I was born in the middle... between my big brother Carl and my little sister Cammy. I remember people asking my mother which was her favorite and she would always say, "the one who needs me most at the time". Being the mother of three now, I completely understand. If she did favor one of us, we never knew it. The three of us grew up secure in the knowledge that we were loved as we experienced a southern childhood complete with freedom to roam our neighborhood where the streets were lined with pine trees. I can still hear Mom's voice from the porch summoning us to hop on our bikes and come home for dinner. Dad was of the "father knows best" school of parenting with a bit of Jim Carey mixed in. He was always ready with a joke. Mom rolled her eyes with mock annoyance when he let us bend the rules. Carl played trumpet in a band and drove a GTO. Cam took dance lessons and was carted around in the back of Mom's Chevy as she drove me to cheerleading practice, drama class, debate team or to volunteer at the hospital. I was always in motion. Mom would wave me out of "her kitchen" and tell me to go find some adventures; I could learn to cook anytime, she'd say. It's one of the only things I regret about my time with Mom. I wish I knew the recipes for her secret chicken casserole or her grasshopper pie. Aside from that, though, there is not much left undone or unsaid between my Mom and me. For my brother and sis, it's different, of course. Cam and I often joke we were raised by different parents. Mothers and sons have a unique relationship and I often wonder if Carl is perhaps the most afraid now that we are losing a little more of Mom every day to the beast called Alzheimer's. The three of us couldn't be more dissimilar except in the most fundamental way…we truly love each other, respect each other and enjoy spending time together. Daddy is still the one who keeps us laughing at him and with him. We all have this aching urge to protect him now. Seeing him surviving without his mate of 50 years is painful and heartbreaking. Before Mom's diagnosis I had only seen Daddy really cry when his Mother died. Now, tears are companions that keep frequent company. Sometimes they help purge, but often they erupt without warning…occasionally stifled in the pillow late at night. I remember when we were all gathered together at a doctor’s office while Mom took a "cognitive functioning test" in another room. No one said anything. We knew. It was clear that on the drive home that day our lives would be forever changed. A secret, one as heinous as Alzheimer's disease has more power over you if it remains unnamed. We knew the panacea that had been our lives up to that point was over. Our little halo of protection had lasted longer than most, and we were grateful for that, but now we had to begin the process of letting go of mom. Nancy Reagan was right when she said it was "the longest goodbye." It is death in slow motion. We have always adored the woman my brother chose as his wife. Anne Marie is our soul sister, inspiring us with her sheer goodness and willingness to do whatever is necessary to make life better, safer, richer, and more memorable. She is tough as nails, her character being fine-tuned after her daughter Taylor was diagnosed with Juvenile Diabetes. A mother's strength and courage coupled with a heart's passion and a belief in miracles... that is what holds their family together. Anne Marie makes the journey less lonely for all of us. And then there is my husband, Steve, who has lost both of his parents and now watches me in my desperate attempts to hang on to mine. Just as Mom knew instinctively that urging me to "tell this story and make it count" would lead me where I am today, Steve also knows that I'm in it deep now. He sees my commitment and passion and he knows that it has taken over a spot in my heart that is constantly churning now. The late night tears and the aloof comments that erupt without warning or explanation; the travel and the meetings all designed to make it better, sometimes complicate things at home. Somewhere within he must fast-forward 20 years and wonder if he will be caregiver to me... can his "take-charge, dynamo of a wife" beat the odds one more time in her "charmed life"? At the Memory Foundation we feel that children are all too often left out of the grieving process. They are sometimes afraid of seniors who are aided by walkers and canes because they don't have enough relationships with the elderly to honor them and cherish their value. Our programs are intergenerational. My own children, Lexi (14), Troy (11) and Nathan (6) have been the inspiration behind many of our concepts. Lexi and Troy have many thoughts to share about their "JG"... it’s what they call my Mom. She wanted to be young and fun and thought that name would "be cool". It is short for Jean Gibbons. All three of them have such amazing hearts and when they visit her, they are so attentive, so loving and kind. Stroking her hair, singing to her or helping her with a carton of milk; it is so sweet to see them with her. We are a family. Related by blood, bonded by emotion and blessed by deep commitment to one another. Our flaws and fears are all out on the table. We open up our story because we hope it can help, because people are hurting and because Mom asked us to. Like so many of you, while we wait for a miracle, we learn, we fight, we push for a cure and we lean on each other for strength.