My sisters and I recently put our 87-year-old mother in a care home. 
Although we initially dreaded the thought of her languishing in a charmless institutional environment attended by indifferent care staff, we have been very pleasantly surprised. The staff are friendly and caring and the facility cheery and bright.
In such a place, with all of its everyday busyness providing a focus for her interest – the comings and goings of visitors, the ministrations of care staff, the various activities for residents – my mother appears quite content. She has always enjoyed being in the company of others, although these days she is merely an observer.
My mother has virtually no memory. When my sisters or I visit she does not know our names. But as we sit with her we can feel, rising from some dark cranny of her mind, her awareness of our familial connection and her comfort in our presence.
The other day I asked her how old she thought she was. She paused and said, uncertainly, “nineteen?” Sometimes I prod her to remember details from her past. At such times she might mention her sisters. If I provide specifics about our family to help stir her memory, she will say, “I seem to remember something about that.” But she doesn’t really.
In the care home where she now lives, my mother has a roommate. Violette is originally from Quebec and prefers to speak French, although she knows English. She is a good match for my mum and they seem to get along well together.
I asked Violette about her age and she said, rather firmly, “cent treize” (113). Although Violette appears to still have some command of her faculties, her grasp of reality is obviously tenuous.
Who are we without our memories? What is our experience of life if we can’t recall things that occurred just minutes ago? When my mother gets up in the morning does she wonder where she is? Or does she experience each day, each moment, as unique and new? And what about Violette, sleeping in the bed across from her? Does my mum wake every morning wondering whom she’s sharing her room with?
Although such memory loss is a terrifying prospect to me, my mother is not distressed. Like a Buddhist monk, she seems content to be living in the moment. With no memory of her past she is egoless, untroubled by questions about who she is or her place in the world. She appears content with just knowing that she is. I exist, therefore I am. And apparently that’s enough.