I Helped My Mom With Dementia Sell Her Home. It Wasn’t Easy.

“Money is dwindling for assisted living without someone paying the rent on your house,” I told my mother over FaceTime.

Even with cognitive decline, Mom understood she would have to sell the place she had made home for 13 years after my stepfather died. At 70, she moved into a new community and beautifully renovated her manufactured home to resemble any suburban residence.

In 2022, Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and entered assisted living last year after a near-fatal heart attack earned her six new daily prescriptions. Neither she nor her live-in boyfriend could manage the rigor of medication management. Getting mom to move into an assisted living facility required numerous promises, including that we would sell only if we needed money for her care.

We eventually had no alternative.

I practiced patience and did everything twice

With Mom’s dementia, I got creative in selling the house she didn’t remember we both owned. Repeatedly, she warned, “The house is mine. Don’t do anything without my approval.”

To make Mom feel in control, I chose to do activities with her, and again without her. For example, when meeting with the listing agent, I explained our situation in advance, agreeing to include Mom in discussions but that I would return to her office alone to finalize details and sign the agreement. This method, known as “therapeutic fibbing,” is meant to help your person feel safe and calm.

Another way to ensure Mom’s agency was suggesting jobs we could do independently, such as her cleaning her bedroom while I emptied the kitchen.

Every outfit, accessory, and pair of shoes had a tale

On the first day, Mom was excited to reunite with the wardrobe she’d left behind. To prepare, I laid out two large bags, explaining that one was for charity, the other for the dumpster. Anything she wanted to take back with her, she could keep on the hanger to transfer into her apartment.

Overwhelmed, Mom said, “I won’t be able to do this for more than 10 minutes.” Adding, “We’ll need boxes; I’m not putting my things in trash bags.”

After dropping her off — indeed, shortly after arriving — I procured small boxes, marking them accordingly for the following day.

Our second attempt was smoother. Mom pulled out item-by-item, stroking each as though she were petting a puppy, and shared stories about when she first wore a sexy black dress, the island she bought a purse on, and the compliment about how great her legs looked in a pair of sparkly high heels.

“This is so much fun, isn’t it?” she asked.

I intended to leave her be, but she enjoyed reliving long-ago with me as her audience. We laughed often, and it was a welcome change from years of arguing over how I stole her independence.

Mom freed half of the closet on day two. Clothes meant for her place went into either the donation or dumpster sections, and vice versa. She asked me 100 times which one was which, and I knew it wouldn’t matter–solid memories are tucked in the part of her brain holding onto the past, while current happenings float out.

That evening, I perused Mom’s walk-in to see if there were any pieces I wanted. While trying items on, I remembered vacations we had taken — an ensemble from a weekend in Las Vegas. A parka from our Alaskan Cruise, celebrating our 75^th and 50^th, respectively.

Before long, I was wrapped in layers of sweaters, donning a favorite pair of jeans. Transported back to playing dress-up in my mommy’s closet, her clothes comforted me, and I couldn’t undress before falling into bed — as though she were hugging me to sleep.

I spent evenings sifting through files, realizing how much living makes up a life

When alone, I cleaned out file cabinets, drawers, and bins filled with paperwork and greeting cards — many thanking Mom for her friendship or sense of humor. I discovered short stories she had wrote. She even had one published in our local newspaper, having bylined an article on blended families years ago.

I read through all of my letters she kept, much like I save every text and email with my own children.

I scanned photographs from eight decades. Whether it was spending time with family, competing in tennis leagues, biking across New Zealand, or her most treasured pastime, playing Mahj Jongg, Mom’s infectious smile and vivaciousness emanated through each picture.

Mom rose to the occasion, better than I imagined

Between laboring together and independently, the house sold in six days. After accepting the offer, I snapped a photo with the “Sold” sign in the window and ran over to surprise Mom. “What is that?” she asked, not recognizing her porch. “It’s your house, we sold it!”

“What a beautiful word,” she said, jumping up and down.

It was an unanticipated gift to downsize with my mother rather than after she dies. Bringing who she was, and is, to the forefront reminded me of her constant zeal for life. And while the ending won’t be the one I’d like for her, I cherish the memories we’re still creating.