Thursday, August 15th, 2024. The Family Feud studio in Atlanta was buzzing with its usual energy. Two families were ready to compete. The cameras were rolling and Steve Harvey was in his element. But what was about to happen in the next 18 minutes would become the most heartbreaking, beautiful, and unforgettable moment in the show’s entire history.

 Because sitting in the contestant lineup was a 68-year-old woman named Patricia Morrison who in just 12 minutes would forget where she was, who Steve Harvey was, and most devastatingly would look at her own son and ask him, “Who are you?” What nobody in that studio knew except for Michael Morrison and the show’s producers was that they were all witnessing something extraordinary and tragic at the same time.

 They were watching a mother’s mind holding on with everything it had for just a few more precious minutes before Alzheimer’s disease pulled her back into darkness, possibly forever. The day had started much earlier for Michael Morrison. He’d woken up at 4:00 a.m. in the hotel room he shared with his mother, Patricia. She was already awake, which wasn’t unusual. Alzheimer’s patients often have disrupted sleep patterns. But this morning was different.

 When Michael opened his eyes, his mother was sitting by the window, fully dressed, staring at him with clear, focused eyes. “Michael,” she said, and his heart leaped because she knew his name. She hadn’t called him by name in 3 weeks. “Is today the day we’re going to see Steve Harvey?” Michael felt tears prick his eyes as he nodded. “Yes, Mom. Today’s the day.

” Patricia smiled. Really smiled. And for just a moment, she was back. She was his mom again. But Michael knew better than to hope. He’d learned that lesson the hard way over the past four years. Ever since his mother’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis had gone from mild to moderate to severe with devastating speed.

 The disease that slowly steals memories, personality, and ultimately the person themselves had been particularly cruel to Patricia Morrison. Most days she didn’t know where she was. She would look at family photos and not recognize herself.

 She would call Michael by his father’s name, even though his father had been dead for 10 years. She would ask for her own mother, who’d been gone for 30 years. But there was one strange, miraculous exception that had both baffled It had started about 8 months ago. Michael had been sitting with his mother in her memory care facility, flipping through channels when Family Feud came on. Within seconds, Patricia had sat up straighter.

 Her eyes had focused, and she turned to Michael and said, “Earerly as day.” “Oh, I love this show. Steve Harvey is so funny.” Michael had been so shocked he’d actually dropped the remote. His mother hadn’t spoken a coherent sentence in 2 weeks. From that day forward, Michael made sure his mother watched Family Feud every day. And every day for those brief minutes while Steve Harvey was on screen, Michael got his mother back. The nurses called it the Steve Harvey effect.

Patricia’s neurologist, Dr. Sarah Chen, had been fascinated. She’d run additional tests, consulted with colleagues across the country, and while she couldn’t fully explain it, she had a theory. Dr. Chen believed that something about Steve Harvey’s voice, his mannerisms, his energy, was triggering deep-seated neural pathways in Patricia’s brain.

 Perhaps Patricia had watched Family Feud during a particularly happy time in her life, creating strong positive associations. Perhaps Steve’s voice hit a specific frequency that activated dormant areas. Or perhaps, as Dr. Dr. Chen put it more poetically. Steve Harvey was somehow the key that unlocked the prison Alzheimer’s had built around Patricia’s mind. But Dr. Chen had also given Michael a harder truth.

 The lucid periods were becoming shorter. 8 months ago, Patricia would be clear for 20 minutes during an episode. 6 months ago, 15 minutes. Last month, 10 minutes. The windows were closing. And Dr. Chen believed that soon even Steve Harvey wouldn’t be able to bring Patricia back. Which is why 3 months ago, Michael had made a decision. He would get his mother on Family Feud.

 He would give her one last chance to be herself. To be the woman she was before Alzheimer’s stole her away. He would give her one final beautiful memory, even if she wouldn’t remember it afterward. Even if he would be the only one left holding it. The application process had been brutal.

 Family Feud received thousands of applications every month. Michael had written letter after letter, sent video after video explaining his mother’s condition and the strange miracle of her lucid moments. He’d included medical documentation, testimonials from nurses, even video footage of Patricia watching the show and suddenly coming alive. For weeks, he’d heard nothing. Then one morning, his phone rang.

