💛 Running After Mom — Life With Alzheimer 💛

I never imagined that at thirty-five, I would be running a daily marathon. Not for health, not for sport, but because my mother discovered that door knobs are just a suggestion.

It all started six months ago during breakfast. She looked at me — her eyes clouded but searching — and asked,
—“Who are you, beautiful?”

That’s when I knew. Alzheimer’s had arrived, uninvited, irreversible, but relentless.

Today, like every day, I went out to buy bread. Twenty minutes later, I returned, humming to myself, only to find the house empty.

—“Oh no!” I screamed, throwing the bag of bread onto the floor.

I grabbed my fastest shoes and sprinted out. My first stop: the park. Mom had always loved the swings. I ran as if chased by a bull in Pamplona, lungs burning, heart hammering, and there she was. Swaying gently on a swing while a five-year-old girl watched in awe.

—“And where is your mom?” Mom asked the little girl.
—“At work,” the girl replied.
—“Well, what a scandal. Kids shouldn’t be left alone!”

—“Mommy!” I called, exhausted, approaching her. “I told you not to go out alone!”

She turned to me, her gaze clear, even if confused.
—“Do we know each other?” she asked.
—“I’m Andrea, your daughter,” I said softly.
—“Impossible. My daughter is such a little girl,” she said, gesturing with her hand like I hadn’t grown at all. “You’re old already.”

The little girl on the swing laughed. I laughed too, because if I didn’t, I would have cried.

—“Let’s go home, Mom. I’ll make your latte the way you like it.”
—“It’s okay… but only because I like you,” she said, smiling gently.

The next day, I stepped out for thirty seconds — literally — to throw out the trash. I returned to find her gone again. This time, she was at the bakery three blocks down, explaining to Mrs. Marta that she needed bread for her six children.

—“Mom, you only had two sons,” I said, exasperated.
—“And how do you know? Were you there?” she asked with a twinkle.

Mrs. Marta looked at me with pity as she handed my mother a small bag of cookies.
—“I didn’t charge you, daughter. And I saved these for your mother. She likes them a lot.”

I took Mom’s hand, and we walked home. She happily munched a cookie, oblivious to my stress.
—“Hey, what’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
—“Andrea.”
—“What a beautiful name. I had a daughter named that.”
—“Oh, yes? What was she like?”
—“A beautiful little girl. Very intelligent. She liked to draw.”

I smiled. I still loved to draw.
—“I must have loved you a lot.”
—“Very much. You were the love of my life,” she said, pausing mid-street with a sudden clarity. “I hope she knows she always was.”

A lump formed in my throat.
—“She knows, Mom. She knows.”

Her eyes softened, then wandered, the moment passing as quickly as it came.
—“Mom? Nope, nope. I don’t have children that big. Do you have cookies?”

That night, we installed four new door handles — one with a code — though I couldn’t fully understand how they worked. The next morning, she disappeared again. This time, I found her at the supermarket, with a cart full of apples. Forty-some apples, all of them on sale, all for reasons that only made sense to her.

—“Mom, we’re two. What are we going to do with forty apples?”
—“Apple pie, apple juice, baked apples, apple salad…” she explained seriously.
—“It’s alright. We bought enough.”

At the checkout, the cashier smiled knowingly.
—“My grandmother had Alzheimer too. One day we found her planting flowers in the neighbor’s garden at three in the morning.”
—“And what happened?” I asked, laughing.
—“The neighbor ended up with the nicest garden on the block. And my grandmother visited every day to ‘take care of her flowers.’”

It was comforting to know I wasn’t alone in this surreal, exhausting world.

After three escapes in one week, I decided to hire Rosa, a caregiver with the patience of a saint and the speed of an Olympic athlete.

—“Look, Rosa,” I warned. “My mom is fast. You have to be faster. Think of her as an unpredictable ninja.”

Rosa looked at me incredulously.
—“Take it easy. I took care of my mother-in-law for ten years. Once, I found her at a wedding she wasn’t invited to. She drank three glasses of champagne and danced with the groom.”

That afternoon, while Rosa and Mom watched soap operas, I finally sat down to draw — something I hadn’t done in months. I drew Mom on the swing, Mom with her forty apples, Mom being herself, even when she didn’t know who I was half the time.

—“What are you drawing?” she asked, sneaking up on me.
—“For you.”
—“For me? And why?”
—“Because you’re important.”

She studied my drawing with an expression I remembered from my childhood, when I first showed her my sketches.
—“It’s pretty. You draw well. Will you be an artist when you grow up?”
—“Maybe, Mom. Maybe.”

She hugged me gently. I could still smell the lingering scent of Mrs. Marta’s cookies.
—“I had a daughter who drew so beautifully,” she whispered. “Andrea, was her name.”
—“She must be wonderful,” I said, hugging her tighter.
—“She was. She is. Although I haven’t seen her in a while.”
—“She’s closer than you think,” Rosa winked from the couch.

Tomorrow, she’ll probably escape again. And I’ll run behind her, as usual. My legs are stronger than ever. My endurance is steel.

Even though she doesn’t recognize me every day, even though each escape is a frantic chase, these moments have gifted me something unexpected: more time with her, absurd and hilarious conversations, and countless reasons to laugh amidst chaos.

Because Alzheimer’s may steal memories, but it cannot steal these moments — the joy of a shared cookie, a swing set, a cart full of apples, a drawing made with love. These moments are mine, guarded in every corner of the neighborhood, every street we walk together, and every hug she gives me, even if she doesn’t know who I am that day.

And somehow, in this strange, exhausting, beautiful routine, I have found a deeper connection than ever before. A connection that reminds me, every single day, that love survives even when memory doesn’t.

✨ “Alzheimer’s may steal your memories, but it cannot steal your moments. Those are safe, forever, in the heart.”