The author and her mum in August 2019 (pre-Alzheimer’s diagnosis).“Are we in New York City yet?” my mum asked as we drove from Orlando International Airport to a hotel in Ocala, Florida. I couldn’t tell if it was a joke or if she was serious.It was close to 9pm. We had landed an hour earlier, picked up the rental car, and were now navigating the dark highways. I was moving my mum into assisted living.In September of 2021, she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She had just turned 68 in August, and I was turning 37 that month. Thanks to Covid, I hadn’t seen her for a year-and-a-half, and I couldn’t believe how withdrawn and thin she had become. By January 2023, she’d lost her ability to complete everyday tasks like making a simple meal, driving, and remembering to shower.She was set on staying in her home but resisted the in-home care we set up – I suspect because of what it represented: a loss of independence, a loss of self, and the acceptance of a disease that would slowly rob her of her memories and the ability to take care of herself.