It’s a simple night in Beijing, China. I am soundly asleep, while my mom remains awake, lit by the pale glow of her laptop, typing through the quiet to keep pace with a workday happening thousands of miles away. All of a sudden, she hears my grandmother calling out from the next room.
“Wei? Wei?”
My grandmother isn’t asking for water or medicine. She’s only seeking reassurance that someone is still there. So, Mom briefly closes her laptop, and softly answers, “I’m here, Mama. 睡吧.” Sleep well.
My mom, Wei Liu, is an only child. She was raised in the Beijing suburbs with a strong bond to both of her parents. Her mother, my laolao, was meticulous and endlessly attentive, while her father, my laoye, was more laid-back and quiet. Though different in personality, both of her parents were unwavering in their support for my mom, from her decision to immigrate to the US to her first day of work. When life overwhelmed my mom, she would call Beijing, knowing there was always an answer waiting. “My mom is always a great listener… so it's always endless conversation with her,” my mom said fondly.
Even though we were thousands of miles apart, I, too, held a strong bond with my grandparents, as my mom kept them closely involved in my life. They also traveled to America when I was very young to help my parents take care of me while they worked their nine-to-fives. Laolao introduced me to my favorite dish, tomato and eggs with rice, while Laoye taught me how to ride a bike.
Then, when I was six years old, our lives took an unexpected turn. In 2013, while living in China, Laoye was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease after having two strokes within just ten days. According to Cleveland Clinic, Alzheimer’s disease is a progressive neurodegenerative condition that destroys cells in the brain. Along with the gradual decline of his cognitive function, his physical health worsened, as if his body and mind were slowing down together. Once steady and independent, Laoye began losing mobility. “My dad… couldn't really walk without the walker,” my mom said sorrowfully.
Years later, in 2021, Laolao developed dementia, which subsequently progressed into Alzheimer’s disease. Unlike my laoye, her decline in health was rapid. Her hearing and speech deteriorated, and she developed difficulties in using her right hand, until eventually her fingers could no longer bend. Both my grandparents’ combined physical decline changed the rhythm of daily life in their home, shifting from independence to constant care. “Now, my mom cannot take care of my dad, because she can’t even take care of herself,” my mom said with a quiet sadness.
“Now, my mom cannot take care of my dad, because she can’t even take care of herself,”
The most painful shift, however, wasn’t physical; the gradual loss of names, of people, places, and even familiar relationships, cut deeper than any visible symptom. Laoye often paused in the middle of conversation, searching for words that no longer came easily or repeating questions as if each answer was new. There were moments when Laolao struggled to recognize family members, essentially erasing all connection. For Mom, hearing her parents forget her name was one of the hardest outcomes, as Alzheimer’s wasn’t just taking memories but slowly unraveling once-unshakable family bonds.
Starting in 2022, my mom began traveling back and forth from the United States to China, moving between two demanding lives — one as an employee, wife, and mother in America, and the other as a daughter watching her parents slowly decline in Beijing.
Almost every night in China, my mom worked on US hours, while the rest of the apartment slept. In those hours, time no longer felt linear; morning in one place meant midnight in another. Oftentimes, Laolao would call out in confusion from the next room, and my mom would simply call out back.
“She doesn’t really need anything,” my mom said about those late nights. “She’s just calling to make sure people are around.”
No matter how many times Laolao called out during the night, my mom answered each time with the same calm reassurance, never allowing exhaustion to replace her compassion and care.
When asked about her support system, my mom had a lot to say. Her answer came quickly, almost instinctively, as if caregiving has never felt like something she carried alone. She spoke about how grateful she is for her workplace.
“My company and my management team allows me to travel overseas and work overseas,” my mom said gratefully, emphasizing that without their flexibility, balancing caregiving and work across continents would have been nearly impossible. She then spoke about the caregiver company that has worked with our family for nearly a decade, coordinating live-in nannies, finding replacements on short notice, and helping my grandparents maintain a sense of stability as their needs changed over time.
Beyond formal care, my mom repeatedly returns to our extended family in Beijing, who have proven to be pillars of support throughout my grandparents’ decline. From driving my grandparents to hospital appointments to bringing over home-cooked meals to lending cars, our extended family simply shows up at the drop of the hat. “Every time we have a request… [my great-aunt] would definitely, one hundred percent, dedicate her effort and time to help [my parents],” my mom told me, describing just one of countless acts of support. As she reflected on our relatives growing older and one uncle passing away, her voice began to waver, and she became emotional.
Even through tears, she returned to gratitude. She said, “I’m not only thankful for them, but they are definitely role models for me.” My mom describes that our extended family have not been just occasional helpers but kept a steady presence, proof that caregiving, in our family, has never belonged to one person alone.
Watching my mom care for my grandparents changed the way I understand resilience. Her strength did not come from pretending the situation was easy, but from continuing to show up despite the heartbreak. She carries gratitude alongside grief, appreciating every small moment of connection, even as Alzheimer’s slowly reshaped the people she loved. Through sleepless nights, international flights, and years of gradual loss, my mom has shown me that true strength can look quiet.
So, while Alzheimer’s had taken memories, mobility, and language from my grandparents in unpredictable ways, my mom became their anchor, showing up across continents, across time zones, and across the distance between who they were and who they had become. In many ways, her resilience is not loud or dramatic, but persisting, from answering late-night calls from the next room to boarding another flight back to Beijing to continuing to show up for her parents again and again.