“I am so much like my mother in so many ways” she said, “that I expect I’ll suffer dementia as she did. And I expect I will say very horrible and angry things.”
We were talking about gratitude journals and prayer journals and how they can serve as a sort of family history. And the thoroughly lovely, soft-spoken, most-considerate-woman-I-have-ever-met sitting next to me thought she ought to start one. To balance the inevitable ugly.
I couldn’t imagine a single angry, ugly word ever coming from her mouth, but, if she is a lot like her mother was, then I’m sure no one had been able to imagine horrible things coming from her mother, either.
“When the filters go,” she said.
And that got me thinking about filters.
And about what a brilliant woman I was privileged to sit beside. A woman who is taking steps to make sure future generations of her family know how much she loved them. How she prayed for them. How grateful she was for them.
No matter what dementia says to the contrary.
What remarkable foresight to see that love has the last word.