 It was Marcus Freeman, one of Family Feud’s senior producers. “Michael,” Marcus had said, his voice gentle but firm. “We need to talk about your mother. We’ve reviewed everything you sent, and I have to ask you something difficult. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Michael had been confused. “Of course, I’m sure. This would mean everything to her.

” “I understand that,” Marcus replied. “But Michael, I need you to really think about this. Your mother will be on live television in front of a studio audience and millions of viewers. If she becomes confused, if she loses her clarity during the taming, that’s going to be captured forever.

 Are you prepared for that? Is she prepared for that? Michael had taken a long moment to answer. The truth was, he hadn’t fully considered that possibility. In his mind, he’d imagined his mother being lucid for the entire episode, having the time of her life, going out with one last moment of joy and dignity. But Marcus was right. What if she forgot where she was in the middle of the game? What if she looked at the cameras with fear and confusion? What if she fell apart in front of millions of people? Mr.

 Freeman, Michael had finally said, “My mother has latestage Alzheimer’s. Every day I watch her slip further away. Soon she won’t know me at all. Soon she’ll be completely gone, even though she’s still breathing. If there’s even a chance that she can have 15 minutes of clarity, 15 minutes of being herself one more time, I have to take it.

 Even if it ends badly, because right now, every day ends badly anyway. At least this way, for a few minutes, she’ll be happy. There had been a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Marcus had said quietly, “Okay, we’ll make it happen. But Michael, there’s something you should know.” Steve Harvey’s mother passed away from dementia 6 years ago.

 When I showed him your application, when I told him about Patricia, he sat in his dressing room and cried for 20 minutes. He wants to do this for your mother. He wants to give her this gift. So, we’re going to make this the most special episode we’ve ever done.

 And that’s how Michael and Patricia Morrison found themselves in Atlanta in the Family Feud studio. On what might be Patricia’s last truly lucid day on Earth, the production team had been incredibly accommodating. They’d scheduled Patricia’s taping for the morning when she was typically most alert. They’d arranged for Dr. Chen to be present, standing backstage with emergency medical equipment just in case.

 They had briefed Steve Harvey extensively on Patricia’s condition, on what to expect, on how to handle it if she became confused or frightened. But what they couldn’t plan for, what nobody could control, was the crulest variable of all, time. Dr. Chen had been very clear that morning when she’d examined Patricia.

 She’s unusually lucid right now, the doctor told Michael and the producers. More lucid than I’ve seen her in months. I think the excitement, the anticipation, it’s stimulating her brain in ways we don’t fully understand. But Michael, you need to understand something. Based on the pattern we’ve observed over the past 8 months, I estimate that once the show starts, Patricia will have approximately 12 to 15 minutes of clarity before the confusion returns, maybe less.

 So, whatever you want her to experience, whatever you want to say to her, it needs to happen in that window. 12 minutes. That’s all they had. 12 minutes for Patricia to be herself one last time. 12 minutes for Michael to have his mother back. 12 minutes to fit a lifetime of love and goodbye into a game show taping. As they waited backstage, Michael held his mother’s hand. Patricia looked at him with clear eyes and smiled. “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“What if I don’t know the answers? What if I embarrass you?” Michael wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. His mother was worried about embarrassing him. This beautiful, brilliant woman who had raised him alone after his father. Patricia’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Michael, I love you so much.

 You’ve taken such good care of me. I know I haven’t been myself lately. I know I get confused. But right now, right in this moment, I am so grateful for you.” Michael hugged his mother tightly, breathing in the scent of her perfume, memorizing the feeling of her arms around him, knowing that in a few short minutes, she might not even remember this conversation.

 Then they heard it, the familiar music, the announcer’s voice. And now here’s the star of family feud, Steve Harvey. The audience erupted in applause, and Michael felt his mother’s hand tighten in his. That’s him, Patricia whispered, her face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. That’s Steve Harvey. He’s really here. We’re really here. Yes, Mom, Michael said softly.

 We’re really here. Are you ready? Patricia straightened her shoulders, smoothed down her dress, and nodded. I’m ready. Let’s go win this thing. The Morrison family walked onto the Family Feud stage to thunderous applause. Steve Harvey was there to greet them and when he saw Patricia, something shifted in his expression.

