It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and as always, I waited for Mom’s call at three o’clock sharp. She never missed it. But that day, three o’clock came and went. By three fifteen, I started to worry. Maybe she’d just lost track of time. I decided to give her another twenty minutes before calling her myself.
When I finally dialed, she answered on the second ring.“Hi, Mom. Is everything okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yes, of course! Hi, Muffy. Everything’s fine. How about you?” she replied, her tone as cheerful as ever.
The conversation flowed, but something felt off. She seemed convinced she had already spoken to me that day. She hadn’t.
Over the following months, these little lapses became more frequent. Mom would retell stories—about her neighbor taking her to the opera, her impressive ninety-two on the golf course, or her broken dishwasher—as if sharing them for the first time. Sometimes it was the second or even third time I’d heard them.
Mom lived alone in Concord, Massachusetts, while I was across the country in California. My brother and sister were in Vermont. At first, I chalked it up to simple forgetfulness, assuming she’d just mixed up who she’d shared her updates with.
But then I got a call from her best friend, Mary Allen.
“Your mom was supposed to come over for dinner,” Mary began, her voice tinged with concern. “She was heading to Tanglewood for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promised she’d be here by six. But she never showed up.”
Mary had called, checked Mom’s house, and even contacted the police.
“Do you know where she ended up?” Mary asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Concord. But not Massachusetts—Concord, New Hampshire.”
Hearing this, my heart sank.
Looking back, the signs had been there for a while. Like so many others facing cognitive decline, Mom had become an expert at masking her memory lapses. She was sharp, resourceful, and socially adept—qualities that allowed her to cover her tracks for far longer than any of us realized.
Realizing the extent of Mom’s struggles was heartbreaking, but it also opened my eyes to how easily these signs can go unnoticed, even by those closest to us. It’s a reminder to pay attention to the little things—repeated stories, missed appointments, or confusion about familiar places.
As her journey unfolded, we learned to navigate it together, leaning on patience, understanding, and support from those who had been through similar experiences.
If you notice subtle changes in someone you love, don’t ignore them. Trust your instincts, have those difficult conversations, and seek guidance early. Cognitive decline can be a lonely road, but with awareness and compassion, it doesn’t have to be.
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