Mom and Alzheimer's

I wrote this blog a couple of years ago, but it is a topic that recently came up again. Here is my experience with Alzheimer's.


What did Santa bring you?

December 26, 2009

I have been somewhat silent these last couple of months, because I cannot write something I don’t feel. However, I have had something going on in my world that has been both enlightening and sobering. It is….watching Mom begin to leave my life.

I knew her mind was gone, at least most of it. She suffers from dementia. Most of the time, she is in a fairyland, with children playing, balloons floating, sand in her pants. Sometimes, like a loose wire, the lights come back on in her brain, and she surfaces back to her 83 years old self, but these events are becoming very rare. These are the moments that give me a short period of time to say thanks.

Mom has always been a stubborn Irish woman. Never was that more clear than an incident that occurred after her husband, my father, left her for another woman. She became the sole parent of 6 children. Dad was busy showing off his new trophy wife to his bar buddies, while Mom struggled to feed her kids on a short order cook salary. She began to get behind. She hated to ask for help, but our needs overcame her pride. She went to the state Welfare department. After a few hours of filling out forms, waiting in lines, and staring at the floor, she finally was granted an interview with a welfare worker. The worker told her that she needed to sell her house, then she would have money for the kids. When this money was gone, she would then qualify for assistance. Mom stood up, and told this woman “F*** You! I have worked my entire life, never asking for help. This is the way I am treated? F*** all of you!” I should mention that Mom was never one for profanity, abhorred it when I used it. This was completely out of character for her, but her anger and frustration had become too much. She began to work a second job, giving her little time for her kids. It did feed them, and kept the heat paid for.

While that was occurring, my brother and I had moved out, so we had no idea what was going on back home. We had our own struggles as boys becoming men, looking at their first experience living on our own, with limited income. When this story got to me, I felt pride. I knew how embarrassed she had to be to ask for help, but her response to being told NO was classic Mom. In the end, she won her battles with tight finances. She never lost the love and respect of her kids. We all knew she wanted to be there, but food for her kids matters more.

Fast forward about 25 years….

I began to work a well-paying job for a large company. I decided to take Mom to a resort for a long weekend, to let her relax. Also along was a brother, a sister and her fiancé, and myself. We went to a classy resort on the shores of Lake Superior, my treat. I think we had been there 5 minutes. I was busy emptying the cooler into the fridge, when my sister came rushing in, frantic. In her hands were Mom’s eyeglasses, mangled and bloody. She wants to call for 911, but there is no telephone in the cabins. They had electric self start fireplaces, and two jacuzzi tubs, but no phones; people come to soak, not chat. I look out the large window to see my brother and my sister’s fiancé doing a fireman carry of Mom, her face bloodied. Apparently, she had slipped on some of those large rocks that lead down to the water’s edge, and did a face plant onto another of the rocks.

My sister rushed to the main office, and an ambulance was summoned from Two Harbors, about 20 miles away. She was taken to the hospital, where she had some stitches. She also had a couple of broken fingers, from clutching her beer as she fell. Old Irish brain glitch. I followed the ambulance to the hospital. After about an hour, she was released, and we started to head back. She was a ghastly sight, her arms bruised, her face still bloody. I offered to take her home, so she could recover. She looked at me like I was crazy, and said ”Are you kidding me?”

We went back, Everyone was happy. We made jokes. I told her we would all go to a legendary nearby pie shop, and make comments to her loudly, such as “You want more of the same? Then you better be paying the tab here also” She proceeded to have a splendid time, despite her obvious pain. I am absolutely thrilled that we had that weekend together.

And now…

Mom has been living in a memory care unit, because the dementia has taken a firm grip on her mind. She had bouts of wandering, and that is a death sentence, particularly in Minnesota during the winter. Recently, she developed pneumonia, and was taken to a nearby hospital. I went to visit her, and she was chipper as usual, wanting to get the heck out of there. I felt good about her prognosis for a speedy recovery.

There was a setback, a large one. She was moved to ICU. When I saw her on my next visit, she was dying.

My family gathered around her bed. She did not know us. She did not know herself. She just looked ready to go to sleep, forever. We were called into a meeting with one of the staff of the ICU med team. We began to discuss the options for reviving her, i.e. CPR, DNR, and other letters that mean saying goodbye to Mom, after 83 years. We knew she did not want to be kept alive by machines. She had always told me “I don’t want to be a bummer to you guys” meaning, let me go when the time comes.

The meeting ended, and we went back to the room, to say goodnight to her. Kisses were given, hands held. Not one to show emotions, I remained stoic, as is my style. We slowly headed out, since we had to let the staff do their jobs. I was doing fine, until I got to my car. There, I wept like a baby.

I went back the next day…..

There she was, sitting up. TV was on. Watching Golf Channel. She knew us. She smiled. A miracle.

I now believe in Santa Claus, because he gave me Mom for Christmas.

February 17, 2010.

A postscript now; Mom passed away this morning. She left behind a family of 6 children, 3 grandchildren, and countless friends. I am both saddened and happy. Her gift to me is my way with words. I will honor her gift until I can no longer write. To those whose lives she touched, be glad you knew her.