 He walked directly to her, took both her hands in his, and looked into her eyes with such kindness and understanding that Michael almost lost his composure right there. Mrs. Morrison, Steve said gently, his voice warm and respectful. It is an absolute honor to have you on this show. An absolute honor. Patricia beamed at him. Mr.

 Harvey, I have watched you for years. You make me laugh. You make me happy. Thank you for having me here. Steve glanced at Michael and they shared a look that needed no words. Then Steve turned back to Patricia. Well, ma’am, I hope we can make you happy today. Are you ready to play Family Feud? I’m ready, Patricia declared, and the audience cheered.

 As the Morrison family lined up at their podium, Michael noticed something in the corner of the studio. a large digital clock placed there specifically for this taping. It was counting down from 15 minutes. The producers had set up a timer visible only to the crew and Michael tracking Patricia’s expected window of lucidity. Michael felt his stomach clench. 15 minutes. The clock started. The game began. And Patricia Morrison was at the game continued and Patricia was on fire.

She knew answers. She laughed at Steve’s jokes. She played off the other family with good-natured competitiveness. She was funny, charming, sharp. She was everything she used to be before Alzheimer’s took her away. But Michael kept glancing at the clock. 12 minutes remaining, 10 minutes remaining, 8 minutes remaining. They were in the third round when Michael noticed the first subtle change.

 Patricia answered a question correctly, but there was a brief hesitation before she hit the buzzer. Just a second of confusion in her eyes. Then it cleared and she continued playing. But Michael’s heart sank. It was starting. Steve noticed it, too. Michael saw the way Steve’s eyes flickered to Patricia more frequently.

 The way his questions became gentler, slower, giving her more time to process. At 5 minutes remaining, they’d made it to the final fast money round. Patricia was chosen to go first. She would have to answer five questions in 20 seconds. Michael wanted to stop everything, to tell them this was too much, that his mother couldn’t handle the pressure. But then he looked at Patricia’s face.

 She looked determined, focused, ready. “All right, Mrs. Morrison,” Steve said, his voice incredibly gentle. “You ready for fast money?” “I’m ready, Steve,” Patricia said. And Michael’s heart broke because her voice was getting softer, less certain. The confidence from earlier was starting to fade. Okay, here we go.

 20 seconds on the clock. Name a place people go to feel peaceful. Church, Patricia answered immediately. Name something you never forget. Patricia hesitated for just a second. Your children, she said, and Michael saw Steve’s jaw clench with emotion. Name something that gets better with time. Love, Patricia whispered. Name a reason you might forget something. Patricia’s eyes clouded slightly.

getting old, she said, and there was a crack in her voice. Name something you hold on to tight. Patricia looked directly at Michael. Family, she said. You hold on to family. The buzzer rang. 20 seconds had passed. Patricia had answered all five questions. The audience was on their feet applauding, and Steve Harvey was openly crying now, not even trying to hide it. Michael looked at the clock.

 2 minutes remaining. They moved on to have Michael B. They’d scored 212 points, well over the 200 needed to win the $20,000. The audience was cheering wildly, but Michael could only watch his mother. Patricia was brought back to the stage for the reveal. But as she walked towards Steve, Michael saw her footsteps become uncertain.

 She was looking around the bright lights, the cameras, the cheering audience, and her face was full of fear and confusion. Steve saw it, too. Without missing a beat, he walked directly to Patricia, took her hand, and guided her gently to stand next to him.

 He kept hold of her hand the entire time he revealed the answers, his voice soothing and calm, like he was talking to a scared child. “Patricia, you did so good,” Steve said softly as he showed her score. “You helped your family win. You were amazing.” Patricia looked at him with confused eyes. “Did we win?” she asked, her voice small and uncertain, so different from the confident woman who’d walked on stage just 15 minutes earlier.

 Yes, ma’am. You won. You and your family won. Patricia smiled, but it was a vague, unfocused smile. She was slipping away. Michael stepped closer to his mother, and Steve gently transferred Patricia’s hand from his to Michael’s. “Mom,” Michael said quietly, just to her, not for the cameras or the audience. I’m so proud of you. You are perfect.

 Patricia looked at him. Really looked at him and Michael saw a flicker of recognition. One last moment of connection. Michael, she whispered, “My sweet boy.” “Yes, Mom. It’s me. I’m here. Did we win?” “Yes, Mom. We won. You won.” Patricia’s smile grew, and for just a second, she was completely there. Good. That’s good.

