Maybe I thought I had done the work, so I’d be okay as my mom transitions.

I’m not sad in the sense of losing her—I believe that with her dementia, some of that connection to memory and story has been gone for a while now. I don’t feel there’s a lot left unspoken or unshared between us.

And yet, I find myself caught in this underlying undertow—a swirl that leaves me feeling heavy, struggling to stay present.

I’m a marriage and family therapist with a systems background, so I’m well aware of the powerful pull of family of origin. I had imagined that, with all the work I’ve done to gather pieces of my past into a kind of fractal—a pattern that allows me to live and love more fully—I would have unhooked myself from that pull.

But no.

Over the past few years, I’ve been on a journey with my sisters in caring for our mom. 

I live in Montana. Melissa, the middle sister, lives in Indiana. Penny, the oldest, is on the ground in Seattle—closest to Mom, and most often in charge of appointments, care, and transport.

COVID shifted everything for Mom. During that window of being locked down in her apartment, her memory began to decline. We did what we could. But let’s face it—there was so much that left our elderly isolated and alone. Maybe it impacted all of us in that way.

We moved her into a care home where she’s been for the past few years. She has a great care team, and our family stays connected in various ways.

As sisters, we try to meet weekly for a call—to check in, share, and support each other on this journey. Sometimes it’s been about Mom. Sometimes it’s been about all the other dynamics unfolding in our own lives. Sometimes we’ve agreed. Sometimes we haven’t. Sometimes it’s been hard. And sometimes we’ve laughed.

We each hold different beliefs about life, death, faith, and spirit. We also have different perspectives on health care and managing expectations. What I’ve loved is that none of these differences have undermined our shared purpose: caring for our mom.

We’ve cultivated an intimacy—in-to-me-see—with each other, using the energy of emotion to be creative, supportive, and, I believe, lov-ing with each other.

And still, this undertow.

There’s a fabric of family that lives in the body—in emotion, in images, and in story. That fabric is losing one of its essential threads. Though I know, energetically, my mom isn’t gone, the tangible contact with her texture, her vibration, is slipping away.

Will the fabric of our family continue without that thread?

Maybe that’s the fear.

There are aspects of my life that I know will never be “known” once my mom is gone. 

I’ve always said I was okay with that. 

And I am.

Our stories have become my wisdom. 

Energy.  Moving and reshaping.

I hope that’s true for her as well.