I adored my mother. She was an exceptional, self-assured woman who inspired me. She was also one of the most brilliant people I knew. She was not only my role model but also my closest friend. We spent countless hours together dreaming and planning our next projects and adventures. Even when she was traveling and living abroad, we kept in touch every day.
Among all the places mother traveled and lived, France held a special place in her heart. The warmth and charm of the French culture resonated with her, making her experiences there some of her most treasured. She used to speak French to me, even though she knew I couldn’t understand most of what she said. I think she imagined I would learn the language by osmosis if she just kept speaking it.
Still working and travelling the world, mother was diagnosed with cancer at an age that felt tragically premature. As her illness progressed, we learned that cancer cells were now present in her brain tissue. Her oncologist explained that there was only one possible course of treatment. However, he warned that it carried the risk of causing dementia in the years ahead.
That conversation marked one of the rare moments when I saw despair touch my mother’s resilient spirit. She said that she prized her sharp mind and how unimaginable it would be if dementia were to take it from her. I reminded her it might be many years later and promised that we’d have time to prepare together. I assured her I’d walk that journey by her side.
The day after her first treatment, I watched mother wake up in a new world with significant dementia. Overnight her brilliant mind had slipped away, and she woke up childlike and unable to care for herself. Not the typical slow onset of dementia that many families experience. This was sudden and shocking.
We spent most days and nights in the hospital over the next several months. Between my dad and I, we never left her side. She was no longer the gourmet chef and consummate entertainer, the interior designer, the confident businesswoman, the engaging conversationalist or the dreamer. She couldn’t remember how to use her phone, cook or do many of the other things she once loved to do.
Then came the Normandy Day. I was at work, knowing my dad was taking mother to the hospital for her treatment. I was shocked to look down and see her cell phone calling mine. When I answered she said they were in the car heading home. She said she thought I’d been working too hard, so she planned to cook dinner that night. She thought she’d cook something on the grill and make a Caesar salad. I stood speechless, in disbelief at the normal conversation we were having. Shocked that she’d even remembered how to call me.
I rushed home hoping this wasn’t just a fleeting moment of clarity for her. I found her sitting on the sofa reading a book. She hadn’t picked up a book in almost a year. When I asked what she was reading she said it was a book about Normandy. She told me how much she loved Normandy and began to tell me stories about her time spent there. My dad looked across the room, shook his head and said simply, “We’ve had the most remarkable day.”
As the evening unfolded, the sense of normalcy remained. Mother took charge in the kitchen. It was as though she had emerged from the haze that had clouded her mind for months. She made the salad dressing, following the steps she’d known for years, reaching instinctively for each ingredient. This felt nothing short of miraculous.
After dinner, we all sat at the table talking for hours. We laughed and shared stories until it was time for bed.
It lasted for exactly one day. The next morning came and once again her brilliant mind was gone. I’m thankful for my memories of mother and the memories of her very brief Normandy Day.
(Jan Fitzhugh has been a longtime leader in senior care and lobbyist for senior rights in Texas. She now spends her time in Wimberley as a leader in the art community. Always eager to connect and collaborate, she also volunteers for various nonprofit projects in Wimberley. [email protected])
