When the Strong Become the Ones We Carry

There are few losses in life more difficult than slowly losing someone who is still sitting right in front of you.

Alzheimer's disease is one of those cruel illnesses. It does not simply steal memory; it slowly reshapes relationships, silences familiar conversations, and changes the rhythm of an entire family. I have watched that happen to my mother.

My mother was never a weak woman.

At just twenty-two years old, she learned that her little boy had a severe bleeding disorder that would shape the rest of our lives. Soon afterward, she found the courage to leave an unhappy marriage, pack up her young son, and begin again in a new town. We had very little. We slept on a mattress on the floor, and many nights supper consisted of little more than rice and butter because that was all her secretary's salary could provide.

Yet somehow, I never felt poor.

We never missed church. I never doubted I was loved. My mother had a remarkable gift for making scarcity feel like abundance because she filled our home with faith, determination, and hope.

She faithfully walked beside me through countless injuries and hospital stays caused by hemophilia. Then, when I was sixteen, our lives were shattered again as we learned I had contracted HIV through the medication used to treat my bleeding disorder. It was the middle of the 1980s, when fear often spoke louder than compassion.

Through every crisis, one thing never changed.

My mother was in my corner.

She was my greatest fan—and, if I am honest, my strongest critic. Her expectations became the foundation for the expectations I eventually placed on myself. She taught me that much in life would remain beyond my control, but nothing would ever be beyond God's care. Looking back, I realize she was quietly building resilience into my life long before I understood how desperately I would need it.

Now our relationship has reversed.

She still recognizes my sister and me, but those moments are becoming more fragile. I see the confusion in her eyes and hear the uncertainty in her voice. More than once she has quietly whispered, "I'm scared."

Nearly every visit, she tells me she wants to move back to the old family home. That chapter of her life remains vivid while so much else has faded. Sometimes, before our visit ends, I become her younger brother instead of her son.

Then, without warning, grace arrives.

Her eyes brighten. A smile appears.

"I'm so glad to see my baby boy," she says.

Those moments are priceless. I hold onto them tightly because I never know when the next one will come.

It is amazing how life changes our perspective. There was a time when I wished my mother would offer a little less advice. I grew tired of hearing her begin with, "Now, Shane..."

Today, I would give almost anything to hear those words one more time.

One unexpected gift God has given during this journey is the deepening relationship between my baby sister and me. I am so proud of the faithful, courageous woman she has become. The older she gets, the more she reminds me of our mother. Every now and then I hear the same tone in her voice that I once resisted but now cherish. It is a comforting echo of the woman who raised us both.

Alzheimer's is devastating because of what it takes from those we love—not only mentally, but emotionally and relationally.

Yet even here, grace quietly appears.

The doctors have explained that my mother often forgets the hardships of each day more quickly than she once did. The fears that overwhelm her one afternoon are often gone by morning. There is a strange mercy hidden even within this cruel disease.

I miss my mom.

I miss the one person on earth who always had my back—even while she occasionally climbed on it.

I often think about our trips to the neighborhood grocery store. While she shopped, she would hand me two dollars and let me wander into the five-and-dime next door. Two dollars was enough for a Matchbox car or a pack of baseball cards. I would listen carefully for her voice calling from the doorway, and when I heard it, I ran as fast as I could because I knew exactly where I belonged.

My mother was also an exceptional athlete, playing on state championship basketball teams in high school and championship church softball teams as an adult. Her competitive spirit somehow found its way into me, and now I see it again in my own daughters.

Sometimes I can still hear another sentence she often spoke whenever I was hurting and there was little anyone could do.

"Shane, I need you to pull yourself together."

Years later she explained what she meant.

"I knew your life would not be easy," she said. "I knew much of it would be spent in pain. I needed you to become strong enough to face whatever came your way."

Well, Mom...you did.

By God's grace, my life has not been wasted. I have mostly managed to stay "together"—not because I have never been afraid, but because you taught me to trust God, lean on others, and believe that suffering never gets the final word.

One memory continues to sustain me.

Shortly before my grandmother—my mother's mother—died, she wanted to go outside and run in the yard again. Her body could no longer do what her heart remembered. As reality settled over her, I heard my mother gently say, "Don't worry, Mama. One day we'll go running together in heaven."

I think about those words often now.

One day, Alzheimer's will lose.

One day, memories will be restored.

One day, names will no longer be forgotten.

One day, my mother will once again know me as her baby boy.

And perhaps, by God's grace, we'll all go running together.

What a glorious day that will be