three years

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The last time I saw my mom alive was in January 2020. Her Alzheimer's had progressed to the point where she didn't remember how to eat food or drink liquids, and my dad didn't think she'd have much time left. I borrowed some money from a friend and flew out there to spend three days with her. She didn't speak (she hadn't spoken for a year at that point), she didn't always seem to be aware of my presence (although sometimes she was), and I don't know if she knew who I was. It didn't matter. This was my mom and our final visit. It was hard to leave at the end. I remember how she watched me walking back to the car through all the windows in the nursing home's dining room. I smiled and waved all the way to the car, but sobbed all the way back to the airport because I knew I'd never see her again. Less than 2 months later, she was gone. Today is a difficult day for me. Our relationship was complicated and not what either of us wanted it to be, but she was still my mom. There are so many things I wish I could have asked her about, especially in that last year, but she had lost the ability to speak and had stopped recognizing me before then. We didn't get to talk much in the last couple of years before she died because she kept fixating on subjects that were painful to me and wouldn't let them go, so I stopped calling. I have a lot of guilt about this, but my sister tells me that I shouldn't. She says that if Mom had just let some things go and stopped trying to force the issue, we could have enjoyed more conversations together. But since she didn't, I had to hold a boundary in order to protect myself and my own mental health. But I wish it could have been different. I know she loved me, despite the fact that it hurt that she didn't really accept me or my life. I hope she knew I loved her.