Liz Q’s Story

The Long Goodbye: A Daughter’s Grief

There are some losses that change you forever. Losing my mom was one of them.

In 2016, when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I didn’t fully understand what it meant—not really. I knew it was a disease that stole memories, that slowly took people away from the ones they loved. But I didn’t know just how cruel and unforgiving it would be, how it wouldn’t just steal her memories but also the little things that made her her. I didn’t know how helpless I would feel, watching the strongest woman I knew slowly fade, piece by piece. I didn’t know that grief could begin long before death.

My mom had the biggest heart. She was my best friend—the person I could always turn to, the one who knew me better than I knew myself. She made me feel safe, always. She was laughter and warmth and love, all wrapped up in the comfort of her arms. And oh, those arms. She gave the best hugs. The kind that swallowed you whole, the kind that made you feel like no matter what else was happening in the world, you were loved. She always joked that it was because of her monkey arms—her long, comforting arms that could hold you forever. I didn’t know just how much I would miss those hugs until they were gone.

At first, Alzheimer’s was quiet. It snuck in slowly—little things, things we brushed off. Forgotten names, misplaced items, repeating conversations. We told ourselves it was just normal forgetfulness, that maybe she was just tired, distracted. But then it became more. The confusion, the moments of disorientation. The frustration in her eyes when she couldn’t find the right words. The heartbreaking moments when I could see that she knew something was slipping away, that she was losing pieces of herself, and she was powerless to stop it.

It’s an unbearable thing to watch someone you love disappear while they’re still right in front of you. I wanted to hold onto her so tightly, to pull her back from wherever she was slipping away to. I wanted to believe that if I just loved her hard enough, I could keep her here. But that’s not how Alzheimer’s works. It doesn’t care how much you love someone. It takes them anyway.

By the time 2020 came, she was barely there. There were glimpses, moments when I swore she recognized me, when I saw the flicker of who she had been. I held onto those moments with everything I had, knowing they were running out.

And then, the moment I had been dreading for four years arrived. My sister and I were there with her at the end, and as painful as it was, I know now what a gift that was. We had one last chance to say everything we needed to say. We held her, hugged her, whispered words of love. We poured our hearts out, telling her how much she meant to us, how much we loved her, how we would carry her with us always. And even though she couldn’t respond, I know she heard us. I know she felt us. I know she knew.

And then she was gone.

People talk about grief like it’s a moment, something that happens to you, something that comes in waves and then eventually settles. But that’s not how it feels. It’s not just an emotion—it’s a part of me now. It’s in the empty spaces where she should be. It’s in the moments when I still reach for my phone to call her, when I see something she would have loved and think, I need to tell Mom about this, before remembering I can’t. It’s in the ache of knowing my children won’t get to know her the way I did, that they won’t get to feel the warmth of her hugs or hear her laughter.

But grief, I have learned, is not just about loss. It is also about love—the kind of love that never disappears, even when the person is no longer here. My mom may be gone, but she is everywhere. She is in the way I love my children, in the way I comfort them, in the way I wrap my arms around them just a little tighter—just like she always did with her monkey arms. She is in the way I laugh at silly things, in the way I show kindness, in the way I try to make others feel safe the way she made me feel safe.

She was a wonderful mother. She is a wonderful mother. Because love like hers doesn’t end. It stays, woven into the fabric of who I am, into every part of my being. I will always grieve her, because I will always love her. And I will carry her with me, for as long as I live.