If you’ve ever known someone with dementia, you know how difficult it can be. My introduction to the disease was David’s grandmother. Every time I saw her it was as though she was meeting me for the first time, always with a smile. One day, when she noticed I was putting mustard on my sandwich, she announced loudly, “Oh, you like mustard, huh? It’s gonna shrink your rectum!” (Beg your pardon?)

Much later, both of my parents developed dementia, too, although it showed up differently in each of them. My mom couldn’t remember where she lived or how to dress herself. She took the car and got lost one day. (Thank goodness we had OnStar.) She was also certain Mackenzie, my daughter in law, wasn’t dating my son. “That girl thinks she’s Christopher’s girlfriend,” she’d say, making a circular motion with her finger at the side of her head as though Mackenzie was crazy. 

It wasn’t all bad, though. My mom was rather outspoken when I was growing up, but Dementia Mom loved to have fun. She’d burst into song without warning. She shared wisdom like, “If you see a line that is long, go to the front of it. It’s quicker that way.” And she let my nephew’s dog take a bite of her sandwich while she was still eating it. 

My dad’s dementia didn’t announce itself in the same way. He’d been my mom’s caregiver for years and did it well. My sister and I noticed that he seemed confused at times, but we thought he was overwhelmed. We discovered it was more than stress when our mom was hospitalized for pneumonia, and the doctor who was treating her said, “You realize your dad has dementia, too, right?” 

After our mom died, his health declined rapidly. While he could take care of himself, he had a hard time communicating. My dad had always been kind, patient, and very funny. Dementia Dad, however, was a little saltier, yelling obscenities at the chipmunks in the back yard, ridiculing Wheel of Fortune contestants, and heckling Jardiance commercial dancers (who may want to be careful about mustard, if you know what I mean). 

When you witness someone decline, it’s natural to focus on the memories and capabilities they lose—that’s the tragedy of dementia. But what struck me most while caring for my parents were the memories they kept. 

Both of my parents would vividly reminisce about the days they spent in Italy and France two decades before, lingering over specific details like gelato flavors and the rain in Paris. In fact, one of the reasons I’m traveling so much is because of their memories.

My mom also loved to gush about Elvis; she was president of the local fan club. Then she’d gently break the news to you that he died. She talked about how she loved to dance and earned the nickname “Crazy Legs.” She’d name her many beaus, and how she’d purposefully book dates back-to-back, so that the guy bringing her home would pass the guy picking her up on the sidewalk. She’d also relive the casino jackpots she won—and there were a lot—remembering the slot machine symbols and the exact amount of her winnings.

My dad loved to talk about putting out literal and figurative fires in his executive role at Chrysler. Later in his career he planned large conferences and still laughed about the puppet he hired to belittle the CEO on stage. He smiled when he talked going skydiving, especially the jumps he didn’t tell my mom about. He relived the times he took race cars on the test track. And he loved how his conference job meant he always got the best hotel rooms in Vegas with lots of free gifts waiting for him when he arrived. 

The memories they held onto all fall into the WOW! Moment category. We may not be able to cherry pick what we keep in our minds forever, but what if we fill our lives with an overflowing catalog of things that could be unforgettable? What if we become intentional about living life to the fullest?

So, you know all those things you say you want to do? Do them. Do them now. And do them big. And go light on the mustard maybe, too.