The Wedding Almost Everyone Forgot

After Alzheimer’s Kept His Mother from the Big Day,
One Son Re-created the Ceremony Inside Her Memory Care Home
and Found Unexpected Grace

By Barry Maher | February 26, 2026

From left: Rosie; Jeanne Maher, Barry’s mother; and Barry Maher | Credit: Courtesy

The first time Rosie and I got married, things just seemed to fall into place. Our guests all loved the ceremony. Even my dumb jokes. Though disconcertingly, the biggest laugh of the day was for the old standard, “The Three Rings of Marriage: the engagement ring, the wedding ring, and the suffering.” The food was even more delicious than it had been when we’d sampled it. The band was extraordinary. The bride was gorgeous; I’m sure the contrast with the groom helped.

In a wonderful surprise, none of my relatives ended up throwing things — or each other — at each other. And not a single guest got tanked and became obnoxious. It was hardly like a wedding at all. To this day, people often mention how much they enjoyed it.

Unfortunately, my mother missed it. She hadn’t forgotten, though she probably would have if we’d told her about it. She had Alzheimer’s — what they call happy Alzheimer’s. The woman who’d lost two babies at birth and who’d almost died several times now believed she’d led a charmed life. “Never even had a headache,” she’d say.

My siblings and I had gone through hell finding care for her, hassling over what was best. Flying in from different parts of the country, we checked out more than 40 different Boston-area memory care facilities. It didn’t help that, over the years, my mother had repeatedly insisted, “If you ever put me in one of those places, I’ll slit my throat.”

Fortunately, we settled on White Oak Cottages. Literally two cottages, 12 residents in each. A family-style home. With family-style meals. And a few family-style squabbles. Forgetting yesterday’s sins has its benefits.

To my shock, my mother took to it immediately, forgetting — among many other things — to slit her throat. Within days, she and several others believed they’d known each other their whole lives. She participated in the activities, read the same Grisham novel until it fell apart, and — as long as no one sat in her favorite chair — she was content.

So, shortly after the wedding, I called White Oak and asked the director if we could hold a mock wedding ceremony there. They not only approved but made it an event. When Rosie and I arrived, the enclosed backyard was set up with chairs, flowers, and decorations. They even supplied a cake and refreshments, and the patients, staff, and my local siblings were all guests.

I brought in a friend I’d known since junior high to perform the same ceremony we’d had in California, though he cut my jokes. Maybe he wasn’t confident he could deliver them. Or maybe they weren’t nearly as hilarious without the benefit of alcohol. (I’ve been trying to work out a way to serve drinks with this writing, but so far, the editors have resisted.)

The wedding felt every bit as genuine as the first. One of the guests took my hand emotionally and announced to everyone that Raphael had always been her favorite nephew. In spite of everything. Raphael was, apparently, me. Memory might not have been her strong suit, but at least for a few minutes that afternoon, it didn’t matter. Most of our guests assumed they knew us, which made perfect sense. Why would they be watching two strangers get married? Everyone seemed to have a great time, especially the groom and his mother.

The staff was thrilled. And I couldn’t have been more grateful. The woman I love and I committed to each other once again. Fortunately, she hadn’t changed her mind. And I got to dance with my mother at my wedding.

Sometimes, your jokes fall flat. Sometimes, you miss your connecting flight. Sometimes, someone you love gets Alzheimer’s. And sometimes, life is an incalculable gift.

Barry Maher’s dark humor supernatural thriller, The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon, has just been released. Contact him and/or sign up for his newsletter at barrymaher.com.
©Copyright 2026, Creators Syndicate.