Living with memory impairment can be daunting and frustrating. Watching my mom navigate each week, unable to keep track of the days, is heartbreaking. Every morning, she checks the clock and the calendar on her cell phone, yet the question always follows: "What day is it?" But I am deeply grateful that her most precious memories seem to exist outside the boundaries of space and time.
Some of her favorite memories are of the long, winding drives she used to take with her lifelong friend. Back then, she looked forward to those Sunday outings with the pure, bubbly excitement of a child awaiting a school field trip. Every Sunday afternoon, they would set off, not returning until late in the evening. They crossed county lines and state borders, chasing roads down to the oceanfront or navigating the busy streets of D.C., Virginia, and Pennsylvania. For the entire week that followed, she would fill the house with her recollections—the bursts of shared laughter, the music they sang along to or quietly enjoyed, the deep conversations, and the local restaurants where they stopped for dinner.
Now, when the fog of the disease rolls in and she feels a little down, she looks through the rearview mirror of her mind. In her reality, she and her friend went out just "last" Sunday. Her face lights up and she becomes animated as she details where they went and what they did. When she speaks to her sister on the phone, she proudly declares, "Oh yes, girl, we went out on Sunday and drove all around!"
In literal truth, it has been months, perhaps even years, since she last went on one of those drives. But in her mind, the engine was running just a few days ago. Far be it from me to shatter that beautiful reality. It warms my heart to know that despite the cruel progression of this disease, her happiest memories are never truly out of reach.
