My Mum's last letter to me is dated February, 2023.
"Dear Kelly, I can't tell you how much it meant to me that you shared your family with Dad and I.
You know how upset I was to find out I had this dread disease. Your finding Amy Bloom's book gave me new hope to enjoy the time I had and be able to leave when I wanted.
Dad and I are doing well. We are both back to doing the things we love. I even got Marianne to go swimming yesterday. I loved having your kids here. Your family is so lucky to have Dave!
Thank you for everything my Dear daughter.
Much love, Mum"
She died March 23, 2023. Her letter was written on a regular piece of paper ripped from a notebook. I assume that she remembered she needed to write to me and grabbed the first piece of paper she could find so she wouldn't forget to do it. It's written on the wrong side of the paper. She's written my name on the envelope but my Dad has filled in the address, their two different handwriting styles merged to get me this message.
She'd been diagnosed with Alzheimer's years before and her memory had started to falter over the last two years.
She made me promise when I was much younger than I am now that if she ever got the diagnosis that I would help her find a way to die on her own terms. Her mother had died after quietly slipping away to Alzheimer's disease and she did not want to live without knowing my father, or me, my children, my husband, my sister or her wife or their children.
I made the promise.
A few summers ago she and my father came to Maine to spend a few weeks at the lake with us. Each morning became a routine of promises. I would go to the little house where they were staying and we'd begin our morning walk. "I have something to tell you," she'd say, "I have Alzheimer's." I would say yes, you've shared that with me. "You promised me you would help me die," she'd say. Yes, I did Mum and I will, I just need some time to figure it out for you. "You promised. I can't live with the fear that the day will come that I don't recognize your father." This happened everyday for two weeks.
We'd walk a bit. Then talk about something less heavy. Maybe we'd laugh about something one of my kids did or talk about what we'd make for dinner. The ordinary bits of conversation rising up and floating over the heavier bits. We'd end the walk and she would hug me and whisper, "don't forget your promise."
I would go home and cry hard into my husband's arms and then somehow re-start my day.
This is the story of how and why I kept my promise. It's a story of Judy, a fierce, independent, loving mother, wife and friend. It's the story of my Dad, who loved her so much he always gave her everything she needed. My Mum died the way she lived, completely on her own terms. She knew what she was doing when she made me promise. I am a highly competent person and I get shit done. She knew that, she raised me to be just that.
She took advantage of it and I wouldn't have it any other way. This is our story.
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