“Dawn, my memory is shot.” That’s what my then 85-year-old mother first said to me in May of 2012. This was about when she was backing her car into her garage and hit the gas instead of the brakes. The car lurched through the back wall of the garage. She was hospitalized for tests to see if she had had a stroke, and it was determined that she had not. This had been a really hot day and we think she was just momentarily overcome by the heat and she had a moment of disorientation. I did learn at this time that she had a diagnosis of mild cognitive impairment. From this point on, she started telling me that her memory was shot. In December, she had a hallucination and called me in a panic, certain that her beloved, devoted son was on his way over to her house to shoot her. We (My brother Mark included) were able to talk her down but this was a wake-up call for all of us. At this point my mom said to me, “Dawn, I need help.” Bless her heart, this brilliant, fiercely independent woman knew before we did. But once the truth dawned on us, we couldn’t go back to the blissful ignorance of the day before. We forced her to move from the little house she loved to an independent living apartment. We took over management of her life. When she would ask me questions about what was going on, I would explain as best I could, adding that I had her back. That I would do everything in my power to represent her wishes, to take care of her. I think the fact that she accepted this role reversal, I see now, is because she trusted us, and because she did know that she couldn’t do it alone any more. I see now, that she went along with this new program in a fairly agreeable manner, which was very uncharacteristic for the Rosalie we knew. But I see now that she knew what was going on then. It wouldn’t be too long before she wouldn’t know.
So we moved from independent living, to the behavioral changes that go along with progressing Alzheimer’s disease, into a Memory Care unit, through a broken hip, into skilled nursing. My mother, my rock, my champion, is now wheelchair bound, with zero short term memory. Here’s some of what I have learned – I learned not to call her, or take calls from her, between 2 and 6 in the afternoon. I learned not to say, “Mom, are you kidding me?” in disbelief when she asked me the same question over and over within a period of 5 minutes. I learned how to lie. Because when my mother asks me where her sister is, I learned that if you tell her the truth – she passed away 11 years ago – it’s like the death just occurred for her. Better to say she’s coming for a visit tomorrow. My mother will forget the conversation in five minutes, and this way she won’t cry. I learned how crushing it is to lose your best friend without having the chance to say the things you need to say.
One day a few months ago my mom was having a bad day. I walked up to her at Crystal Pines and clearly, she didn’t know who I was. This was the first time that happened (thankfully she recovered her memory of me and it hasn’t happened since). I was so stunned, so blindsided, so overwhelmed with pain that I stood there and started sobbing. One of the amazing social services women took me into her arms. I just said, “I knew this day would come”, slowly regained my composure and started talking to my mother. She said, “Who are you” and I just told her I was a friend. She asked me why I was there with her and I just said I was there to keep her company. We talked a little while, me as a friend, and she said, “I don’t know you, but I think I love you.”
She didn’t recognize me, but she recognized the love.
Update: My beloved mother passed away five days after I wrote this post, on June 16, 2018.
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