We'd Gladly Do it Again

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.

Even though she fussed and worried about her money, we went shopping, to lunch, and the hairdresser weekly. It never failed, she told them she had a lousy family somewhere and these people were so nice! Introducing her to our bank president seemed to allay money worries. Our doctor educated us on her small stroke showers, how to handle them, and encouraged loving care with no confrontations. Oh Lordy, I mused, he obviously knows little about living with Alzheimer's.

While I had a tendency to lose it, Ken, my husband, was a darling with Gran during her hell-roaring years. He fixed her lovely breakfasts while my evening meals were christened with the most uncharacteristic curse words. She minded him and he respected her as the matriarch of our family, even though the matriarch was fast becoming a vegetable. At long last Ken was the "Mr." and I was "That Lady." Relieving pent-up grief for Gran – and for me – I seized solitary breaks by strolling in our woods to sob. My beloved mother didn't know who I was, and never would again.

Every step forward turned into three steps backwards. Ken was finally forced to remove the door to Gran's bathroom, as she would lock herself in. I'll not describe her blasphemy, her hygiene, or her amazing strength with that right hook. Locking her in her room at night became the final infringement on her dignity. Her wanderlust about the house, turning on stove burners and threatening murder, had become a nightly hazard. Even though her doctors were politely supportive, we had nowhere to go and no one to advise us. In those early days, there simply were no experts in the study of this newfangled disease.

The late stages were a whole different ball game. We were dealing with 80 pounds of hellcat whose mind had turned to jelly. She spoke somewhat, she stood and walked with a wobble, and she thrust daggers of hateful expressions. I must have told the grandchildren a thousand times that it wasn't Granny under there. She was divested of her sweet smile and laughter, her memories, her personality, her love of family, and worst of all, her dignity. That seemed no quality of life at all. Today, because the Lord intended it, I remember my mom in her great years.

We would prefer to lay those five years to rest, but occasionally we find ourselves talking about them as our toughest times. They would have indeed been tougher without strong family support. And we have never had one regret and would gladly do it over again.

For information about Alzheimer's disease, see: • Alzheimer's Association • Alzheimer's Disease Education and Referral Center • Société Alzheimer Society Canada

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