LIFE ME, MOM AND ALZHEIMER’S

WRITER: PAT JOCELYN

Iknew something was different.

Mom’s personality was slowly changing. She was becoming increasingly cynical and paranoid. She felt everyone was “out to get her.” No one was to be trusted and that often included her children. She became disruptive, rude and, sometimes, verbally abusive. She seemed to experience little joy or happiness. She neglected her personal hygiene and housekeeping chores were going undone. Bills were paid late or not at all.

I didn’t understand or like the new person my mom was becoming. She was a far cry from the woman who once made all my hurts go away.

After numerous doctor visits, a diagnosis — incorrect, as it turned out — of clinical depression, failed attempts at therapy and a variety of medications that didn’t work, I was at wit’s end.

I loved my mom, but I didn’t love how she acted. I found it increasingly difficult to maintain a loving relationship with her. How could such a strong and vibrant woman just fall victim to depression, without a fight? Little did I know she was secretly fighting a battle against a more formidable opponent.

Mom’s doctor finally recommended we have her evaluated at a memory disorder clinic. Mom was diagnosed with probable Alzheimer’s disease. Now I could blame her actions on something. It was the disease, not my mom, talking when she said, “You don’t love me anymore.” It was the disease, not my mom, responsible for the abusive behavior. It was the disease, not my mom, to be blamed for latenight phone calls and accusations of attempts on her life.

We needed help and we needed it fast. A friend recommended a class sponsored by the Alzheimer’s Association. That class taught me how to improve and alter my communication skills so I could more readily deal with mom’s Alzheimer’s symptoms. I was better able to understand her behavior, learn how to seek out the causes and eliminate them, when possible. It taught me the kind of symptoms to expect as the disease progressed. I was given a list of resources that would help our family cope. That class allowed me to take back some of the control I felt this hideous disease had taken away.

The times I spent with my mom tugged at my heart and were often bittersweet. I remember during one visit, as I read from a book, Mom had dozed off. A few minutes later she woke with a start, and I could see the sheer terror in her eyes as she said, “I don’t know where I’m supposed to be.”

I put the book down, took her hands in mine and placed them over my heart.

“Right here, Mom. You’re supposed to be right here in my heart.”

I’m sure she didn’t totally understand my words. But I’m convinced she took some comfort from hearing my voice.

The disease continued to attack with a vengeance, but thankfully Mom was no longer aware of the changes taking place. I witnessed my mom evolve from a fiercely independent woman to a shell of the person she used to be. I saw

Alzheimer’s steal the memories that gave her the ability to walk and chew food, understand a punch line in a funny joke and control her bowels and bladder. Eventually I saw AD steal her ability to breathe.

Even though AD took so much, it also gave my mom and me some very precious moments in time that, God willing, I’ll never forget. There was something else that was given to me. It was the gift of savoring each moment as I experienced it and savoring and reliving the prized memories that decades of living had produced. Thank you, Mom.