I’ve been living on memories lately. Looking for her in stories from the past. Used to be I’d call her every Friday. Oh, how I looked forward to those calls. We’d talk about so many things. We’d talk about family and current events and she’d tell me stories about her past. I’d heard them all before but I never tired of hearing them again. They were rich with the experiences and vitality that comes from a life well lived.
Today is different. The depth has gone out of her conversations along with her memories. When did this begin? I used to laugh when she said she was having a difficult time calling me on the telephone. She’d say that “a man keeps answering”. I would confuse this with my answering machine and just encourage her to take her time dialing. Or she’d actually get through and when it came time to leave a message, all I’d hear is “Hello” “Hello” “Oh, I hate these machines” and then a loud hang up…She was definitely one to hang up if she was frustrated.
Today she’ll ask me several times where my children are…she seems to remember their names but not that they are 37 and 33 years old. When I remind her that my son (her grandson) has 2 children of his own she acts as if she remembers that but in the next breath she’ll ask me something related to his day care provider.
She asks the same questions minutes apart and she asks for people who have died a long time ago, my sister (her first child) who died in 2003. Her brother (my favorite uncle) died many years before that. When I tell her that they have passed, she says “Oh”, with a sad voice and shakes her head. Then she asks me the same questions 10 minutes later. She gets dressed and says that she’s going home. I remind her that she is home. She gets angry because “we” sold the house and didn’t tell her we were doing that. She’s angry about the way it was done. No amount of telling her that she sold the home herself will console her. She’ll never trust us again. She gets angry because we treat her like a child. It’s our fault that she has to have 24/7 aides staying with her. She hates that…she is not a baby. I remind her that she wandered from a hospital and that’s why she has to have 24/7 care. She tells me that she did not wander, she just left. I tell her again (how many times we’ve gone over this I’ve lost count) that you cannot leave a hospital without signing out; that you cannot put your clothes on and leave by a back entrance. She does not remember that.
I wonder what she’s thinking sometimes. She was just sitting in her chair one evening looking down at her feet. She was moving them around. I asked her “What are you doing, Mom?” “Dancing my feet”, she said.
Sometimes she can ask great questions. Like the time she was sitting very quietly and all of a sudden asked me “What place would you like to visit that you’ve never visited before?” “Alaska”, I answered with excitement in my voice. Maybe we could have a short conversation before she slipped away again. A window of opportunity. “Where would you like to visit that you’ve never visited before, Mom?” “South Carolina”, she answered. She was born in Yamesee, South Carolina and lived there until she was 8 or 9 years old. Window closed.
When she gets mean and cantankerous, I remind myself that it is the disease talking, not my mother. My mother has always been fiercely independent, but never mean. She is under the spell of this awful disease called Alzheimer’s.
Alzheimer’s is a dreadful disease. I don’t know who it’s more difficult for, the patient or the family. The family I think.
Sometimes I get really frightened and wonder if I will end up with Alzheimer’s like my mom and her brother before her. The fear stops just short of engulfing me, I get up and get busy. Reading a book, doing a puzzle, doing yoga—anything is better than just sitting there.
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