 I wanted to win for you. You did, Mom. You did. And then right there on the Family Feud stage in front of the cameras and the audience and Steve Harvey, Patricia Morrison looked at her son with suddenly empty eyes and asked the question Michael had been dreading. I’m sorry, she said politely, her voice confused and frightened. But who are you? The studio went completely silent.

You could have heard a pin drop. Every camera, every audience member, every crew member watched as Michael Morrison’s face crumpled. He tried to answer, tried to say, “I’m your son.” But the words wouldn’t come. Steve Harvey stepped closer, his own face wet with tears, and put a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

 Then Patricia, looking at this young man who was crying and staring at her with such desperate love, said something that made everything both worse and somehow impossibly better. I don’t know who you are, she said softly. But you have kind eyes. You remind me of someone. I had a son once, a wonderful son. He was the light of my life. She reached up and gently touched Michael’s face. You have his eyes. Such kind eyes.

Are you Are you related to him? Do you know where he is? Michael couldn’t speak. He pulled his mother into a tight embrace while she stood there, confused, but docel, patting his back like you would comfort a stranger. Over Patricia’s shoulder, Michael saw the clock. 0 minutes remaining. The window had closed.

 Steve Harvey, showing the compassion and humanity that would make this moment legendary, didn’t try to continue the show. He didn’t make jokes or try to lighten the mood. Instead, he turned to the cameras and said simply and honestly, “Ladies and gentlemen, what you just witnessed was one of the most beautiful and heartbreaking things I’ve ever seen. This is Patricia Morrison.

 She has latestage Alzheimer’s disease. For the last 15 minutes, she was completely herself. She was lucid, present, playing the game, and having the time of her life. And now, now she’s gone again, lost in her own mind, not knowing where she is or who her own son is. Steve’s voice cracked. My own mother had dementia.

 I watched her forget me, forget herself. It’s the crulest disease I know because it doesn’t take the person all at once. It takes them piece by piece, memory by memory, until you’re looking at someone you love more than anything in the world, and they’re looking back at you like you’re a stranger. The audience was in tears. The crew was in tears.

 Even the other family, waiting on their side of the stage for their turn to play, was crying. Steve, Dr. Chen, appeared from backstage, then gently taking Patricia from Michael’s arms. Patricia went with her easily, already asking the doctor where she was and if it was time for lunch.

 As the doctor led Patricia away to a quiet room to help her calm down and reorient, Steve pulled Michael aside. “Thank you,” Steve said, his voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for sharing your mother with us. Thank you for letting us see her light, even if it was just for a few minutes.” Michael wiped his eyes and managed to speak. No, Mr. Harvey, thank you. You gave my mother something I could never give her.

 You gave her back to herself one last time. For 15 minutes, Alzheimer’s didn’t exist. For 15 minutes, she was free. I will carry those 15 minutes with me for the rest of my life. The episode aired 3 weeks later, unedited except for Steve’s commentary and some context added about Alzheimer’s disease and its effects.

 The show made the decision to donate the Morrison family’s winnings to the Alzheimer’s Association and matched it with a $100,000 donation. But the real impact was in what happened next. The episode became the most watched and most shared Family Feud episode ever. Not because of the game itself, but because millions of people saw their own stories reflected in Patricia and Michael Morrison.

 People who had parents with Alzheimer’s, people who had lost loved ones to dementia, people who understood the specific cruelty of watching someone you love disappear while they’re still standing right in front of you. The response was overwhelming.

 The Alzheimer’s Association received a record number of donations in the weeks following the episode. Support groups formed online with caregivers sharing their own lucid moment stories. Researchers reached out to Dr. Chen interested in studying the Steve Harvey effect and whether specific stimuli could help create windows of clarity in dementia patients. But perhaps the most touching response came from other families dealing with Alzheimer’s.

Hundreds of people sent letters and videos to the show sharing their own experiences. One woman wrote about how her father, who had severe dementia, would become lucid when listening to Frank Sinatra. Another family shared how their mother, who barely spoke anymore, would light up and have full conversations whenever her grandchildren visited with their dog.

 6 months after the taping, on a cold February morning, Michael Morrison received a phone call. His mother had passed away peacefully in her sleep at the memory care facility. In the months following the family feud episode, Patricia had continued to decline. She stopped having any lucid moments at all, even when watching Steve Harvey. She stopped speaking in complete sentences.

