While having a conversation with a friend I was told her mother had dementia, and she was taking care of her. As I listened to her, my mind immediately went to memories I wish I did not have. It was as though I was having flashbacks as I listened. I offered what encouragement I could and information I could provide, which she appreciated.

But still I remembered how the disease plummeted my mother, the one who the nicest person though she was a stubborn one which she admitted. The one whose mind was taken over by a disease she had no control over. The one I loved and didn’t like at the same time. Since her passing over three years ago, I admit I miss her. But it is the woman I remembered before the illness; that is who I miss. That is the one I wish I could talk to like we used to. That is the one who probably would have move with me to try something new.

When one thinks of the word memory, usually they are good ones, or at least you hope they are good memories, the one you want to remember. I suppose that has been my problem. The last series of memories seem to be the ones that linger in my mind, and those are not the good ones. Everyone says remember how she was and in my dreams they are good ones. I am so happy that when I dream about her it is not laced with dementia, but when she was younger. Perhaps my mind is giving me a signal to cherish the good memories, not the latter tarnished ones.

It is a challenge I face daily.