After dad died, mom (who we called Granny or Gran) retired at 70 from a brilliant career. She maintained a lovely apartment and enjoyed a busy social life. I was Granny's only child (and I had been adopted). We were close, and my husband and children adored her. She lived in Seattle, but we traveled back and forth often and she spent all holidays in our mountain home.
When she was in her late 70s we first noted things going awry. When we visited her, she couldn't manage preparing a simple meal. Items in her refrigerator were in various growing stages – this from a fastidious woman and cook. Her once immaculate surroundings had become abnormally unkempt. Her checkbook was her mortal enemy and she insisted the bank was absconding with her funds.
At 80, although she still played canasta, she complained bitterly when it was her turn to prepare lunch for her card group. The baffling personality changes left us all unable to look beyond the end of our noses. In 1979, we had heard of Alzheimer's disease but had no clue what was happening in those early stages.
Sometime later, my daughter, Molly, and I journeyed to Seattle on the pretext of having Granny spend the holidays in Montana. Gran was shopping, so Bea, her dear friend and neighbor, let us into Gran's apartment and proceeded to relate vivid accounts of the previous weeks. We could barely fathom the shocking and surreal details.
Then Granny walked through the door with fire in her eyes. "Who are you, anyway?" she demanded. I could see tears welling in Mol's eyes, but she quickly retorted, "It's us, Gran, mom and Molly." I tried to kiss her cheek and told her we were going out for dinner. She stomped toward the bedroom. With a loathsome glare, she shoved her purse under the mattress, slammed the bedroom door, and grumbled about us being the last thing she needed. We stood stunned!
That evening Gran reluctantly dressed for dinner. At the dimly lit restaurant, Mol ordered wine. Gran became giddy talking and laughing loudly. People stared and smiled politely, but it felt wonderful seeing her cheerful and affectionate. We had our Gran on a toot and she was having a ball, and that's all that mattered.
The following morning, Gran announced to the neighbors that she was spending her holidays in Montana with her family. I had inquired into the newest assisted living facilities in Seattle. None would accept her and I couldn't imagine committing her to a nursing home. She seemed physically fine, just a little goofy in the head. My husband, Ken, and I agreed we could handle that. I spent the day making arrangements with the movers and the bank, and visiting Gran's large assortment of unnecessary doctors.
The holidays in our home were a much happier and relaxed time for Gran. She adored the kitty and dog, petting them endlessly. I kept a supply of cookies on hand for afternoon coffee and chats that taught me simply to agree with her every word. By now the only thing she clung to was being with people who loved her. Any conversation concerning her past, and who we were, was becoming foreign in her mind.