The Memories That Stay: Love, Lewy Body Dementia, and 56 Years Together
Today would have been my parents’ 57th wedding anniversary.
It is their first anniversary since my mom passed away in February, and like so many of the “firsts” after losing someone you love, today feels especially tender.
I’ve been thinking about the life they built together and all of the ordinary moments that became our family’s memories—many of them in a place that will always be special to us: Cape May, New Jersey.
So today, instead of sharing one of my usual practical caregiving resources, I wanted to share something more personal.
This is a story about my mom, our family, Lewy body dementia, photographs, and something I didn’t fully understand until I became her caregiver:
Sometimes the memories we create long before dementia enters our lives become the very things that help us connect later.
Cape May Became Part of Our Family Story
Some places become part of your family story.
For us, Cape May is one of those places.
Cape May has been part of our family’s story for many years. This was our fifteenth year vacationing here, with only two years when we were not able to make the trip. My parents joined us for about ten of those years, and together we created memories that I treasure even more today.
One of my favorites was celebrating my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary in Cape May. We celebrated along the Promenade, surrounded by family, laughter, and a place that had already become so special to us.
We Never Knew We Were Creating Therapy
When my mom was healthy, we took pictures because that is what families do.
We smiled for photos in front of Cape May’s Victorian homes.
For years, our family trips were filled with simple joys. We enjoyed family dinners, beach walks, many rounds of miniature golf, and evenings strolling through the Washington Street Mall. We stopped for ice cream, picked up homemade fudge, searched for gifts, and ended our days with tired feet and full hearts.
At the time, they were simply vacation pictures.
We had no idea those photographs would one day become some of our most treasured caregiving tools.
As an occupational therapist, I understood the importance of meaningful activities.
But as my mom’s caregiver, I began to understand something even deeper:
Meaning does not always have to be created. Sometimes it is already there, waiting for us in the life we have lived together.
Dementia Changed Our Trips—But Not Their Meaning
As my mom’s Lewy body dementia progressed, traveling became more difficult.
Eventually, our Cape May trips came to an end with my parents.
That chapter of our lives quietly closed.
But something unexpected happened.
My mom loved looking through old photo albums.
Sometimes she could not remember what she had eaten for breakfast.
Sometimes she struggled with dates or recent conversations.
But when we turned the pages and found pictures from Cape May, something changed.
She smiled.
Sometimes she pointed to a familiar storefront.
Sometimes she recognized one of the grandchildren when they were little.
And sometimes she could not tell me exactly where we were or when the photograph had been taken.
But that did not really matter.
She could still experience the feeling behind the photograph.
She knew she was surrounded by people who loved her.
Those moments reminded me that even when my mom could no longer recall all the details, the feelings connected to familiar people, places, and experiences could still be meaningful.
The Gift Hidden Inside Ordinary Moments
As an occupational therapist, I often encouraged families to find meaningful activities for their loved ones.
As my mom’s caregiver, I discovered that one of our most meaningful activities had already been created years earlier.
Our family photo albums.
Looking through those pictures was not about testing her memory.
It was not about holding up a photograph and asking:
“Do you remember this?”
Instead, it became an opportunity to simply enjoy being together.
To laugh.
To share a story.
To notice something in a photograph.
To sit quietly while she smiled at a picture that still made her feel safe and loved.
If she remembered the details, wonderful.
If she did not, that was okay too.
The goal was not remembering correctly.
The goal was connection.
Those ordinary vacations became extraordinary gifts years later.
My Advice to Every Family
If your loved one is living with dementia—or even if everyone in your family is perfectly healthy today—take the pictures.
Take the family vacations.
Celebrate the birthdays.
Walk through your favorite towns.
Eat the ice cream.
Buy the silly souvenir.
Take pictures of Christmas morning and Sunday dinner and ordinary afternoons when absolutely nothing special seems to be happening.
Capture the moments that do not seem important today.
One day, those photographs may become more valuable than you could ever imagine.
Not because they can restore memories that dementia has taken.
But because they may help preserve something just as important:
connection.
Cape May Will Always Feel Like Home
Today, when my family visits Cape May, I still think about my mom.
I still see the places where we laughed together.
I remember walking down the Washington Street Mall while my children explored the same streets their grandmother enjoyed.
A Special Place to Remember Mom
And today, on what would have been my parents’ 57th wedding anniversary, we are doing something special in her memory.
Our family purchased a personalized brick for Mom at the Washington Street Mall.
It feels like the perfect place for a small piece of her story to remain—a place that held so many happy memories for our family long before we understood just how precious those memories would become.
Now, when our family returns to Cape May, we’ll have a special place to visit and remember her.
My children can visit it.
Her grandchildren can visit it.
And another little piece of Mom will remain in a place that meant so much to all of us.
The traditions continue.
The memories continue.
And even though Lewy body dementia changed so much, it never took away the love those moments created.
I am learning that grief is filled with these kinds of moments—the sadness of knowing she is not here alongside an overwhelming gratitude that she was here.
That we had the trips.
That we took the pictures.
That we ate the ice cream.
That we made the memories.
Today is one of the hard firsts.
But it is also a day to remember 57 years of love.
Sometimes healing is not found in remembering every detail.
Sometimes it is found in a photograph.
A familiar place.
A family tradition.
Or even a little brick that quietly says:
You were here.
You were loved.
And you are remembered.
Today would have been your 57th anniversary, Mom and Dad.
Mom, I wish you were here to celebrate it. Dad, I know today will feel different without her beside you.
But 56 years of marriage gave our family a lifetime of memories—and those memories are still very much with us.
Thinking of you both today, with so much love.
About the Author
Kimberly Orlando, MOT, OTR/L, is an occupational therapist with more than 25 years of experience and a former family caregiver to her mother, who lived with Lewy body dementia for six years. Through Sunny by Kimberly, she shares practical, OT-informed ideas for dementia care, meaningful activities, and everyday caregiving.
