Footprints in Spain: what remains as memories fade...? Alzheimer's

Dear People,

I have only been back from Spain for just over a week. The suitcases have already been unpacked, the laundry is of course done, the first week of work is over, but in my mind, I am still far from leaving this, what I call my motherland, which has played a role in my life since 1974.

And then I sit on the couch and watch the TV program "An Unforgettable Journey" by Omroep MAX, with Paul de Leeuw.

Families travel with their parents and grandparents with dementia to Benidorm. Children, grandchildren, caregivers, and those being cared for. Traveling together to enjoy, experience, and create memories. Just like we did...

And while I watch, something happens to me.

I recognize the places.

The boulevard. The palm trees. The terraces. The streets where we walked just a few days ago.

I see Benidorm on my television screen and think: we were there too!

There we left our footprints.

And suddenly I'm back in Spain.

A gift that didn't fit in wrapping paper

Mom has Alzheimer’s and lives in Spain with my youngest sister Fjoda, who takes care of her a lot. Last year at Christmas, the idea came to me to go to Spain with the family. Not just for a vacation, but to celebrate Mom’s 80th birthday with the people she loves.

Children, grandchildren, and relatives. Different generations, all with their own lives, memories, and stories.

On September 21, we celebrated her birthday again, with a trip to the island of Tabarca and later also at other times.

We went out together. We ate, laughed, took photos, and reminisced.

Of course, not everything went as I had imagined it in my mind beforehand.

Because a family is not a perfectly directed performance.

There are expectations, different characters, old stories, and sometimes feelings that unexpectedly arise.

The theater of life.

But mom enjoyed.

And ultimately, that was the goal.

We were also in Benidorm.

We ate tapas in that famous little street where the restaurants and bars follow one another and walked along the sea on the famous boulevard. Later, we went for Indian food at my brother Humphrey's, her son, in his restaurant.

Different worlds came together for me there.

My Indian roots. The flavors of the past. My brother who has built his life in Spain. Mom at the table, surrounded by family.

Food has never just been food within our family. It is memories of dishes, birthdays, large pans, satay, conversations, and people who can no longer sit at the table.

And now I look at the television and see that same environment.

As if someone has quietly opened a door to my own past.

The girl who used to walk here before

Spain runs like a red thread through my family history.

My grandparents left for Spain in the seventies. My parents had their dreams and adventures there, but also difficult times.

My brother and sisters and I each have our own memories laid out.

There were vacations, family visits, long car rides, houses where we stayed, and places we kept returning to.

My father passed away in Spain.

Grandpa and grandma are also no longer here.

And yet they suddenly appear for me sometimes again, when I walk through a street or see a familiar view.

Then I am not just the woman I am today.

Then I am also that girl from back in the day.

The daughter of my father and mother.

The grandchild of grandpa and grandma.

The sister between her brother and sisters.

And now I'm a mother of two adult sons.

What a wondrous thing time is.

We can return to the same place, but never again in exactly the same life.

I notice that I increasingly long for the stories that I may not have even found interesting in the past.

I would still like to ask my father something.

Or sitting at the table with grandpa and grandma one more time.

Just a cup of coffee.

A story.

A smile.

Nothing special.

And that’s exactly why it’s so special.

Mama among the palm trees

One of the most beautiful days of our trip was our excursion to Elche.

Mom wanted to ride the little train among the palm trees.

So we did that.

We drove through the city, admired the palm trees, and had lunch at the square by the bust of the Dama de Elche.

I looked at my mother.

Eighty years.

So much has happened.

And still curious about the world around her.

On the way, she even hooked a few stitches onto my crochet work. A small, almost careless moment, which has now become a precious memory for me.

Later that day, my son Sem made paella all by himself on our rooftop terrace.

Mom loved it.

Her grandson, who once sat on her lap as a little boy, was now cooking for her.

How proud she was.

And how she enjoyed it.

I don't know if she will remember this day exactly after a while.

But we were there.

We experienced it together.

And those few stitches in my crochet work? They're still in there.

Haar Isje, the singer

And of course there was singing! Mama

Together with mom. And that big Spanish hat certainly couldn't be missing.

Yes, it was like that as a child, and it still is now.

We sang Mamma Mia by ABBA during a karaoke night. And I performed in front of her.

As a singer, singing is not that difficult for me. But singing for my mother is something entirely different.

I saw her enjoying herself.

For how many years may pass, however much changes in our lives, and what Alzheimer might still change...

For mom, I remain her Isje. Her daughter. The singer.

And how wonderful it is to be able to give her pleasure in that way.

It took me back to the past. To that girl with the big Spanish hat. To all the moments when music had a place in our family.