Eventually, she stopped speaking altogether. In her final weeks, she didn’t recognize anyone or anything. She was in every meaningful way already gone long before her body finally gave up. But Michael held on to those 15 minutes. He’d watched the episode so many times he had it memorized.

 Every question his mother answered, every laugh she gave, every moment, she was fully herself. The funeral was small, attended by family and a few close friends. But there were also some unexpected guests. Marcus Freeman, the producer from Family Feud, came, Dr. Chen came, and Steve Harvey himself came, walking into the small church in suburban Ohio, and sitting quietly in the back pew.

After the service, Steve approached Michael. “Your mother was something special,” Steve said. In all my years of television, I’ve never seen anything like what I saw that day. The way she fought to stay present. The way she held on for you. That was the strongest thing I’ve ever witnessed. She loved that episode.

 Michael said even after she stopped being lucid, I would still play it for her sometimes. I don’t know if she understood what she was watching, but I’d like to think that somewhere deep inside she remembered. She remembered being happy, being herself, being with me. Steve nodded, tears in his eyes. I believe she did. And Michael, I need you to know something.

 I’ve met thousands of people through my shows, but your mother and what you did for her, that changed me. It reminded me why I do what I do. It’s not about the jokes or the fame or any of that. It’s about moments, about giving people joy, even if it’s just for 15 minutes. Especially if it’s just for 15 minutes.

 2 years after Patricia Morrison’s episode aired, Family Feud partnered with the Alzheimer’s Association to create an annual special episode featuring families dealing with dementia. They call it Moments of Clarity. And each year they bring on families who have loved ones with Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia, giving them a chance to create one last beautiful memory together.

 The episodes are always emotional, always difficult to watch, and always profoundly moving. Michael Morrison appears in a short segment before each special episode, sharing his mother’s story and talking about the importance of cherishing the lucid moments, however brief they may be. Alzheimer’s steals everything, Michael says in these segments. It steals memories, personality, recognition.

 It takes the person you love and replaces them with someone who looks like them, but isn’t them anymore. But here’s what I learned from my mother’s last lucid day. Alzheimer’s can’t steal love. It can’t steal the moments that already happened. And sometimes, if you’re very, very lucky, it can’t steal one last perfect day. In the memory care facility where Patricia spent her final years, there’s now a small TV room called Patricia’s Room. Every day at 4 p.m., they play Family Feud for the residents.

 And while most of them don’t understand what they’re watching, some of them, for brief moments, become a little more present, a little more themselves. The staff calls these Steve Harvey moments in honor of Patricia Morrison and the inexplicable way that one man’s presence on a television screen could create windows of clarity in minds consumed by darkness.

 Steve Harvey himself has said in multiple interviews that Patricia Morrison’s episode was the most important thing he’s ever done in television. Not the funniest, not the highest rated, but the most meaningful. I’ve made people laugh, Steve said in one interview. I’ve given away money and prizes and trips. But what I gave Patricia Morrison was something different. I gave her 15 minutes of freedom from a disease that had imprisoned her mind.

 And her son, Michael, he gave her the courage to take those 15 minutes and live them fully, even knowing they would end. The episode won multiple awards, including an Emmy for outstanding special program. But when Steve accepted the award, he didn’t keep it.

 He gave it to Michael Morrison, telling him, “This belongs to your mother. This belongs to every family fighting Alzheimer’s. This belongs to everyone who’s ever watched someone they love slowly disappear.” Michael keeps the Emmy in his home office next to a photo from that day at Family Feud. In the picture, Patricia is hitting the buzzer, her face lit up with joy and determination.

 She looks alive, vibrant herself. And standing just behind her, his hand on her shoulder is Michael. Looking at his mother with such love and such sadness that it’s almost painful to witness because in that frozen moment, captured forever. Michael knows what’s coming. He knows that in just a few minutes, his mother will be gone again.

But in that moment, she’s there. She’s present. She’s his mom. Today, when people talk about the most memorable family feud moments, Patricia Morrison’s episode always comes up. Not because of the game itself or the money one or any of the usual reasons game show episodes become memorable, but because for 15 minutes on a Thursday morning in August, millions of people watch something rare and precious.

