My mother, Ruth, is tiny—ninety pounds, four-foot-ten, living with dementia. Some days she’s clear and bright; others, she drifts into confusion. She has two sons: me, Michael, living in Florida, and my brother Tom, just twenty minutes away from her assisted living home in northern Michigan.
Eight years ago, I moved south. I told myself it was for work, for sunshine—but the truth was, I was exhausted. Exhausted by the late-night calls, the endless appointments, the slow heartbreak of watching someone fade. I convinced myself professional care would be better for her. That was the lie I told myself so I could sleep at night.
