@temana30: I want to share something very close to my heart. It’s been a long and quiet journey, one that started with a woman who shaped me in every way—the woman I call my mother, my hero, and my best friend. My mom raised me in a home filled with warmth, care, and a simple gift we all felt deep in our bones: the touch of healing through massage. Our family didn’t rely on hospitals for every ache. Instead, my mom and dad gave comfort at home. They were both massage therapists, traveling to friends and neighbors or welcoming people into our home for a soothing massage. I grew up seeing their hands bring relief, their smiles calm voices, and a quiet magic in their work. I remember a time when they even had a small paper certificate from a hospital in NN—proof that they could massage patients if a hospital couldn’t find other treatment. It wasn’t about fame or money; it was about care. About being there for people when they needed it most. As a child, I often joined them. I helped, watched, and learned. It felt natural to be by their side, to lend a hand, to feel the rhythm of their work. Those moments aren’t just memories; they’re the roots of who I am today. I carry their lessons with me: gentleness, patience, and the importance of listening with your hands as well as your ears. Now my mother faces dementia. It’s hard to put into words how that changes the landscape of love. The woman who taught me so much, who could read a day in a person’s shoulders and know what they needed, sometimes forgets. The simple things—the names of songs, the rhythm of a massage, the steps we used to take—slip away. And that slipping away can feel like a loss of self, not just a loss of memory. Yet in this difficult time, I have learned two important truths: Love and care don’t disappear when memory fades. They transform. We still give her foot massages, brush gentle lines of lotion on her skin, and watch her eyes light up with a small sign of recognition. Those moments are tiny miracles. The knowledge and love she passed on to me aren’t gone either. I may not remember every technique exactly as she taught me, but I remember the feel of her hands, the calm in her voice, and the kindness that guided every touch. I am still learning, and I am grateful to carry some of her gift forward, into my own life and into the lives of my children. This journey is not just about decline. It’s about continuity. It’s about showing my children where their grandmother’s magic lives: in the care we give, in the quiet routines that soothe, and in the strength to keep loving even when things get hard. I want to share this gift with them, not as a skill alone, but as a way of being in the world—soft, steady, and true. To anyone walking a similar path with a loved one who has dementia: Hold onto the small moments. A touch, a soft word, a remembered song can be enough to light a spark. Let the memories you still have guide you. Your care is a living bridge between who they were and who they are now. Be gentle with yourself. This is hard work, and it takes all the kindness you can muster. Mom, if you’re listening in whatever way you can, I want you to know: you are still my teacher, still my friend, still my hero. Your hands taught me to care for others. Your heart taught me how to endure. I will carry your light forward, and I will share it with my kids, so they know the warmth of your love and the gentle art of healing you gave to our family. Thank you for everything, Mom. I love you more than words can hold. #CommunityCare #fypシ゚viralシ #fypシ゚viralシfypシ゚viralシalシ #fypviralシ #fypageシ #fypシ゚ #fypシ゚viralシfypシ゚ #lovecare #demetiaawarness

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Saturday 27 September 2025 01:01:01 GMT