 They watched a woman with Alzheimer’s beat her disease, even if just temporarily. They watched a son love his mother enough to give her one last gift, even knowing it would break his heart. They watched Steve Harvey use his platform not for laughs, but for something deeper, for connection, for compassion, for showing the world that some battles can’t be won, but they can be fought with grace and love and dignity.

 And most importantly, they watched a reminder that the crulest thing about Alzheimer’s isn’t just the forgetting. It’s the moments of remembering. Those brief windows of clarity that show you exactly what you’re losing, exactly who’s being taken from you before the darkness closes in again. Patricia Morrison forgot her son that day.

 She forgot where she was, what she was doing, why she was there. But for 15 minutes before that happened, she remembered everything. She remembered how to laugh, how to play, how to be competitive and sharp and funny. She remembered how to be herself. And that’s what Michael holds on to. Not the but Patricia Morrison’s story reminds us that even in the face of such a cruel disease, there are still moments, brief windows of light in the overwhelming darkness.

And those moments matter. They matter to the people experiencing them. They matter to the families witnessing them. and they matter to the millions of viewers who saw Patricia’s 15 minutes of clarity and recognized their own loved ones, their own struggles, their own heartbreak reflected back at them.

 Steve Harvey stopped everything that day when Patricia Morrison asked her son, “Who are you?” He stopped the game, stopped the show, stopped pretending that entertainment was more important than the profound human moment they were all witnessing. And in stopping everything, he honored not just Patricia, but every family member who has ever heard that question from someone they love.

 Every son or daughter who has looked into their parents’ eyes and seen no recognition there. Every spouse who has become a stranger to their partner of 50 years. The episode ends with a simple message on screen in memory of Patricia Morrison. And for the millions of families fighting Alzheimer’s disease, your loved ones may forget you, but they can never stop being loved by you.

 Below that, information about the Alzheimer’s Association and ways to support research, caregivers, and families, because that’s ultimately what Patricia Morrison’s 15 minutes of clarity did. It raised awareness. It started conversations. It made people pay attention to a disease that affects millions.

 but often remains invisible until it touches your own family. And it reminded everyone watching that game shows, television, entertainment at its best, isn’t just about laughs or prizes or viral moments. It’s about connection. It’s about seeing ourselves and others. It’s about bearing witness to the full spectrum of human experience.

 From joy to heartbreak, from clarity to confusion, from remembering to forgetting. Patricia Morrison played Family Feud for 15 minutes. She won $20,000 for her family. She got to meet Steve Harvey, the man whose voice had somehow become the key that unlocked her imprisoned mind for brief moments. She got to be herself one last time. And then she forgot.

 She forgot the game, forgot the studio, forgot Steve Harvey, forgot her own son. But the world won’t forget her. Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is show your vulnerability, your struggle, your pain to others and hope that in your darkest moment, someone watching will find light.

 Patricia Morrison’s last game was more than just a game. It was a gift to her son to other families fighting Alzheimer’s. To anyone who has ever loved someone and had to slowly, agonizingly watch them slip away, it was a reminder that even when someone forgets you, the love remains. Even when they don’t know your name, you know theirs.

 Even when they’re lost, you keep holding on because that’s what love is. Not just the easy parts. Not just the moments of clarity and connection and joy, but the hard parts, too. The moments when the person you love looks at you like a stranger. When they ask who you are, when the disease takes them somewhere you can’t follow.

Love is holding on anyway. Love is cherishing the 15 minutes of clarity, even knowing the darkness is coming back. Love is playing a game show with your mother, giving her one last moment of happiness, one last moment of being herself, even if she won’t remember it tomorrow. Michael Morrison loved his mother enough to give her that gift.

Steve Harvey loved his audience enough to show them that truth. And Patricia Morrison, in her 15 minutes of clarity, loved the world enough to let us all witness her light, even as it was flickering out. That’s the real story of Mom’s last game.

 Not about winning or losing, not about money or prizes or television ratings, but about love, about memory, about the precious, fragile, irreplaceable moments that make us human, and about holding on to those moments with everything we have for as long as we possibly can before they slip away into the darkness that Alzheimer’s brings. Because in the end, that’s all we have, moments.

 Some last a lifetime and some, like Patricia Morrison’s final moment of clarity, last just 15 minutes.