My mother is 86, and she is declining. Things that used to be easy for her now seem completely foreign. She was a programmer, writing software before I could read, so it is very strange to see her like this.

She no longer uses a computer. If I mention some photos I found online, she asks if there’s any way she can see them, as if she has never used the internet. This is a new reality for me, but is easier than a year or two ago when she still tried to be constantly online. As things got more confusing for her, she struggled and complained “the computer is haunted.” Now she doesn’t have the computer as a source of friction, but also not as a center of activity.

In many ways, she is following a similar path to her own mother, my Grandma O. Like her, my mom is accepting the changes in her relationship to the world. She is able to laugh at it a bit. But it will still be difficult, especially because we know it is a progression that is not going to get better and will very likely get worse.

The new her is very different from the original her. She was not timid. She came out as gay in the mid ‘70s and ran a feminist bookstore. She worked as a programmer. She got a PhD in computational linguistics just because she was interested in the topic. These were the things I was used to hearing about from her. She never lacked for enthusiasms, projects and accomplishments.

She was always energetic and feisty, ready to engage in debate. This picture does a good job capturing the spirit of many of our interactions in the past:

Now she is mild and somewhat resigned. She says things like, “I don’t think much anymore.” I know there are other ways this could go. Some people get very angry as their abilities fade. In that sense, this is a good trajectory, but I am still sad to see her shrink.

Last week we had a family gathering at my sister’s house, the usual location for these big events. My mom has been there many times. But now she didn’t recognize it. I sat with my mom and sister over lunch. They were discussing the dining room we were in. It wasn’t familiar to my mom. She wasn’t upset about it, just looked around and said, “no, I don’t remember this.”

My mom was enjoying her salad, but eating it with her hands. I pointed to the fork on her plate and asked, “You don’t like the fork?” She looked at it as if it was some unimportant detail of the tablecloth, and kept eating with her hands. She wasn’t bothered, just calmly proceeded in her way.

At the end of the party, my mom and her wife Fumiko were getting ready to go. Fumiko had scheduled a ride-share car, so we went out to the street to wait for it. We brought out a chair for my mom to sit. The time for the car came and went, but no car arrived. There were five of us out there: me, my sister and brother, my mother and Fumiko. My brother and Fumiko were trying to figure out where the car was. They were looking through the app for information. They re-read the email confirming the scheduled ride. Should we keep waiting? We could request a new ride. Would we be charged for the missed scheduled ride? It was a whole thing, lots of discussion and questions.

In the middle of this, without warning, my mom tried unsteadily to get up from her chair. Two of us quickly intercepted her. The uneven pavement seemed particularly treacherous for her. We supported her arms to keep her steady.

“Mom, where are you trying to go?”

“I want a place of certainty. This place seems very uncertain.”

She was right: out there on the sidewalk we were all uncertain. But I have to wonder if she was also talking about her larger experience in a world that is less and less understandable for her.

In the back of my mind, I wonder what my own future holds. But that is decades away, and my mother’s situation is now. I don’t know what her next steps down will be like. She has already changed a great deal in the last year.

I think we would all like a place of certainty. I know I would, but I also know I am not going to get it soon.