Alzheimer's, Unfolding: An Intricate Dance Between a Mother-Daughter Duo
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Gazing across the pond on a warm and muggy evening just before sunset, my grandmother and I sat hand-in-hand, in silence. The tranquil sound of nature, the buzz of [End Page E3] crickets, and a light breeze blanketed me in warmth. As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, a dragonfly landed on my forearm, and my grandmother gently put her hand on my arm. She peered into my eyes, and during a moment of what seemed like pure lucidity, she said in a serious manner, "Always follow the dragonfly." Before I could respond, she looked away and was lost again to the confusion and ever-familiar state of dementia.
I grew up with a keen awareness of dementia and the Alzheimer disease type in particular. From my earliest memories, I remember stories of my maternal great-grandmother, whom I never had the privilege of meeting, and her "problems of memory" during her last years of life. As my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer disease (AD) the year after I was born, my moments with her were, as a result, ever-changing and increasingly shallow. I frequently compared the stories of my great-grandmother's memory loss to what I had witnessed in my grandmother and, to me, experiencing memory loss in later life was, as far as I knew, normal.
Yet as I grew older and began to understand the gravity of my grandmother's condition, alongside her disease progression and institutionalization, I grieved. I saw my grandmother, an older woman who had a deep belly laugh and a love of decorating her face in makeup, sink further and further into the unknown and into a state where she seemed unaware of everything around her. Unsettled by her long decline, I promised my mother at the young age of thirteen that I would do everything possible to avoid putting her in an institution if her health ever declined in a similar way. A selfless thought—putting my mother's needs first—took priority.
Fast forward eighteen years later to the year 2017, when my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer disease. This condition has now affected three generations of my family: my great-grandmother, grandmother, and now my mother.
The years leading up to my mother's diagnosis of Alzheimer disease
Over the past several years, my mother's cognitive capacity has slowly yet progressively declined. Prior to her diagnosis, early symptoms of cognitive decline were evident for years. She forgot to pay the bills, close the doors to the house or car, turn off the stove after cooking, and go to appointments she had scheduled. She failed to remember details of conversations, was unable to retrace her steps to find recently used items, and frequently put things in odd places (like a bowl of soup in a sock drawer).
In the year prior to her diagnosis, several significant events occurred. My mother was fired from her teaching job after multiple incidents of misplacing things and later blaming others for taking those misplaced items, not showing up to work, and walking out from the middle of lectures she was giving without giving an explanation or returning to class. I also remember vividly checking the mail one summer day, opening an official letter of notice indicating a lien would be placed on our home within 60 days unless action was taken, due to five years of her federal and state taxes not being filed or paid. And her driving went from being unsafe to having multiple at-fault car accidents, one in which her car was totaled, and all eventually leading to her losing her license.
Caring for my mother
Being a caregiver involves a multitude of tasks. Beyond preparing meals, providing transportation, managing financial matters and accounts, promoting social and community engagement, assisting with daily hygiene, searching for things she's misplaced, comforting her at 2 am following a nightmare, the most important part is simply being there. Being with my mother, physically and emotionally, is critical. Physical contact and sitting near to her are comforting. Exchanging stories and engaging in conversation enable her to feel...
