On Losing Someone in Pieces

Due to the mountains of snow that remain on the sidewalks of New York, I recently pulled out a pair of snow boots that my mom had bought me when I moved here in late 2021.

They’re black boots with light blue trim and grayish faux fur poking out of the top. I remember I wanted them in white at the time, but my mom convinced me that the black boots were more practical. She was right, and I listened.

I slipped the boots on for the first time in a couple years. They felt fine at first, but I realized that the last few years have really destroyed my feet, and walking in those boots for more than twenty steps would be painful. The sides are too stiff, the toe maybe needs more cushion. They’re nice boots on the outside, they just feel really different.

After deciding I probably couldn’t wear them anymore, I realized that those boots were one of the final relics of a previous version of my mom that isn’t coming back. Maybe she had already begun to slip away at that point, but that was one of the last times I can remember her anticipating an issue that wasn’t immediately in front of her, thinking of a solution, and bringing it to full execution.

The thing about witnessing Alzheimer’s is that, at least in my experience, it doesn’t become apparent through a distinct incident. It’s a slow accumulation of behaviors that aren’t necessarily abnormal - we all can be forgetful, we all make odd judgments sometimes - but their increased frequency is what became a red flag in this case.

For at least a few years, my mom was resistant to seeking help, and when she did, she expressed only skepticism about the options she was given. I became frustrated with her for these reasons, unable to understand why she wouldn’t accept help for something that was becoming obvious and sometimes dangerous. I began to unconsciously pull away from her, for over a year, becoming quick to anger and avoiding the thought that maybe our parent-child dynamic was permanently imploding. I was also in denial; I kept thinking it was just a passing thing, or maybe that she needed to make a few simple lifestyle changes to cope with some recent stressors.

In October 2025, I had two tickets to see Lorde in concert in DC near my hometown. This was my birthday present to my friend Teddy, who I’ve known since we were twelve. Teddy unfortunately had a schedule mix-up and couldn’t come, so I asked my mom if she wanted to come with me. I assumed she’d say no - she dislikes crowds, noise, and staying awake past 8 - but surprisingly, she said yes.

I planned to take her to a restaurant near the venue, thinking we would have a nice leisurely meal before the show. But I foolishly didn’t think to make a reservation anywhere, and when we got there, every restaurant was packed. We ended up sharing a chicken sandwich at a very casual spot, where we sat outside on metal chairs that make that awful scraping noise when you shift them. I apologized to her that the meal was so casual, but she repeatedly told me that she liked it.

During our sandwich, I told my mom something that I wanted to tell her for some time - that I noticed her taking some prescriptions that she had previously avoided taking, and that I was proud of her for taking them.

“Prescriptions…for what?” She asked me, suddenly stiff as if she was trying to steady a wobbly table.

“Aren’t they antidepressants?” I asked. She had been prescribed them before, but she didn’t feel that she was depressed.

“Mhm,” she replied quietly, her eyes averting back to her food. She shifted her body more towards me and said, “I have another surprise for you.”

Such weird wording. My mom can be so funny without trying.

“I have Alzheimer’s.”

I froze a little and felt something fall inside of me. It was such a weird feeling - to be fully devastated and fully unsurprised at the same time. My hands dropped my sandwich and my head went in its place.

“Oh, Sydney, I don’t want you to cry,” she said to me in a way that seemed beautifully familiar. She reassured me that she was feeling fine and she wasn’t going anywhere. The latter remark is something I’ve realized is only true to her. She took my hand and continued to reassure me that she was okay. I don’t remember exact details of that conversation beyond those, but I do remember that she ended it by pointing to the sandwich and saying, “Now eat.”

We eventually walked over to the venue for the show. As we sat during the opening act, I cried silently into my hand. My mom noticed this, and in a hilarious way I cannot translate in writing, snapped at me “Stop crying.”

Lorde was incredible, I thought, and my mom was really energized and present throughout the entire show. When we walked out, she asked me, “Did you get some good pictures?” I did, but the best ones I got that night were of her. I asked her what she thought of the music. She crinkled her nose and said, “It was…different.” Again, so funny without trying.

A lot has happened since that night in terms of her journey of finding balance and enjoyment in her life - and in my journey of a very odd, unwinding grief. I hope this doesn’t come off as terribly selfish when I speak about my own sadness, but I can only really speak from my perspective. And I haven’t heard a lot of stories from people in my position (though I’d like to).

She was my only parent growing up for basically my entire life. She worked very hard to give two children a good life and she did an incredible job, but I know that she made sacrifices that likely compromised her longterm health. And to feel her start to drift away, piece by piece, has been an increasingly painful missing of her. We can still have light conversations, a lot of her humor is the same, and she enthusiastically makes me coffee when I’m home. But having conversations of real depth and detail is sadly more discombobulating for her than anything.

Can I just say it? It fucking sucks and I’m grappling with so much anger and sadness. I feel like I am grieving the loss of someone over and over again, each time it seems that something in her has shifted. My mom is only 63, and for most of my life we were each other’s closest people. I wish I had been aware of the last time she was “normal” when it was happening, because that was likely around the time when all I could focus on was what I wanted my life to be. I left and moved to New York because that’s what I wanted, and I’m not saying I regret that at all, but I didn’t realize I wouldn’t ever see “her” again. The most self-centered yet truthful way I can describe it is: it feels like “she” left without saying goodbye.

I don’t know exactly why I am sharing this here, and maybe no one is still reading to this point. I was watching TikToks of Ozzy Osbourne on his family’s reality show, and when his daughter Kelly complained to him “Why are you asking me these questions?” he replied, “I’m your dad.” Suddenly I was in tears and felt I needed to put all this somewhere.

If you’re going through anything remotely similar, I love you and I’m sorry. Maybe most of us will have to go through a version of this. But man, it fucking sucks.

If you’re still reading, thank you for staying.

I have a lot more to say about this, I just don’t know what else to say right now.

“It feels so scary, getting old.” - Ribs by Lorde