No sooner had my children flown the nest than we received the devastating diagnosis…my mother had Alzheimer’s Disease.

At first she forgot small things. Lost her shopping list, omitted cooking ingredients and misplaced items. Soon she told us the same stories over and over, stumbled remembering our names and got lost in the neighbourhood where she’d lived with Dad all their married life.

My father was adamant he’d keep Mum home with him for as long as possible. He learnt to cook, although Mum had previously done most of it and he coped well with the frustrations of Mum’s mood swings and irrational behaviour.

But every few weeks Dad needed a break and would head off on a fishing weekend with my husband Tom while I stayed with Mum. We played games and watched children’s programs on television because Mum had reverted to childhood most of the time. On sunny days we sat in the garden she’d created so long ago and filled with special plants.

Once, each one held a memory. I showed Mum violets she’d planted for her favourite aunt, geraniums she grown from cuttings swapped with friends and the beautiful rose her father had given her but she mostly responded with a blank stare when I mentioned their names. Thankfully she still loved the flowers and happily sat on the garden seat clutching blooms while I hung out the washing or pulled out a few weeds.

One weekend in early spring, a late snowfall covered the yard in pristine white. We stayed inside and I amused Mum with picture cards. Children and animals, cartoons and flowers.

Suddenly Mum held up a card showing a picture of a purple crocus. Her face lit up and she ran to the door. I followed with her coat.

Mum dashed to the end of the yard and pointed excitedly to two small flowers pushing their way up through the snow.

“Sarah,” she said.

We’d planted corms there together thirty years earlier.

It was the first time Mum had said my name for a year.