It began innocuously enough—misplacing his car keys, a common occurrence for many. Soon after, he began to forget to take his medication. Cold containers of yogurt and milk were left in the cupboard, abandoned like forgotten memories.
As a new mom, I was juggling the chaos of parenthood and my own scatterbrained moments. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t notice the signs sooner—or maybe I just wasn’t ready to accept the reality.
When my father received his Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I wasn’t shocked. The warning signs had been there, but the news didn’t hit me like a ton of bricks until much later. My sister and I took on the role of caregivers for him, making the daily 20-minute commute with one, then two, babies in tow. We became his lifeline, grocery shopping and preparing meals for him, only to find his food forgotten in the microwave. He would eat continuously, unable to remember if he’d already had a meal, and at times he would forget to take his medication, leading to either over-dosing or skipping doses entirely.
Eventually, it became clear he could no longer live independently; the situation was unsafe, and we knew he required constant care. Reluctantly, we made the difficult decision to place him in a nursing home. I felt that it was the best choice for his safety, yet the emotional toll was immense.
Every visit felt like a gut punch. He was angry, feeling abandoned, and while I understood it was the disease talking, every hurtful word he uttered left me wounded. My once strong, vibrant father was now a frail shadow of his former self. On his better days, his humor and sarcasm would shine through, but he no longer recognized his grandchildren. Sebastian, who refuses to eat new foods, and the twins, who look so much like him, were strangers to him.
My children only know their grandpa as a fragile man who can’t lift them or engage in play. They will never experience his strong embrace or hear him strum the guitar he loved to play. This disease has robbed them of the grandfather I cherished and the memories they could have made with him.
What terrifies me even more is the genetic aspect of Alzheimer’s; my father comes from a long line of individuals who suffered from it. I find myself consumed by fear—what if I am next? There are days when even the simplest things slip my mind. Yes, I’m a mom, and I know forgetfulness often accompanies that role, but I’m talking about more significant, unsettling moments. I struggle to recall names of objects right in front of me, and while I wrestle with my thoughts, the answer eventually comes to me—cup, Dana, it’s a cup.
When I gaze at my children, the thought of losing my memories of them is unbearable—those quirks and habits that make them who they are. Those memories are my lifeline, a refuge from the overwhelming sadness and anxiety that sometimes engulfs me. I dream of growing old with my husband, sharing vacations and cherishing our life together. But what if I forget who he is? The idea of him carrying the burden of my care fills me with dread, even though I know he would never let me feel that way. He would care for me as I do for my dad.
I realize I can’t live in fear of what-ifs. I can’t fret over a future that may never come to pass. But witnessing someone I love deteriorate into a shell of their former self naturally breeds fear of experiencing the same fate.
I can’t halt the progression of Alzheimer’s. There is no cure, and if it comes to me, it comes. During my visits with my dad, I study every wrinkle on his hands, trying to imprint his face in my memory. I do the same with my children, capturing their laughter and little moments when they think I’m not watching. Those memories will sustain me when I need to remind myself of the beauty in my life.
The love shared with someone suffering from Alzheimer’s remains unchanged. My dad knows I love him, and even in his silence, I can feel his love. I make it a priority every day to express my affection to my husband and children, ensuring they never doubt my feelings. If the day comes when I can no longer articulate my love, they will still have my memories and these words: “I love you more than you could ever know. You are my everything, and every moment with you is a blessing.”
For more insights into navigating similar challenges, check out this related blog post on Cervical Insemination. If you’re on a fertility journey, Make A Mom offers excellent at-home insemination syringe kits, while Johns Hopkins Medicine provides valuable resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, witnessing a loved one succumb to Alzheimer’s is a harrowing experience, full of fear and heartache. While I cannot control the future, I can cherish the moments I have now and ensure that love endures, regardless of the toll that time may take.
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