Overview: A Story of Love, Care, and Strength

I remember when my mom first got sick. At the time, I had no idea what this disease would do to her—or to us. But in the midst of the pain and challenges, it gave us a unique opportunity to share moments with her that we had never fully experienced before. She, who had always been the heart of our family, was now the one who needed us the most.

My wife, our children, my sister—who had already battled cancer and survived major surgeries—and I, we rallied around Mom, making sure she was never alone. We didn’t have much choice. Our lives had already been shaped by the demands of school, work, and family, but nothing was more important than being there for her. We all knew it was the right thing to do, even if it tested us in ways we never expected.

Watching her slowly slip away from us—forgetting who we were, struggling to recognize the world around her—was painful. Still, we tried to keep things as normal as possible. There were moments, small victories really, that brought us comfort: taking her to the movies, where she laughed through a chaotic War of the Worlds, and later, playing music from her youth that helped calm her soul. She loved John Denver, the old Mexican love songs. The music was her refuge, a place where she could find some peace, even as the world inside her mind became harder and harder to navigate.

As her disease progressed, the simple pleasures became more difficult. I remember how she used to smell like Ivory soap, always clean, always sweet-smelling, no matter how hot or humid the day was. But as time wore on, we couldn’t bathe her as often, and soon, we needed help from others.

At first, we could keep her entertained with puzzles and coloring books, but eventually, she confused crayons for food, sprinkling them on her plate as if they were a seasoning. There were days when I watched her hold a baby doll, cradling it as if it were her own child, needing to nurture something, anything, to remind her of the love she had always given us.

The hardest moments came when she would talk about things that weren’t real, convinced that the overpass near our home was a bridge back to her childhood home in Mexico, where she would see her grandmother. And when she escaped—sometimes several times a day—I had to change the locks, keep her in, because I knew she was lost, and I had to protect her. The hardest part of all was learning how to lie to her. Telling her that family members who had passed away were alive, just to stop her from sinking into a deep depression.

But even in the chaos, there were glimmers of light. I remember the day we took her to a small restaurant for pancakes after a doctor’s visit, one where the doctor had coldly suggested she be put in a home. She was so, so afraid. But I looked her in the eyes and promised, "We’re not doing that, Mom." And in that moment, it was just her, my wife, and I, enjoying a meal together, laughing.

Taking care of her was exhausting—physically, emotionally, spiritually—but it was my responsibility, my privilege. I never wanted my children to witness their grandmother's decline, but I believe it made them stronger, more compassionate. I was told once by a pastor that my children would grow into the people they are because of what they endured, because of the example we set. And through all the struggle, I knew this was what God wanted me to do, no matter how hard it was.

For me personally, it was about love, about fulfilling a promise I made when I was a little boy, telling my mom, "I’ll take care of you." But realistically a caretaking endeavor like this takes a village. We did everything we could, sharing the burden as a family. My sister, my children, my wife.

We managed, one day at a time. We tried to keep things simple, but the truth was, nothing was simple. The disease robbed her of so much, but it couldn’t take away the love we shared. And when it became too much—when the confusion and danger became too overwhelming—I prayed for strength. I prayed to keep my family strong, to continue doing the best I could for my mom.

Now, as this chapter of our lives comes to a close, I see God's love in our home. There's peace here, and that is what I am most grateful for. Not everyone could have done what we did, and I can't criticize anyone who chooses a different path. But for us, keeping her here, surrounded by love, was the right decision.

And in the end, as I look back on the years we spent caring for her, I know we did it with everything we had. We did it because we loved her. We did it because she was our mom.