Mourning My Mother Living with Alzheimer's

The following is my way of coming to terms with my mother's struggle with Alzheimer's. It isn't necessarily well-written or cohesive, but it feels good to get it out of my body and mind, and I will return to this topic again.

A little more than a week ago, my sister called me and asked me to fly up to Cincinnati. She needed help. My mother, Vera, is living with Alzheimer's and has been at an assisted living facility for more than a year. She had fallen, or, so they said. But did she really? That question has not yet been answered.

Me with, from left, my dear, dear mother-in-law, Eli, Vera, and Gabe.

But we know this. My mom, who we often call Vera as she was known to call her parents Della and Charles in their later years, suffers from Alzheimer's. Her diagnosis was not a surprise. In fact, for 10 years she sat in her burgundy, leather recliner waiting for it. My grandfather had the disease, as did my mother's two sisters. It was inevitable she correctly predicted.

The "fall" led to a four-day stay in the hospital as the social worker tried to find a new place for her. The AL facility kept saying, "We would love to have her back. But she needs to be able to pivot first." In other words, she needed to be able to turn herself around to sit down in a wheelchair. (It took me days to figure out what the hell they meant by the word pivot.) But, they didn't really want her back.

So there was my mother in her hospital bed with white, silky hair trying to hold onto the waves my sister and I envied. The woman who never left the house without makeup and her hair done, now lay in the hospital bed with no makeup, nearly invisible eyebrows, gray lips, and wide eyes.

I watched her from my chair. Her eyes darted around the room. They were filled with fear and were searching for something. A door? A piece of furniture she recognized? Maybe the old version of herself.

As anyone who has watched a family member struggle with Alzheimer's will tell you, it is gut-wrenching and heartbreaking. When a nurse or I asked her a question, she would say a very clear "yes" or "no," Each time, I would sit up straight thinking that maybe this time she would complete the sentence. She would try, but the words came out in a language that reminded me of the busy signal of the telephones of my youth. But this busy signal was on speed, giving off a ratatat sound. I watched her mouth as her teeth beat furiously against her lip. She would continue talking this way for a few seconds before giving up and letting the sound fade off.

I have told myself and others a hundred times that this is not my mother; I have already mourned her, I argue. But that's not true. She is still my mother. My emotions run from a sadness that just sits in my stomach like a boulder to blaming her for her condition. Couldn't she have eaten better? Been more active? Called her doctor 20 years ago and asked what she could do given her family's history. In the moment, blame is a way to make sense of what is happening to her, but, you know what? It doesn't work. Any anger and blame I muster up will not quiet the sadness and deep pain I feel.