There’s a painful irony that strikes me when my student from Japan effortlessly retrieves a word that eludes me as I teach him English. Similarly, I’m often amazed when my 6-year-old finishes my sentences with more clarity than I can muster. As I near 50, I find myself searching for “menopause symptoms” online, feeling a momentary relief that memory issues are included. However, lurking beneath that relief is a deep-seated fear of Alzheimer’s disease.
My mother is currently grappling with dementia, likely due to Alzheimer’s, and it’s a struggle that impacts all of us who care for her. The vibrant matriarch we once knew is swiftly fading, replaced by a frail, confused woman who constantly repeats herself. Her moments of panic are fleetingly soothed by explanations she can’t retain, leading her to refer to cream cheese as “that white stuff” and a colander as “the thing with holes.” Even her lifelong symbol of faith has been reduced to “the T-shaped thing.”
Her grasp on time is warped; events from just months ago feel like distant memories. She can recognize some family members, but even that recognition is inconsistent. It’s unclear whether she has forgotten a name or the entire essence of the person behind it.
As I witness my mother’s decline, I’m reminded of my own childhood. My grandmother had come to live with us after it was deemed unsafe for her to stay in her small Midwest apartment. At that age, I didn’t fully comprehend the gravity of losing one’s mental faculties. To my 13-year-old self, it was amusing how Grandma would repeat the same silly questions or statements (like asking if I had a boyfriend just minutes apart). Since I hadn’t known her before, I didn’t see her decline.
I vividly recall my father, a man of few words, preparing me for Grandma’s arrival. He said, “She forgets things, and I don’t want anyone to make fun of her.” Those words carried weight, especially since they were among the few he ever shared with me. In that moment, I saw my father as a real person, and my love for him deepened beyond mere obligation.
Living with Grandma was manageable; she was physically fine and often humorous. But everything changed one night when she took a wrong turn in the dark hallway and fell down the stairs, breaking her hip. That incident marked the beginning of her decline in our family.
I remember visiting her in the hospital with my father, who would come home from work only to tend to his ailing mother, listening to her plead to go home with a promise to “be good.” It was heartbreaking to see him gently explain her situation repeatedly while holding back his frustration. He endured her insults toward the nursing staff with unwavering tenderness.
Taking a cue from my father, I decided to visit Grandma alone one day after school. Although it was a short walk, it felt monumental for me. I attempted to engage her in conversation, but when a nurse asked, “Who’s visiting you today, Gertrude?” she replied that she didn’t know me at all. Disheartened, I trudged home feeling defeated.
Now, I find myself in my father’s shoes, witnessing my beloved mother’s transformation. The slow loss of her essence is agonizing, just as it was for him with his mother. It’s crucial to show kindness to those who were once our pillars of strength, now rendered vulnerable. My father, though not overly involved, instilled that lesson in me.
It appears that this cruel illness runs in my family, as I’ve seen it affect both my mother and grandmother. It’s not unreasonable to worry about my own future, especially when I struggle to find the right words or remember why I walked into a room.
When it became clear that my mother could no longer live independently, my siblings and I had to come together to make decisions about her care. Each conversation I participated in made me envision my own name replacing “Mom.” Would my children find themselves discussing my decline one day? Would some shy away from it, while others would want to help but not directly? Would they even consider having me move in with them?
Occasionally, Mom will call, needing reassurance that I’m well and that my family is okay. While she may forget their names or ages, she knows they are her family. She has an instinctual need to check in on her “little chicks,” and in those moments, I see the remnants of the woman I know still exist.
I can only hope that my own children will always be able to find me. For a deeper dive into parenting and family dynamics, check out this insightful post on Modern Family Blog. And if you’re exploring options for family building, be sure to visit Resolve, an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, you might find helpful products at Make a Mom, a reputable retailer for at-home insemination kits.
In summary, the journey of witnessing a loved one descend into dementia is both heart-wrenching and eye-opening. It serves as a reminder to cherish the moments we have, while also preparing for the future that awaits.
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