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Alzheimer’s. It started slowly with my mom, then accelerated at quickening speed like water down a drain. Every month, she was less of who she was. Then every week. And every day. It got to the point where I would visit her in the home, and as I rode the elevator up to her floor, I would emotionally brace myself. Who would she be today? Would I recognize my own mom? Even more, would she recognize me? There were no practical manuals or how-to guides to help me navigate this journey.
And journey is precisely the word for it. As her mind steadily and unrelentingly deconstructed itself, I soon realized the futility of trying to bring her into the present. The riptide was carrying her away, and swimming against it proved fruitless. My pursuit of bringing her back only served to mollify my own selfish needs at the expense of her own frustration. As she became an increasing stranger to me, the wrapper of abject tragedy tore enough to reveal the hidden gift I never expected to find.
My mom was one of the most beautiful and intelligent people I have known. And she proved a match for me, effectively thwarting an impish childhood and redirecting me to respectable manhood. I fully immersed myself in the mischievous arts of childhood. Testing my boundaries was more than an exercise—it was a mission. I was likely an undiagnosed ADD child. My antics had my teachers scurrying to contain me. Damage control was a theme for them, and my younger siblings paid the price when they found themselves dealing with the reputation of our shared surname that I effectively tarnished.
When I broke the rule of not bringing captured snakes into the house, she removed the snake herself. But she did not tell me, letting me think it had escaped.
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But my mom quickly developed a sense of me—to the point where she could predict my disruptions and counter them with effective preventive measures. Whether it was as simple as hiding the Oreo cookies in the kitchen appliance drawer (the back of the top food cabinet shelf in the kitchen was too obvious), or as calculating as planning out activities during normal peak mischief time, she proved an effective block to my darker intents. Even her emotional responses leveled out. When I broke the rule of not bringing captured snakes into the house, she removed the snake herself. But she did not tell me, letting me think it had escaped.
“Are you looking for something?” she asked as I was furiously going through boxes in the closet and peeking under furniture.
“No, no. It’s nothing, mom.” It was only at dinner that she revealed in an Oh by the way moment that she had my kid sister remove my illegal snake and release it back to the wooded fields. My kid sister! This super mom mastered every resource available to her in containing me, even resorting to recruiting unwitting family members. And she found her sanity with me in doing it all with humor.
And here she was, in the Jewish Home that she always joked about being in. Her humor was replaced by anxiety. Her sharpness by confusion. Her youthful looks (she was blessed with never looking her age) were replaced by a suddenly old lady with gray hair in a wheelchair.
Instead of fighting to keep my mother in the present, I found it much easier to walk with her into the past. She could no longer remain in my world. But I could be in hers by making the simple choice to do so.
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One of the hallmarks of Alzheimer’s is that with short-term memory gone, long-term memory rises to the surface, having never been truly forgotten. My mom could not remember what she had for breakfast an hour ago. She couldn’t even remember that she had breakfast. But she remembered every silly stunt I tried to get away with when I was twelve. And then it hit me. My childhood was all about creating the memories that she needed now. Like a reference point, the turmoil and challenge of dealing with me as a young mom became a life preserver she would cling to as an old mom. All the trouble-making of my childhood suddenly had a celestial purpose that only now revealed itself. And its lesson was simple. Instead of fighting to keep my mother in the present, I found it much easier to walk with her into the past. She could no longer remain in my world. But I could be in hers by making the simple choice to do so.
One afternoon, I walked quietly into her room where a nurse was getting ready to leave. My mom was in a sleeping delirium, speaking out and sometimes even reaching into the air with her arms.
As she slept and mumbled, the nurse asked me, “Are you her son?” I told her I was.
“She was just talking about you in her sleep!” When I asked her—with some trepidation—what she said, the nurse replied, “She said, ‘I have a beautiful, beautiful son. He’ll drive you crazy. But he’s beautiful.’” And at that moment, my mom, still sleeping, said my name, smiled, and laughed.
That was my gift. And my childhood was my mother’s gift. As the sun set quickly in those final weeks, I was going to college again. I was in high school once more. I was learning to drive. I was twelve. Ten. Seven. . . .
And then she was gone.
To those on a similar journey with a parent, I’m no expert. I can only share my own experience. But you don’t need to have them remain in the present to still be with them. Walk with them into the past. Hold their hand. And don’t let go—right to the last door.
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Photo credit: Pixabay
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Thank you for writing this. As I go through this journey with my wife, I only hope our son has a few memories like yours.
Beautiful. We always love Mom. And she loves us back, forever.