A Brief History of Abuela

(Dad)

My mother was born in 1929 in Laredo, Mexico. She was the youngest of sixteen children. She was five when her father died, and her mother was 36. The culture was different then, and my grandmother was only 15 when she married my much older grandfather who had a child from a previous marriage. His first child and one of her nieces would actually play dolls together as they were only a year apart in age.

With 16 mouths to feed, everyone did their part to help my grandmother. Often she sent my mother out to help raise her siblings’ children instead of going to school. This is a story my mother would share with my children when they were old enough to understand. Still, with her brother’s help, my mother was determined and taught herself to read and write Spanish, later learning English and even sign language for my sister, who was hearing-impaired.

She met my father in a factory, and they built a life together for 42 years. When he passed away in 1999, her grief repeated itself as she would forget her husband died and need constant reminders. We realized something more was going on in her mind, in addition to the grief.

At first, she spoke of vivid dreams where God walked her back through every place she had ever lived and all the people she had seen. Almost like our last moments of consciousness, or so they say, she remembered everything in detail. I remember thinking it was remarkable that God was allowing her to go on this journey to see all the places she had been and visit the people she had met.

Slowly, the memories began to unravel. She forgot names. She forgot sign language. Eventually, she forgot who we were. I started out as her son, then her brother, and finally I became her father.

Caring for her became a full-time responsibility. It was exhausting, heartbreaking, and humbling. My sister Maria, who was deaf herself and had endured her own battles with cancer, rarely left my mother’s side. My siblings and children helped and though the weight was heavy, we carried it together.

There were moments of light. My mom laughed at The Three Stooges, colored in children’s books, and cuddled baby dolls when real children visited. Music from her youth—old Mexican love songs, or even John Denver—brought her peace. Small windows of joy reminded us she was still there, even as the disease tried to take her away.

Doctors urged us to put her in a home. But I remembered the promise I made as a child: One day, I’ll take care of you, just like you took care of me. We kept her with us. It wasn’t easy, but for us, it was right.

Dementia doesn’t just take a person—it takes them piece by piece. You grieve them over and over before they’re gone. But through it all, I held onto one truth: my mother was loved. Even when she forgot everything else, I prayed she still knew that.

Caring for a loved one with dementia is overwhelming, but no one has to do it alone. Lean on family, friends, church, community—anyone willing to walk alongside you. The journey is hard, but love makes it bearable.

We did the best we could. And in the end, that was enough.