I Saw a Glimpse of Her ...

April 20, 2025

I saw a glimpse of her today. My Mom.

Kaela and I went to visit and brought along some Easter treats for her.  A small vase with bright Easter flowers,  the pinks and yellows she always loved.  A gift bag filled with Danish Cookies, orange flavoured Tic Tacs (she loves them), some lovely lavender hand cream, and a floppy white Easter Bunny. 

We also brought Timmie’s – steeped tea, chocolate chip cookies, and a donut.  No matter what, I still bring Timmie’s when I visit.  My Mom no longer understands, but Timmie’s is where we once had lunch on Mondays, and in the year before her dementia started to take over – she had begun to share with me.  So, I still bring Timmie’s for our visits, and I continue to grieve these prior days when we were finally beginning to understand each other.

I haven't written in a very long time. Yet, recently I've been repopulating old blog posts onto my new website, and have been reminded of what I was writing back then.  How I could see things slipping away, and how sad I felt.  How unfair it seemed.  And yet today, I long for those times.  Those days when the dementia was there, but my Mom was still there too.  When we still had some good moments of connection and understanding.  When she still knew I was her daughter, and that I loved her.    It felt so hard back then, yet I so long for those days now.  I never knew just how hard this was going to become. 

Visits now are extremely unpredictable.  At best I am her “Mummy”, and she talks of “that man with the baby” – my son.  Kaela, my daughter seems to be the only one she still remembers. Today she says “Hi, Kaela. How are you doing?  What have you been up to?”  The only real words that come easy for her and make sense today. 

It makes me smile. I see a glimpse of my Mom. 

She let me brush and curl her hair today.  It used to be a regular thing when I came to visit, but often she resists, gets angry and the anxiety escalates, so it hasn’t happened.  But today, she let me love her.  I brushed and curled her hair.  Rubbed the new hand cream into her 89-year-old hands, while she mumbled about how they were so “ugly” and not understanding why they are like that.  

I held her hands, turned them over in mine, and wondered if she felt the love from my touch. Does she know?  I don’t know if she does, but I hope somewhere deep in her heart she remembers that I love her, even if her brain does not.  I hope. 

As I held her hands, turning them over in mine, she pointed to her anniversary ring.  A ring she has been wearing for 44 years.  “That’s not coming off”, she says.  “He is staying with me”.  My Dad … in this moment she remembers my Dad.   Her knuckles, so swollen from arthritis keep the ring from ever coming off.   It will go with her when she dies, and she will take it onward with her. 

It makes me smile. I see a glimpse of my Mom.

There were many repeat questions, like “Where do you live? Can I come see you there”.  I so wish she could.  I tell her Maple Ridge, and then say “Not today, Mom”.  She laughs at me … smiles … and there is a twinkle in her eye … for but a moment.  “You won’t ever take me”, she laughs again.  We both know she’s right.   This is quite different than the anger and obstinance this conversation usually invokes. 

It makes me smile. I see a glimpse of my Mom.

My Mom is calm today.  A rarity of late.  We eat cookies and sip our tea and coffee.  She mumbles her words, and it appears what she has to say is very important to her. Kaela and I listen, nod, smile when she smiles.   She hugs the floppy bunny, and holds him tight; patting his back like a baby.  Her eyes move toward her bulletin board where pictures of all of us stare back at her.  She talks about her great-grandbaby and how “amazing” she is.  She smiles and hugs her new bunny tighter.

She motions for me to open the tin of Danish cookies.  As I remove the seal, she mutters about them being “so good”.  I lift the dark blue lid and she quickly reaches inside.  She pulls out the one that she has always liked the best.  I smile.  There she is.   

She quickly goes to take a bite, and comments on how hard it is.  My Mom is without her dentures.  She hasn’t worn them in months. “No need”, she says whenever we ask about them.   I ask her if she’d like her teeth and I explain the cookie will be easy to eat with them.  She shakes her head like a child and plunks the cookie down on the table.  She laughs and shakes her head.

We all laugh as I see a glimpse of my Mom.

It’s been over two years since my mom left her own home and has been in some form of care.  It has been a long and difficult journey walking with my Mom and Dementia.  Dementia is a ruthless, unpredictable beast, and I have grieved the loss of my Mom, so many times in so many ways, over these years.

As she held on to her bunny today, she clearly said “I want to quit this.  I just don’t know how to get outta here”.  She held that bunny tighter and told me I might not be able to find her next time.  It breaks my heart, these moments, most moments.   I nod my head, and let her know that no matter what, I will always be able to find her.  I pray that this will be true, even though I know some days it's hard to see her at all right now.

She is good to say goodbye today.  There is no sadness, no anger, no hatred.  Often these are the emotions that arise to saying goodbye.  Today she simply says, "Okay" and asks when I will come again.  Soon, I say.  "Soon. How soon?"  3 days, I say.      “Sure, ya will”, she says, as she smiles.  There she is.

This road is rocky, and sometimes emotionally charged. Always, actually.  Always emotional in some way.  But for today … if even for a moment …

Today I saw a glimpse of my Mom.  God how I miss her.

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About the author:

Karen Hendrickson is an Elevation Coach, focused on helping others to rewrite their life story, befriend their mortality, and find the richness and magic that lives at the intersection of our lives where life and death meet. When we allow our authentic self permission to shine our life becomes full of MAGIC and GREATNESS.  Contact karenttjourney@gmail.com and start working with her today!