The irony strikes me when my Japanese student effortlessly retrieves a word I struggle to recall while teaching him English. Similarly, my 6-year-old often completes my sentences more eloquently than I can manage. Approaching 50, I find myself searching online for “menopause symptoms” and feel a fleeting relief when I see memory issues listed. Yet, the lurking fear of Alzheimer’s disease remains an ever-present shadow.
My mother is battling dementia, likely stemming from Alzheimer’s, and it is a struggle shared by all of us who care for her. The vibrant matriarch we once cherished is rapidly fading, replaced by a fragile, confused version of herself. She repeats phrases endlessly and experiences anxiety attacks that are only temporarily soothed by familiar reassurances that she forgets moments later. Specific words have been replaced by vague descriptions; cream cheese is now simply “white stuff,” and a colander becomes “the thing with holes.” Even the symbol of her lifelong faith has been reduced to “the T-shaped thing.”
Her perception of time is warped. Events that occurred mere months ago seem to belong to another era. While she can recall some family members, her memories are inconsistent, leaving us uncertain whether she has forgotten just their names or the essence of who they are.
As my mother’s condition deteriorated, I began to recall my own junior high years. My paternal grandmother had moved in with us after it was deemed unsafe for her to live alone in her Midwest apartment. Back then, I lacked the understanding of how devastating it is for someone to lose their mental faculties. To my 13-year-old self, it was somewhat amusing to witness Grandma’s repeated inappropriate comments and her absurd questions (no, I did not acquire a boyfriend in the five minutes since your last inquiry).
I remember the day when my father, a man of few words, approached me regarding my grandmother’s arrival. “She forgets things,” he cautioned, “and I don’t want anyone to make fun of her.” Considering my father rarely spoke, those words left a lasting impression. It was clear how much he loved his mother, and in that moment, I saw him as a vulnerable person, deepening my affection for him beyond mere obligation.
Initially, having Grandma in our home felt manageable. She was physically fine, often shared amusing anecdotes, and seemed non-disruptive. But then came the night my brother and I still remember as one of the most traumatic experiences of our lives. Grandma took a misstep in the dark hallway and fell down the stairs, breaking her hip. This marked the beginning of the end for her presence in our family.
I vividly recall accompanying my father to the hospital, walking in his shadow as he went to see his ailing mother. After long days at work, he would visit her, and she would plead to return home, promising, “I promise I’ll be good!” It was heart-wrenching to see him gently explain her situation repeatedly. I remember him pulling at his own hair in frustration as she lashed out at the nursing staff, yet he remained tender and patient.
Taking inspiration from my father, I decided to visit my grandmother alone one day after school. It was within walking distance, yet it felt like a significant leap out of my comfort zone. I attempted to engage her in conversation, but when a nurse entered and asked, “Who do you have visiting today, Gertrude?” she replied that she didn’t know me at all. Disheartened, I returned home feeling less accomplished than I had hoped.
Now, those memories resurface as I find myself in my father’s role. I witness the changes in my beloved mother and the painful experience of losing her gradually while she is still physically present—just as my father did with his mother. I understand the importance of showing kindness to those who were once our strongest figures, now reduced to their most vulnerable state. My father’s understated lesson remains imprinted on my spirit.
Dementia seems to run in both sides of my family, as I’ve witnessed with both my mother and my grandmother. It’s not unfounded to fear that I might face a similar fate, especially when I struggle to recall the perfect word, misplace items I thought I had secured, or forget why I entered a room.
When it became clear that my mother could no longer live independently, my siblings and I had to discuss her care. Each time, I couldn’t help but think of my own name in place of “Mom.” Will my experience mirror hers? I ponder which of my four children might shy away from facing my decline, who would want to help but perhaps not directly, and whether any of them would be willing to have me live with them.
Sometimes, my mother calls, needing reassurance that I, my husband, and our children are all right. Although she can’t recall their names or ages, she knows they are her family. There’s a profound need for her to check on her “little chicks,” as she affectionately calls us. In those moments, I am reminded that she is still in there, and I hold onto the hope that my own children will always be able to find me.
Conclusion
In summary, the journey of witnessing a loved one succumb to Alzheimer’s is fraught with emotional challenges and profound reflections on family dynamics. The experience emphasizes the importance of compassion towards those who once held authority in our lives and the inevitable fears that arise when confronting our own mortality.