September 9, 2010
I lost my mom to Alzheimer's.
That sounds melodramatic, since as I type this, she is
sleeping peacefully in a recliner not ten feet from me, occasionally stirring
and muttering some gibberish. She lives still, eating her breakfast,
sleeping in her chair, walking with slow, shuffling steps. But most of
what made her who she was is gone now.
I've heard Alzheimer's disease referred to as "The Long
Goodbye." I don't think this is true. There are no final goodbyes
with Alzheimer's. When the disease is first diagnosed, saying goodbye
seems ridiculous. After all, she's still there, right in front of me,
almost the same as she always was. Perhaps she can't find her way home
from Bible Study any more, or repeatedly lays the plates on the table no matter
how many times you remind her that we are not ready to do that, but she's still
Mom. She adds to conversations and plays cards and swims with her
grandkids. Why would I say goodbye
forever to someone whom I will see the next day, and the next week, and the
week after that?
As the disease progresses and she needs to be reminded of
her grandchildren's names and starts believing that there are several men (all
of them named Larry, like my father) living at her house, she remains
interested in the lives of friends and family. Yet as I
patiently explain to her (for the fourth time in an hour) that she can't go see
her granddaughter's play tonight because it won't open for another two weeks,
and even though she pouts like a small child over this, goodbye still seems
very far away.
And even as she forgets the names of her sons
and daughter,
her face still lights up when I greet her as I come through the front
door,
so that for a moment I can pretend that she is whole and well. "Well hello!" she cries, her eyes brightening
with the joy that comes from seeing someone dearly loved. The moment passes quickly as confusion clouds
her eyes. Sentences are left
half-finished, the thoughts behind them abandon her like a mischievous ghost.
Leaving the house is hard.
She doesn't want me to go.
"When will you come back?" she asks, almost in
tears.
"Soon," I say.
"When's that?" she asks.
"A couple days," I reply.
"A couple days," she repeats, holding her fingers
to her mouth, intertwined, prayer-like.
"A couple days," she says again. "OK."
Perhaps this is the time for a last goodbye, but goodbye's
are hard enough as they are.
I see her several times a week now. There are no more gasps of delight as I walk
through the door. No more spark in the
eyes. A few months ago, on good days,
she would sometimes ask, puzzlement creasing her brow "Who are
you?" She doesn't even ask
anymore. And when I leave, after giving
her a hug and a kiss on the head, she might simply say "Thank you,"
but more often than not she just gives me a bemused look. She doesn't say goodbye.
The opportunity for goodbye has long passed, evaporating
before our eyes, without us even realizing that it, like my Mom, was fading
away.Author's note: Thank you for reading to the end of this post. Mom is still with us. I wrote this three years ago and finally worked up the courage to share it.
Thank you for posting this, Kevin. I can only imagine just how hard it was to finally click the button that would lay such private thoughts out for the world to read.
ReplyDeleteA few years back, I'd lost my grandfather the same way. My grandparents were in a car accident that took my grandma's life and what seemed like the last of my grandpa's cohesive thoughts. When we flew to Michigan for the funeral, we also visited Grandpa in the hospital.
It was hard, seeing him lie there in the bed, banged up and with a broken leg, but otherwise in good physical health, but unable to hold a conversation with him. I could see the pain on the faces of my dad and uncle when Grandpa came around enough to greet them with a simple "hello," the same as he would one of the nurses that came into the room. If asked a question that he couldn't answer, he'd assure us that "Mother will be back in a minute, she just stepped into the other room." (He always called Granny "Mother.")
I didn't know what to do, what to say. I knew that he'd have no idea who I was, so I just kept to the side, out of the way as much as I could in that little hospital room and let my dad and his brother have as much time wit their father as they could. When we left, I kissed his forehead, said goodbye, and told him that I loved him.
The family went back to the hospital to visit Grandpa almost every day, other than the day of the funeral, but I never went back. I couldn't. I felt like a horrible person for it; selfish. I didn't want to remember my grandfather that way, and I knew that that was the last time that I'd ever be able to see him, so I said my goodbye.
Sorry for the long comment, the blog post that I've tacked on to the end of your moving post. I've never confessed these thoughts or feelings to anyone, not even myself, to be truthful. I've held this back for more than a decade.
I'm amazed at your strength in writing this as you were experiencing it, and openly sharing it while still struggling with the hurt. Once again, you inspire us Kevin.
Thank you Rob. I'm sorry about your Grandpa. You're not a selfish person. Whatever choices you made about him were motivated by love. Thanks for the honesty.
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