt like the first time in a while I’ve seen her smile this much. She’s grown out of assisted living—I like to say grown rather than declined. It’s my own way of reframing this disease.

Maybe that’s what Alzheimer’s is. A return. A shedding. A softening.

Maybe my mom is growing into someone she never had permission to be before. Maybe she’s letting her inner child out. The playful one. The expressive one. The one who doesn’t care if there’s pudding under her nails.

I wonder what it feels like for her now.

I wonder if she feels free.

I hope so.

See you soon,

Alexis

P.S. If you liked what you just read and want to support me, please tap the heart and leave a comment below to help more people find it (and so I know what’s resonating). ❤️

P.P.S. If you have any questions about my experience of dealing with my mom’s Alzheimer’s and all the changes, problem solving, etc., feel free to ask in the comments. I’m an open book and want to help! I remember feeling completely lost in the beginning.

My mom and I (and our dog Ruffy) in 1986