The Quiet Beginning

On August 21, 2003 my mother and father celebrated their 66^th wedding anniversary. Dad died five days later. Since they were inseparable for all of those years, everyone who knew them expected a sad existence for whichever one survived the other. Mom surprised us all by doing well on her own. She wasn’t mad at God or anyone else for taking away her friend and the love of her life. They were as romantic as newly-weds to the end. Her great memories of a good life on their northwestern Ohio farm sustained her through her lonely days and nights. A big smile greeted her children, grandchildren, friends and neighbors when they came to visit. Never once did I hear a hint of self-pity. Her red hair had long since faded to grey but the spirit of her Irish heritage was still there. Few women that have ever walked this earth have experienced such a great life and marriage. Then, a quiet, unwelcome visitor came to the white farm house on County Road N30.

At first, we attributed it to the natural progression of age. Her 87 years of life were catching up with her. After all, we all forget things once in a while, don’t we? Where did I put my car keys? What day is it? How many times have you had to buy belated birthday cards? But with her, we began to notice that her short-term memory was fading slowly, but steadily. Sometime during the winter of 2004 my brother and I began to discuss this as a serious problem.

Since our younger brother died in a motorcycle accident as a young man, we are the only two left, and we don’t live next door. He lives in Kentucky, about 4 ½ hours south of the farm, and I live in Michigan, about the same distance north. The responsibility of watching out for the wonderful mom who gave us birth slammed us in the face and in our hearts. We agreed to visit her and help take care of things on a regular schedule. One of us would be there every two weeks. It’s sort of a “Mondays with Mom” deal. With this schedule, my brother and I don’t get to see each other, but we compare notes and keep up to date by telephone.

Last spring we began to notice a more rapid decline of her short-term memory as well as her neglect of chores that before were part of her daily routine. We were not experts in diagnosing this condition—far from it. We were learning as we went. Finally, we decided that we needed some outside help, so on one of his visits, he made a doctor’s appointment for her. After examining her and giving her some tests, the doctor gave them the news, and it wasn’t good news. He said she had the beginning of Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t know what it means to have the “beginning” of the disease—it seems to me either you have it or you don’t. But anyway, that is how he put it. Mom’s response was, “I don’t like that word.” Her denial started there and continues to this day. I suppose I would do the same.

The doctor frankly told her that the time would come when she wouldn’t even recognize her own sons. She didn’t like that either. I don’t know if it was wise for him to say that, but this doctor has always been blunt with my parents—for which they were grateful most of the time. He also said there was a new medication that may help slow down the progression. He gave her a prescription which my brother filled that day.

We also began to suspect that she wasn’t taking her other medications properly, and with a little investigation, we found that she had been doubling up on them. She would forget that she had taken them in the morning, and later that day, she would take them again. Of course this wasn’t helping her general health conditions. We decided that we needed help with this, so we contacted the county health department. They sent out a county health nurse, who now comes on a regular basis, every two weeks, when we are there. The nurse checks her general condition and sets up her medications for the next two weeks.

The nurse created a method to help her take her medications regularly. She put a calendar on the kitchen counter and her pill box on top of it. Each morning she is to take her pills, put an X through that day, and leave the lid open so she can see that she took them. It’s kind of sad to see mom have to go through such a child-like routine to take care of simply taking her daily medication. It seems like just yesterday that she knew what my brother and I were going to do even before we thought about doing it! The county health nurse’s visits are very helpful and they reassure my brother and me that we are taking at least some of the right steps into this journey into the shadows of mom’s life.

There is no lack of advise from other people, both professional and family suggest what we should do in the future, but the bottom line is that this is a responsibility that falls on my brother and me—and we are amateurs.

Mom will never read this journal, and she shouldn’t. Even though she is outwardly in denial, I am sure she thinks about her diagnosis when she lays her head on the single pillow on her bed. Dad isn’t there to discuss it with her and my brother and I cannot have that level of conversation with her. That’s just the way it is and no one can change it. I am not quite sure why I am writing this. I say that it is so mom’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren can know what is going on with her, but I suppose that I am writing it more for me.