Ambiguous Grief

It's a strange and confusing thing to grieve someone who is still living. I guess that is why it is aptly called ambiguous grief.

There is a grief that exists for those who are still living, a grief called ambiguous grief.

My Mom is physically alive, but the essence of who she was - everything that made her her - is gone. Alzheimer’s gradually eroded her personality, memory, and words; it took away her ability to recognize the once familiar faces of loved ones, including me, her daughter. Alzheimer's bared no mercy on her, leaving a shadow of her former vibrant self in its wake.

The person who provided unconditional love and support. The person I would always turn to for guidance.  The person who was a constant presence in my life. She still walks.  She still eats and drinks. She still sleeps.  She still looks like herself (to some degree).  But she can’t converse or engage in activities with the depth, connection, and intention that defined her, that made her the beautiful human being she was.  

Each visit to Memory Care reminds me of this cruel truth.

Those who've walked this path will understand: When I am with her, I miss her.  

In a way, my Mom died years ago, and yet, she still breathes.  A reality I struggle to reconcile. A reality that defies understanding. A reality that breaks your heart over and over again.

Photo: Katie Moum (@katiemoum) | Unsplash Photo Community