From the NEW YORK TIMES:
When I got up, Mom was already awake. I could hear her rummaging in the kitchen. Through the glass doors in the living room, sunlight flared so brightly off the hillocks of snow that I had to shield my eyes.
It was my birthday, and I was afraid.
What if my husband had neglected to take Mom shopping for a card? Once Mom found out it was my birthday, she would be devastated that she had forgotten and had nothing to give me. Little matter that she has dementia and can’t remember what we did two hours ago. Birthdays are a big deal to Mom.
Birthdays are not a big deal to me. I hate growing older. I don’t mind if Mom forgets my birthday as long as she still remembers me. That someday she might not recognize me has been my biggest fear ever since Mom got dementia. I can’t imagine anything more devastating than being forgotten by your own mother.