To the Version of Me That Struggled on Mother's Day: Your Feelings Are Valid AF

Mother's Day. A holiday filled with flowers, brunches, and heartfelt cards for many. But for those of us navigating the choppy waters of Alzheimer's with our mom, it has become a day of confronting loss, lowered expectations, and lonely heartache.

The weeks leading up to this Mother's Day, my social media feed was inundated with friends excitedly planning celebrations for their moms. I couldn't help but feel pangs of envy and self-pity, yearning for a "normal" holiday experience. I used to romanticize Mother's Day as one of my favorite occasions. Now, it's a stark reminder of the woman and the relationship I've lost to this ruthless disease.

This Mother’s Day was especially trying. Mom was agitated and irritable, suspicous, accusatory, and distant. Though I understand she can't help it, the little girl in me wanted to dig in my heels, lash out, and refuse to celebrate someone who made me feel so small. I'm not proud of these immature impulses, but Alzheimer's has a way of unraveling you slowly.

The day was peppered with secret breakdowns. I sobbed hard into my hands behind closed doors, muffling the sounds of my sorrow. The isolation was suffocating. You don't want anyone to witness your unraveling, yet you desperately crave comfort. It's a confusing dance of wanting to be alone with your grief, while simultaneously wishing for a loving embrace to make it all better.

Mom's decline was more pronounced this Mother's Day. She couldn't grasp the concept of the holiday, rejected my gift, and even turned away from my kiss. The rejection cut deep, as if I was a stranger trespassing on her world. I robotically went through the motions, feeling like an actress forced into a tragic role she never auditioned for.

I made sure to put on a brave face to anyone else outside my home though, not wanting to cast a shadow on anyone else's celebrations. Instead, I poured my energy into writing, attempting to drown out the constant loop of my own pity party.

I'm slowly learning to manage my expectations and tailor my gifts to Mom's evolving interests and reactions. The lavish bouquets and sentimental cards no longer elicit the same joy or recognition. It's a constant lesson in finding value and purpose in our new normal, even when my mind drifts to compare current experiences with fading memories of the past.

Holidays now carry an undercurrent of "getting through it." I catch myself tallying the minutes, eager for the day to end and to be relieved of the pressure to perform normalcy. Yet even in my hurry to move forward, I'm keenly aware that each passing Mother's Day could be my last with her. Alzheimer's demands that I stay present and soak in every moment, no matter how painful or unrecognizable they may be.

There are glimmers of growth and resilience too. I'm learning to find love and connection in the smallest of gestures - a fleeting smile, a moment of calm, a brief flicker of who we used to be together. I cling to these like lifelines, proof that our bond is still alive beneath the plaques and tangles of this disease.

To all the sons and daughters that celebrated a Mother's Day that felt unraveled, your feelings are valid. We may not get the Hallmark holiday, but we are privileged to honor our moms in a raw and unfiltered love that transcends any traditional celebration. Hold tight to the moments of grace and know that even on the darkest days, you're embodying the very essence of motherhood: unwavering love and presence in the hardest of times.