And now we were there again.

Mom and I.

Singing, laughing and enjoying together.

It's fine like this. Or is it not completely?

During the trip, I talked to mom about her life in Spain.

Why does she want to stay there, despite her age, Alzheimer's, and the worries that come with it?

Her answer is actually very simple.

She is happy there.

She loves the sun, the palm trees, and the Spanish life. Of the surroundings where so many of her memories lie.

It was always her dream.

And so I'm trying to say:

That's good.

But that sentence keeps gnawing at me.

It doesn't feel quite right when you would like to drop by your mother for a cup of coffee, while there is a plane between you.

I used to drive to her place in Helmond often on Sundays.

Just passing by.

Together somewhere.

A birthday, Christmas, or just an afternoon.

I miss that normal.

And at the same time, I realize that my desire does not have to be her desire.

Mom is proud of me. She respects my life and my freedom.

Then I want to give her the freedom to be happy wherever she wants to be.

Live and let live.

Easier said than done.

Sometimes it can be really difficult.

The most beautiful gift

During our last days in Spain, we talked a lot with mom. About the past, about dad, about our family, and about everything life has brought us.

She shared memories I didn't know. And she told me how proud she was of me.

Later, mom said that this trip was the most beautiful gift we could have given her.

That touched me.

Although it had been an intense journey, full of different emotions and family events, she had especially enjoyed being together.

We not only celebrated her eightieth birthday.

We had lived, eaten, laughed, sung, and made new memories together.

And that is where it all started.

And then I see her dancing again

A few days after our return home, I call mom via video.

There she appears on my screen.

Energetic. Cheerful.

And she dances!

My dear mom. ❤️

I have to laugh.

We sang together in Spain and now she is dancing again.

And I think of that girl from the past, with the big Spanish hat. Of the woman I have now become. And of my mother, who still enjoys it when her Isje sings for her.

While I can worry about what Alzheimer may take away from her in the future, she shows me what is still here today.

Music.

Pleasure.

Movement.

Vitality.

My mother is so much more than her Alzheimer's diagnosis.

And that is exactly what touches me when I look at the families in A Forgettable Journey.

Dementia changes a lot. Memories can fade, words can become harder to access, and familiar situations can become confusing.

But the moment of NOW exists.

A song.

A hand that holds you.

Eating together.

A joke.

A little dance.

Perhaps someone might not remember exactly what happened later.

But the happiness at that moment was real.

An invitation to you

And that's why I want to ask you, who is reading this, something.

When was the last time you did something fun with someone you love?

Not because it was Christmas.

Not because someone had a birthday.

Not because there was a special reason.

But just because you are both there.

We are often so focused on tomorrow.

With work, entrepreneurship, making money, planning, responsibilities, and everything else that still needs to be done.

We say so easily:

We will have lunch together again soon.

Next month I will visit grandma.

When things are a bit calmer, we'll take that walk.

But what if that can be today soon?

Go. Enjoy. Share. Play. Dance.

Ask your parents and grandparents about their youth.

To their dreams.

To their first adventures, their crazy antics, and the things they used to laugh at uncontrollably.

Take photos, but don't forget to put your phone down from time to time.

Listen.

And tell me what else you would like to share.

Behind every entrepreneur, employer, or employee, there is also the theater of life.

There is care, missing, love, and sometimes release.

Let's also keep an eye on the people who take care of someone with dementia every day. For caregivers, family members, volunteers, healthcare professionals, and researchers who are committed to Alzheimer's and other forms of dementia.

Their work and commitment deserve our attention, appreciation, and support.

Our footprints

I look at Benidorm one more time on my television screen.

To the streets where we just walked.

To the place where my parents and grandparents once had their own dreams.

Where my children have now created memories with their grandmother.

And where mom still has her home somewhere under that Spanish sun.

The footprints we left in the sand may have long since disappeared.

But the moments when we made them together were real.

And as I write this, our trip was just over a week ago.

Everything is still so fresh.

The conversations.

The smile of mom.

Sem's paella.

The family at the table.

The tapas in Benidorm.

The big Spanish hat.

Our karaoke with Mamma Mia.

And mom who will be happily dancing again a few days later.

Maybe she won't be able to recount everything later.

But I can still do it.

And as long as I can, I will keep our stories.

So don't wait until memories become precious because you are about to lose them.

Make them today.

With the people you love.

Enjoy the ordinary moments. The unexpected encounters, the conversations at the table, the music, the laughter together, and the little adventures that may later turn out to be the most beautiful memories.

Because life doesn't happen later.

Life is NOW. 🌴❤️

Ismène Elbers

For PUTITON — October 2026