October 9, 2026
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who watched her mother get ready for the day.
She watched her brush her hair, curl her eyelashes, and apply her makeup with the grace of a queen preparing for her royal court. There was a certain rhythm to her mother’s movements, a quiet confidence in the way she cared for herself. Every detail mattered. Her nails were freshly manicured, her favorite polish carefully chosen, and her lipstick matched just so. She knew how to accessorize a look, and she carried herself with the kind of pride that made an impression on all three of her daughters coming of age.
By then, I had memorized her moves.
I knew the rituals, the little touches, and the care she poured into presenting herself to the world. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but I was learning something that would stay with me long after childhood had passed. My mother was teaching me, without ever sitting me down for a lesson, that caring for yourself was more than a routine. It was a way of honoring the person God created you to be.
And then, every so often, there was an occasion when Mom would meet her friends for lunch at the mall.
Not just anywhere, mind you, but upstairs in one of those fancy restaurants tucked inside a designer department store like Thalhimers. Nancy’s children stayed home with Dad. We weren’t allowed, which made the whole experience seem even more magical to me. I would imagine the beautiful décor, the crisp linens, the polished flatware, and the menu filled with things served on pretty plates. I pictured my mother sitting among her friends, being treated like a celebrity for an hour.
For those few precious hours, Mom became Nancy.
She could step away from the demands of motherhood and return to a world where she was simply herself—a woman enjoying friendship, conversation, laughter, and fellowship. She could be Nancy without interruption, without anyone calling her name from another room or needing something from her.
I didn’t know then how precious those moments were. I only knew they seemed wonderful.
Time, as it always does, turned the pages of that story. Some of her friends moved away. Others have already transitioned to Heaven. The restaurant closed years ago, and the world that once held those special afternoons has changed.
But memories have a way of opening doors we thought time had closed.
Today, one of those doors opened for me.
Mom was seated in her wheelchair, singing along with the Gaither Band as The Old Rugged Cross filled the room. She held her cup of tea while I changed her bed linens. I wanted her to watch me as I worked, to see me fluff the sheets and carefully align the edges, just as she would have done.
There was a reason I took such care.
I wanted her to see what she had taught me. I wanted her to recognize, somewhere in the quiet corners of her memory, that the little girl who once watched her had grown up and learned a few things along the way. I wanted her to be proud.
Dementia has a way of making those answers difficult to find. Sometimes the familiar things we hope will awaken a memory simply pass by unnoticed. Other times, a moment of recognition shines through like sunlight slipping between the curtains.
But in that moment, she was pleased. The fresh sheets looked cozy and inviting, ready to envelope her for a morning nap. And for a little while, that was enough.
Of course, the story wasn’t quite ready to end there.
Before she could settle into those freshly made sheets, there was one more stop along the way: bath time.
With a little squirt of bubbles in the warm water, the woman who once ruled her morning beauty rituals became a little girl again, and I became the parent.
I gave her time to kick the water with her feet, watching the bubbles dance around her. I worked up a generous lather on the loofah sponge, adding more scented cucumber and melon bubbles as she happily went along with everything I needed to do. There was no fuss, no resistance, just a gentle willingness to let me care for her.
Even when the water was turned off and a brief shiver passed through her, she let me wrap a warm towel around her. I held it close while I helped her dry, offering the comfort of my arms until the chill passed.
Then came the lotion.
As I massaged the sweet-smelling jasmine flower body lotion into her frail skin, something changed in her expression. The fragrance seemed to bring her a little pleasure, a small delight in the middle of an ordinary morning.
“Oh, this is so nice, and just right,” she said gratefully.
I smiled.
Sometimes, love speaks in grand declarations. But sometimes it whispers through a bottle of lotion, a warm towel, or a familiar scent that makes someone feel safe and cared for. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person is the simple assurance that they are worthy of tenderness.
I helped her get dressed, brushed her teeth, and dried and styled her hair as carefully as a hairdresser preparing a beloved customer for the day. I arranged her curls, smoothed her hair, and finished with face cream and bubblegum scented chapstick.
The final touches.
The rituals she had once taught me were now mine to offer back to her.
Her hair was clean and fluffy, her curls soft and full. Her skin felt as delicate as the petals of a rose. And when I looked at her, I saw a woman who had been loved, who had lived a life full of friendships and memories, and who still deserved to feel beautiful.
She smiled with complete contentment.
For a moment, I could almost see the Nancy I remembered—the woman who knew her favorite lipstick, who kept her nails freshly painted, and who once climbed the stairs to a fancy restaurant to enjoy lunch with her friends. I wondered what she might choose to do next if she could step into that old world again.
Where would she go after getting dressed for the day? What would she order from the menu? Which friend would be waiting at the table? Would she laugh over a story, reach for her teacup, or admire the lovely details around her?
Oh, how I wish I could take her back.
I wish I could lead her into that elegant restaurant, help her settle into her chair, and watch her face light up as she recognized the beauty of the room. I wish I could give her an hour with a dear friend, uninterrupted by the needs of others, where she could simply be Nancy again.
Not someone’s mother. Not a woman living with dementia. Not someone who needs help with the most personal parts of her day.
Just Nancy.
A woman with stories to tell, friendships to cherish, and a lifetime of being herself.
But sometimes the fairytale we long for isn’t always the one we get to live.
In this chapter of our lives, the magic is found in smaller things. In the comfort of clean sheets. In the sweet smelling lotions and bubble bath. In a song about the old rugged cross. In a cup of tea held between familiar hands. In the gentle smile of a woman who feels safe enough to let someone else take care of her.
And dignity is not something we lose when we can no longer manage our own lives. It is something we learn to share.
There is a selfless kind of love in sharing my dignity with Mom. It means remembering the woman she was while tenderly caring for the woman she is today. It means honoring her preferences, preserving her modesty, and making room for her to experience the little pleasures that still bring her joy. It means seeing beyond the tasks of bathing, dressing, and grooming to the person beneath them.
She once showed me how to care for myself.
Now I have the privilege of caring for her.
The roles have changed, but the love has not. If anything, it has become more intentional, more patient, and more aware of how precious these ordinary moments truly are.
I may never be able to take Mom back to that restaurant at Thalhimers. I may not be able to give her back those afternoons with the friends who once gathered around her table. Dementia has rewritten so many pages of her story, and I cannot turn them back.
But I can make this morning beautiful.
I can smooth the sheets the way she taught me. I can arrange her curls, apply her face cream, and finish with a touch of bubblegum scented chapstick. I can wrap her in a warm towel, listen to her favorite hymns, and let her know through every gentle movement that she is still worthy of being cherished.
And when she smiles, I can hold that moment close.
Because once upon a time, she was Nancy.
She still is.
And as long as I can help her feel a little of the beauty, grace, and dignity she once carried so naturally, I will keep turning the pages of our story together.
The End?
No, not quite.
For this story is still being written, one tender morning at a time. And love, even when memories fade, continues to tell us who we are.
