Mother's Day is almost over. I spent part of the day reflecting on the fact that motherhood is an intricate dance of joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain. Children are conceived in pleasure, delivered in pain. And the mingling of the two continues. My mother had a wonderful little expression: "Mark, I wouldn't take a million dollars for you, but I wouldn't give a nickel for another one just like you."

My memories of Mom are also a mixed bag. I can remember her infectious laughter, which communicated her pure delight in me, her son. But I can also remember many dark times as she sank ever deeper into clinical depression during my teenage years. I remember wonderful family vacations to places like Yellowstone Park, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, the Black Hills, and even Volcanoes National Park in Hawaii. But I also remember her worry and weariness as we launched a family business that nearly bankrupted us after Dad retired from the Air Force.

I called Mom tonight. Mom has Alzheimer's Disease now. The same laughter is still there, but most of the time, it seems more like a reflexive response than a genuine expression of delight. Her confusion is increasing. She's fixated on the date of Alan's wedding, but has to remind herself that Caren is pregnant. She still knows me, and still loves to hear how my week has gone and what's happening with my children. But the conversations are growing shorter and a greater part of each phone call is spent rehashing previously stated but forgotten information.

If we live long enough, all of us will have to cope with losing our mothers. I'm losing mine one tiny piece at a time. I know both ways are painful. I suppose you could have a debate on which one is worse, along the lines of whether it's best to remove a band-aid slowly or with one excruciating rip. The outcome is irrelevant; we don't get to choose how we lose our mothers like we do with band-aids.

There are some minor compensations to the struggle. My sister and I have grown closer. We talk much more often than we ever have before; we have to work hard to keep the level of care no more than one step behind her current need (keeping one step ahead would be better, but we've never come close to achieving that). So, the dance of joy and sorrow continues. When I was young, Mom led as I tried to learn the steps. Now, I lead as she strains to recall the steps.

As Mother's Day comes to a close, I struggle to make sense of the complicated, convoluted, and confounding relationship I have with my mother. And finally, I find a way to capture its essence: I wouldn't take a million dollars for the experience, but I wouldn't give a nickel for another one just like it.