My mom is 90 years old, and she is in the process of dying. Her body is weakening, she has lost most of her interest in food, she spends a lot of time sleeping, and her breathing has become more shallow. I don’t know how much longer she’ll live.

I love my mom. I have been grieving her death for the past several months, since I began to really acknowledge and accept how severe her Alzheimer’s has gotten, and that so much of what made her such an amazing force in my life — her internal strength and resilience, her strong work ethic and commitment to make a difference in the world, her passion for helping people in need, the joy she got from taking care of the people she loved — is no longer apparent in the woman she is today. This is the woman who took my dad coffee in bed every morning during the 48 years that they were married until my dad passed away in 2006. She is the one who used to put my school uniform in front of the forced-air heating vent every morning when I got up and got into the shower after discovering how much I loved and delighted in putting on something that felt warm like a good embrace before heading off to school. Even as a high school student, I recall being in awe of how many people randomly approached me to tell me what a difference my mom had made in their lives. She spent countless hours for decades doing volunteer work to help Armenian refugees get settled in Southern CA. These people, and others who she willingly opened her heart and extended a helping hand to, told me that they would never be where they were if it weren’t for my mom. She had stepped in to help them when they felt scared and overwhelmed and were grieving the loss of everything that was familiar to them and she supported them to feel safe and comfortable. I vividly remember thinking that if anywhere near the number of people whose lives my mom had touched could say something similar about me, I would feel like my life had been well-lived. She inspired me and supported me and loved me with every fiber of her being — even though I wasn’t born from her womb.

I remember when her mother’s Alzheimer’s got so bad that she didn’t recognize my mom (who visited her daily) when she was standing right in front of her. As my mom’s  Alzheimer’s has progressed, I have been thankful every time I called her on the phone or showed up at her door and she recognized my voice or my face. At the same time, spending time with her is like interacting with the shadow of who she used to be. She asks the same question repeatedly, only moments after I finish answering it. At least, I used to think, she’s physically healthy. And even if she doesn’t remember what just happened, or even the names of her sister’s children, at least she is able to be present, here and now. Both those things are no longer true.

Now, she is present for short glimpses, and then just seems to disappear into a fog or some faraway place. It breaks my heart to watch her body shutting down now, much as her memory has shut down progressively over the past few years. I feel at a loss of what to do to help her passing be peaceful and easy. There are moments when I am so overcome with grief and sorrow that it is all I can do to be with my own feelings of sadness and even anger and frustration. I want to drop everything and stay by her side until she dies, whenever that may be. And yet I keep hearing her voice echoing in my head from conversations through the years during which she repeatedly told me, “I don’t want to be a burden on you. I want you to live your own life and do what you need and want to do for yourself. Please don’t worry about me.” She must’ve spoken the word “burden” more than a hundred times.

So, as the tears subside, I stop to ask myself, “How can I best love and honor my mom? Really, how can I best honor and love her?” Should I stay by her side, where I have been for the past week, and put my life on hold? The people at the facility where she is living tell me she’s doing alright. She is comfortable and being well cared for. With a deep breath, I realize that the best way to honor my mom is to honor what she has always stood for and believed in: passion, joy, love, and the strength and commitment to do what needs to be done and make a difference in the world. So I kiss her gently and tell her I’ll call her soon, knowing that she’s ever present in my thoughts and will always be in my heart. “I love you, Mom,” I tell her. “I know,” she responds, “you’re my precious girl.”

Two days later, when I call her for the umpteenth time to check in on her and tell her that I’m thinking of her and I love her, she surprises me with a moment of poignant clarity. “You sound sad.” she says, as I fight to hold back the tears I can feel welling up in me. Then she says, “Everything’s going to be okay, darling mine. Everything is going to be just fine.”