The irony isn’t lost on me when I struggle to recall a word while teaching English to my Japanese student, only for him to produce it effortlessly. Or when my 6-year-old finishes my sentences with more clarity than I can muster. As I approach 50, I find myself looking up “menopause symptoms” online, relieved to see memory lapses are listed. But it’s only a temporary comfort; the shadow of Alzheimer’s disease looms ominously.
My mother is battling dementia, likely a result of Alzheimer’s, and so are all of us who care for her. The vibrant matriarch we once knew is disappearing, replaced by a frail and confused woman who constantly repeats herself and suffers from anxiety attacks that fade only for a moment. Specific words are often replaced with vague terms; cream cheese becomes “that white stuff,” a colander transforms into “the thing with holes,” and the symbol of her enduring faith is referred to simply as “the T-shaped thing.”
Her sense of time is warped. Events from a few months ago feel like they happened decades earlier. She can recall some family members, but not consistently, leading to uncertainty about whether she has forgotten just their names or the memories attached to them as well.
As my mother’s decline became evident, I was flooded with memories of my earlier years. My grandmother had moved in with us after it was deemed unsafe for her to remain in her apartment. Back then, I didn’t grasp the profound sadness of losing one’s mental faculties. To my 13-year-old self, it was amusing that Grandma would repeat the same odd questions endlessly (no, I didn’t find a boyfriend in the last five minutes) without realizing it.
I remember my father, a man of few words, approaching me before Grandma arrived. “She forgets things,” he said earnestly, “and I don’t want anyone to make fun of her.” I hung onto those words tightly. He must have truly loved her for him to speak so openly. In that moment, I saw him as more than just my father; he was a real, vulnerable person, and my affection for him deepened.
From my perspective, having Grandma live with us seemed fine. She was physically well, offered humor, and didn’t disrupt our routine. But then came an unforgettable night when she took a wrong turn in the dark and tumbled down the stairs, breaking her hip. That marked the beginning of the end for her time with us.
I vividly remember accompanying my father to the hospital, trying to keep up with his long strides. After a long workday, he would visit his ailing mother. As she recuperated, she pleaded to go home, assuring him, “I promise I’ll be good!” It was heartbreaking to watch him gently explain her situation time and again, his frustration evident as he pulled at his hair when she lashed out at the nursing staff, yet he remained compassionate.
Taking inspiration from my dad, I decided to visit Grandma alone one day after school. The hospital was within walking distance, but it felt like a leap out of my comfort zone. I sat with her and attempted to engage in conversation. When a nurse asked, “Who do you have visiting you today, Gertrude?” Grandma looked confused and replied she didn’t recognize me. Deflated, I trudged home feeling less confident than I had on my way there.
Now, as I find myself in my father’s shoes, I witness the heartbreaking changes in my beloved mother. I understand the pain of watching her fade away, just as he did with his mother. My father may not have been a “hands-on dad,” but he imparted important lessons about kindness to those who were once our pillars of strength.
As it turns out, dementia runs in my family, affecting both my mother and grandmother. It’s not unreasonable to worry about my own future, especially when I struggle to find the right word or forget why I entered a room.
Once it became clear that my mother could no longer live independently, my siblings and I had to discuss her care together. In every conversation, I couldn’t help but replace “Mom” with my own name. Will my fate mirror hers? I can’t help but wonder how my four children will handle similar discussions about me. Who will shy away from the reality of my decline? Who may want to help but find it difficult? Would any of them be open to having me move in with them?
Sometimes, my mom calls me, needing reassurance that I am well and that my husband and children are okay. Although she can’t remember their names or ages, she knows they are family. In those moments, I catch a glimpse of the woman she once was, which gives me hope that my own children will always be able to find me, even if I lose my way.
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In summary, the experience of watching a loved one succumb to Alzheimer’s is profound and heartbreaking. It serves as a touching reminder of the importance of kindness and compassion as we navigate the inevitable changes life brings.