…as a precocious child, adored by loving parents. As a vibrant young woman who loved to dance and draw. As a devoted wife and proud mother. As a grandmother, great-grandmother, and loyal friend. As a financial professional and dedicated employee. As a volunteer and respected member of the community. As an accomplished artist with a natural ability to paint delicate intricacies. As a superb hostess who entertained often. And as an impeccably dressed lady who loved the activity of large cities, nightlife, and fine dining.

Can you see me?

…when I married my husband after his discharge from military duties. We excitedly built the home where we would raise our son, living out our years until it became too large to manage. A lovely home where extensive flower gardens were nurtured; the focal point where family gathered and lifelong friendships were fostered; where laughter permeated the walls and memories were made.

Can you see me?

…as we downsized, building the condo that would be our retirement home, unknowing that we wouldn’t be there long-term as planned. We intended to travel the world. Instead, illness and infirmities required moving to smaller, more manageable accommodations closer to family. But I made friends easily, adapted to my apartment, and embraced this new way of life, making daily treks to see my husband in a skilled nursing unit.

Can you see me?

…when after 62 years of marriage, I lost the love of my life. I became directionless and forgetful, and no longer enjoyed outings and activities. Because of memory loss, I was moved to more care-centered accommodations. My world and my room became smaller, and my modest belongings were reduced to a few mementos and photos of my former life.

Having outlived all of my friends and most of my family, I am mercilessly challenged by the inability to recognize my small family unit. With blind optimism, they fill my room with pictures and trinkets that they hope will spark a dormant memory. I stare at them as strangers in a world that I am no longer part of, while they innocently ask, “Do you remember…?”

But I don’t remember.

Can you see me?

…living in a small space in a darkened room, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and voices trailing into the distance. I would love to go out into the open air. To feel free again. But I can only watch the world from my window as people mull about, unaware that one day, they too may find themselves in this place.

My mind desperately tries to connect memory with the words I hear and the objects that surround me. I feel disoriented and disconnected in a state of suspended animation, and this causes me to cry. I don’t know why I’m crying, and in desperation to ease my sadness, a visitor tries to make me laugh. And when I do, she can see in my cloudy eyes and vacant expression that I don’t know why I’m laughing. But for a brief moment, the sweet, familiar sound of laughter makes us both happy.

Can you see me?

…when I can no longer speak but sometimes hear a melody and self-soothe with a singsong voice of jumbled words that only I understand. But the inability to communicate is frustrating, and sends me deeper into a protective stillness.

The measure of time cruelly ticks by, gauged by the rote tasks of repetitive feeding, changing, medicating, and sleep schedules. Medical personnel are overtasked, understaffed, often suffering from terminal indifference; though several gentle souls take time to treat me with kindness and this gives me comfort.

There is no longer free will. There is only an unchanging existence, and an obligation to breathe in and out; to do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it. To endure in a silent, static world of confusion.

I’ve stopped eating and sleep all the time. I share a room with a woman whose name I will never know; who, like me, will obediently exist until we leave behind an empty void that will quickly be replaced by another.

Can you see me?

… as I surrender to God’s will and my last breath is extinguished. In my final hour of need, a divine being reached into the darkness to hold my hand, guiding me into eternity; a place without pain, sadness, or the loneliness of cognitive decline.

I hope that you can see me as the person I once was; not as the shell of a person whose mind was ravaged by dementia and whose shrunken body withered beneath heavy blankets. Because the sum of a person’s existence should never be measured by the end, but by truly seeing them through the entirety of their life story.