Mothers Day, May 10, 2026

So, this might be the last time my mom remembers who I am on Mother’s Day.

My relationship with my mom has always been, well, complicated.

But now, as she approaches her upcoming 84th birthday, I just try to do what little I can, from 1,500 miles away, to make sure her needs are met, and that she is healthy and as happy as she can be.

Fortunately, the dementia has not taken away her cheerful spirit.

But every time we speak – she is in Phoenix and I am in Michigan – it becomes increasingly apparent that dementia is robbing her of language, logic and memories.

In the course of our most recent conversation in the past week, she struggled, at times, to put together complete sentences. Phrasing and words eluded her as she tried hard, repeatedly, to communicate a simple thought to me.

A few minutes later, she sounded as eloquent as a chapter in a romantic novel.

She asked me if I would be spending Mother’s Day with my mother-in-law.

My husband’s mother died decades before we were married.

“She passed away, Mom,” I said gently.

“She DID????” she exclaimed. “Oh! She was such a nice lady!”

They had never met.

And then I thought, “Maybe she is thinking of my FIRST mother-in-law?” as I have been married twice. Sadly, my first mother-in-law has also passed. I didn’t ask her if that was who she was talking about, because, it didn’t really matter, did it?

During our conversations, she talks a lot about the family photos that are sprinkled around her room in the assisted living facility where she lives.

“Who is that man in the pictures with you, Patti?” she asked.

“You mean my husband?”

“I don’t know…there are pictures of you with two different men. One is heavier than the other. One has hair and one does not.”

I’m familiar with the photos in her room. My husband and I look pretty much the same in the photos of us.

I just tell her I’m not sure, but it is probably my husband in both photos.

“Okay…well tell him he looks better since he lost weight!”

Then I remember that one of the photos is a photo of me in a Mrs. Santa costume and my husband is next to me dressed as Santa.

My husband shaves his head. Santa, definitely does not. Santa wears a curly white wig. And Santa definitely has a bigger belly.

According to the National Institutes of Health, approximately 42 percent of Americans over the age of 55 will develop dementia in their lifetime. Six million Americans are currently afflicted with this life-stealing disease. Because the population of the U.S. is aging, it is estimated that the number of patients experiencing dementia will double by 2060.

My mother’s mind is failing faster than the rest of her body.

Though she is physically frail, she is in otherwise good health.

She might very well still be here come May 2027.

But will she remember me?

When we talk, it is clear to me that she remembers my brother, who is her primary caretaker because he also lives in Phoenix. When speaking to me, she frequently refers to my brother as “Your father…” but, given context, I know she means my brother.

When we talk, it is clear to me that she remembers my brother, who is her primary caretaker because he also lives in Phoenix. When speaking to me, she frequently refers to my brother as “Your father…” but, given context, I know she means my brother.

It is my husband (or, maybe my two different husbands) and my brother’s one and only wife of almost 40 years whose names she struggles to remember when speaking to me.

But her memory allows her to understand, for the most part, what roles the two of them play in our family. She expressed gratitude to my sister-in-law, who recently visited and helped hang pictures in her new room.

“Michelle…no, not Michelle…” she started to say.

“Yes, Michelle,” I gently coaxed her.

“No, not MICHELLE,” she said. “Who is your brother’s wife?”

“Michelle…” I said.

“Oh, well, whatever. She came and hung my pictures and she did such a good job!”

These are the conversation we have now.

Long gone are the casual, lingering chats at the kitchen table at my parent’s home in Anthem, Arizona, where my dad sipped coffee while his favorite Prescott radio station played “muzak” in the background, and the two of them hovered over the newspaper, chatting about local, state and national news.

Politically, we aligned, and we commiserated off and on over the years, both in phone calls and while eating breakfast at their kitchen table during my visits to Arizona.

It was the one common thread of conversation I could count on having with them both over the years.

My mother and I are probably more alike than I ever want to admit, and in other ways we are complete opposites. But she taught me the importance of speaking out for what you believe in and in the power of my vote (Mom stood in line for hours in 2008 just to have the opportunity to vote for the first Black president).

She taught me that women’s rights were human rights long before Hillary Clinton ever uttered those famous words.

Mom taught me that by living that. By the occasional conversation that wasn’t really conversational. Nothing is with her. It is more, “Here is my monologue; I hope you’re listening.” (And this is me smiling at the memory.)

But for every word Teenaged Patti tuned out, Teenaged Patti picked up on the other half of the words spoken in my presence.

I was not less because I am female.

I should not endure harassment from boys or men in school, in the workplace, nor in my personal life.

I should become independent.

I am grateful that I opened my mind enough to listen to her at least half of the time and that I received those messages.

So, I’m not sure if my mother will remember my name or who I am, come Mother’s Day 2027.

But we talked the other day and she did. And I’m grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

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