After a year of countless doctor appointments, evaluations, and scans, we finally received Mom’s official diagnosis. She had Alzheimer’s Disease.
Our hearts were shattered. It felt as if the rug had swiftly been pulled out from underneath us. We were left in a state of shock, unable to find the words to express the storm of emotions we were feeling.
Alzheimer’s—a cruel disease that relentlessly steals a person’s humanity, memories, and personality. A disease that chips away at one’s ability to function and go about their daily life. A disease that leaves only fragments of the vibrant person they once were.
A disease that sends loved ones on a heartbreaking journey of uncertainty and grief. A disease that brings with it the longest, hardest goodbye. A disease we never imagined in a million years would strike so close to home.
I sat down with Mom soon after we found out, my heart heavy and worn. I was nervous and afraid to talk about it, unsure of what to say. Yet, despite my fears, I knew words needed to be spoken.
Always being the brave one, you went first. You looked into my eyes, and you told me you were scared. You had so many questions . . . What was this disease going to do to you? How soon would it impact your memory? When would it steal your ability to communicate? When would you no longer know us or recognize our faces? When would you have to give up driving? What other freedoms would be taken from you? You had questions I couldn’t answer—questions even the doctors couldn’t fully answer due to the unpredictable nature of the disease.
It felt like we were preparing for battle against a formidable enemy, walking into it blind, without a plan, strategy, or map to guide us. Tears welled up in your eyes and the fear in your face intensified. With each second that passed, I had an overwhelming urge to protect you. To be your human shield–safeguarding you from anxiety and worry, determined not to let anything hurt you again.
I wrapped you in a hug and held you close, just as you always did when I was a child. Although we did not say it out loud, I knew we were both grieving for the life you were leaving behind and the remaining life this disease would eventually steal from you.
What I couldn’t admit to you is that I was really scared too. I was terrified to my core, not knowing how this dreadful disease would change you as a human being, or when it would eventually take your precious life.
I did not tell you losing you in this way was unfathomable. I did not tell you I could not imagine my life without you in it—without you at the center where you had always been. Always a strong and reliable presence. I did not tell you I knew what heartbreak felt like because my heart was splitting into a million pieces at that very moment. I did not tell you my heart would continue to break, never to be whole again.
We cried together until our tears ran dry. I held on to you tightly, unwilling to let go, knowing that doing so would mean entering an unknown and frightening future I wasn’t ready to face.
So, we lingered a bit longer in our embrace while I closed my eyes, silently hoping that doing so would somehow keep us from the inevitable–that somehow our love and our bond could defy this relentless disease, if only for a little while.
Originally published on the author’s blog
by Laura Bagnarol 
by Lauren Dykovitz 
