In the spring of 1994, when my 72 year old feisty, independent and artistic mother, Dorothy, fearful of madness or a brain tumor, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease (AD), she was relieved by the news. I was devastated.

Six months later I moved her closer to me, into an independent- living condominium community for 50+ seniors. Mother wore her house key around her neck and memorized her walking routes.

She participated in exercise, dance and ceramics workshop at the clubhouse. I found a support group for early stage Alzheimer’s sufferers, which Mother attended for two years, until she could no longer construct a coherent sentence.

Annette S. Fox, February 2007

Remembering that Mother was a talented artist, I enrolled her in an adult watercolor painting class. She responded with excitement at first, but the sad truth was she could no longer draw or mix colors. The most heartbreaking moment was seeing the flower still-life she attempted but could not execute. Undaunted, I had Mother volunteer to help other people suffering from Alzheimer’s disease—the only way she would even consider attending a day care group. She encouraged them to sing along with her, to dance and participate in craft projects.Within three weeks, she seamlessly integrated into the group.

Since Mother seemed stable and settled, my thoughts finally turned to me. I found an inspiring support group for caregivers, and I gave myself the gift of Tai-Chi. I even brought my mother to a couple of classes. Although she couldn’t follow direction, the music and gentle body movements seemed to give her pleasure.

To my surprise, I now found myself talking the same way to my mother or to my four-year old. My mother knew she was losing her ability to speak, to write numbers, to write birthday cards to her grandchildren. She constantly practiced her signature in the attempt to retain her identity. Her check book register was a confusion of numbers and misspelled names. I simply took over all fiscal tasks, insensitive to my mother’s bruised self-worth and dignity. When I questioned her about rotting leftovers and a sugar bowl in the refrigerator, she frowned and responded,“I just forgot, that’s all, now leave me alone about that.” I should have recognized her depression earlier. Anti-depressants proved to be enormously beneficial, and temporarily, Aricept seemed to help her cognitive abilities, but nothing arrested the slow downward spiral in her brain. Mother began to confuse fork for knife, salt for sugar, refrigerator for sink. She burned plastic containers of food on the stove; she did not recognize her shoes. She became frighteningly paranoid, accusing people around her of stealing her mislaid money, keys, jewelry or hairbrush.

The dreaded day arrived when my mother became my child. My clumsy acceptance was laden with great sadness, a sense of defeat and anger at no longer having a mother to mother me. And what of the sense of humiliation my mother must have felt being treated as a child by her child. When I changed her adult diaper, her face collapsed into tears, and she cried, “Hurry up and get me out of here!” My mother’s stalwart independence, her sense of dignity and privacy were forever compromised. I needed professional help. Within two years Mother needed to move again, into an assisted living facility. Three relatively happy months later, she suffered a major stroke. After rehabilitation, Mother quickly deteriorated to a point where she needed twenty-four hour skilled nursing care. We were out of money.

When my mother entered the nursing home, she still spoke a few recognizable words and could still walk. She still enjoyed a good joke told in her presence, outside excursions to the riverside park and holiday meals with family members.

Seven years later, however, no longer ambulatory or able to feed, bathe, dress or speak, she is connected to the world with only her five senses. She still enjoys eating and loves listening to the opera. There is nothing wrong with her hearing and she knows who is treating her well or not, although she no longer recognizes family members. My visits are one-sided conversations enlivened with old tunes from our past. There is only the precious and fragile present, time for only loving kindness and total acceptance.

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