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My parents have been attending monthly Alzheimer’s meetings since my mother’s diagnosis two years ago, and they are some of youngest members of their chapter. Recently, a woman (just diagnosed) started attaching herself to my mother at the meetings. This annoys my father to no end.
“She stares and studies her the whole time,” my father vents, annoyed by a new member in their Alzheimer’s chapter who seems to have latched onto my mother. The statement escapes into the shadows of the living room, unsure of its reception. This outburst immediately seizes my attention because my father seldom talks about the meetings. His attitude reflects our family’s general sentiment: the less we talk about the disease, the easier to pretend it isn’t disrupting our lives. I appreciate this new connection but am not sure how to respond.
He checks that my mother is still in the other room trying to change into her pajamas before perching on the couch’s edge.
As the rip of Velcro from my mother’s shoes reverberates down the unlit hallway, he continues, his voice an octave lower, “I know it’s because she is trying to see what things will be like when she gets to that stage.”
My mother’s pajama drawer bumps closed for a third time, prompting my best answer. “I would probably do the same thing in that situation. I would want to see how things are going to turn out.”
Upon finding a sympathetic listener, more words spill out. “She doesn’t realize that it’s completely different for everyone. Who knows what is going to change first and how fast--”
His speech halts as the soft crunch of Velcro teeth latching together is immediately followed by the prolonged cracking of their separation.
“--Your mother can’t relate to any of the women in the group. They all say that it’s unfair because they won’t be able to spend time with their grandchildren any more…Don't they realize she isn’t even going to know her grandchildren--” He hampers the verbal flow as water, pooling in his eyes, shines briefly in the headlights of a passing car.
Silently, we grapple with the disease that will not only end my mother’s life within ten years, but also steal most of her cognitive abilities well before then. We are grieving for a woman that is still alive, and neither of us offer any answers for the future. None of the comforting words I fumble through seem appropriate. I question how helpful the advice of a twenty-six-year-old daughter can be for a man who’s losing his wife.
Mom is Mom; you need to be sure that those meetings are helpful for you. We will deal with this as a family, I want to say, but don’t. We continue to hide our unspoken frustrations and uncertainties as my mother appears in the hall wearing the same blouse, jeans, and shoes she wore the day before.
“She stares and studies her the whole time,” my father vents, annoyed by a new member in their Alzheimer’s chapter who seems to have latched onto my mother. The statement escapes into the shadows of the living room, unsure of its reception. This outburst immediately seizes my attention because my father seldom talks about the meetings. His attitude reflects our family’s general sentiment: the less we talk about the disease, the easier to pretend it isn’t disrupting our lives. I appreciate this new connection but am not sure how to respond.
He checks that my mother is still in the other room trying to change into her pajamas before perching on the couch’s edge.
As the rip of Velcro from my mother’s shoes reverberates down the unlit hallway, he continues, his voice an octave lower, “I know it’s because she is trying to see what things will be like when she gets to that stage.”
My mother’s pajama drawer bumps closed for a third time, prompting my best answer. “I would probably do the same thing in that situation. I would want to see how things are going to turn out.”
Upon finding a sympathetic listener, more words spill out. “She doesn’t realize that it’s completely different for everyone. Who knows what is going to change first and how fast--”
His speech halts as the soft crunch of Velcro teeth latching together is immediately followed by the prolonged cracking of their separation.
“--Your mother can’t relate to any of the women in the group. They all say that it’s unfair because they won’t be able to spend time with their grandchildren any more…Don't they realize she isn’t even going to know her grandchildren--” He hampers the verbal flow as water, pooling in his eyes, shines briefly in the headlights of a passing car.
Silently, we grapple with the disease that will not only end my mother’s life within ten years, but also steal most of her cognitive abilities well before then. We are grieving for a woman that is still alive, and neither of us offer any answers for the future. None of the comforting words I fumble through seem appropriate. I question how helpful the advice of a twenty-six-year-old daughter can be for a man who’s losing his wife.
Mom is Mom; you need to be sure that those meetings are helpful for you. We will deal with this as a family, I want to say, but don’t. We continue to hide our unspoken frustrations and uncertainties as my mother appears in the hall wearing the same blouse, jeans, and shoes she wore the day before.
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