The Currency of M&M's

This blog was created to show the personal side of Alzheimer's through our family's experiences. Now, we are continuing to reach new audiences and promote research as a participant in The Disabled Shop's Alzheimer's Blog Competition. All proceeds go toward research, so please do not hesitate to donate or write an entry of your own (or both). Visit http://www.thedisabledshop.com/Blog/alzheimers-blogging-competition/ .  The more publicity the disease gets, (hopefully) the faster it can be cured.

Though these are re-posts, hopefully they will inspire people to write about the disease, or at least start new conversations about the impacts of Alzheimer's:

The Currency of M&M's

My mother has always enjoyed M&M’s, but over the last two years, this candy has almost become an obsession. Every time we go to the grocery store, she wants to buy a big bag, not only because she likes them so much, but also because she doesn’t remember that she might already have some at home. Like a squirrel, she hides them around her room for safe-keeping and then forgets where they went. Some of the most surprising moments are when she emerges with a bag that seems to have appeared from nowhere.
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Over spring break, my youngest sister stays at our parents’ house and begins a week-long routine of watching daytime television shows with our mother. When I visit a few days later, my mother greets me at the door by snatching my computer bag and purse off of my shoulder. Bags confiscated, she marches to the kitchen and drops them on the table.

Before I can remove my coat, she vents, “Do you know what McKenzie did?”

The ire in her voice startles me. She hasn’t spoken with this much emotion for months and never in conjunction with my youngest sister. Her thin lips shrink to one straight line as her hands fasten to her hips.

My eyebrows bend on impulse as I search the vicinity for the person in question.

“Well,” starts my mother, “we were watching, you know, t.v., and she went to her room, and came back with M&M’s.” She shakes her head while the thought processes. “And then she ate them.” The statement lingers in the air between us, and she gazes at me expectantly.

I reply slowly, trying to understand the incident. “She ate them?”

“YES,” she exhales. “I can’t believe it.”

The rest of the story is substituted with silence, so I imagine contraband candy and poisonous chocolate. Realizing that my mother now lacks the vocabulary to describe any of those scenarios, I reexamine what she is saying. The scene finally arranges itself in my mind, and I see the injustice eating away at my mother.

“So, she ate them?”

“Yes.”

“Did she offer you any?”

“NO.” My mother peels her hands from her waist, thrusting her palms skyward. “I can’t believe that!” 

Fashion

My mother gets help picking out her clothes each day, mostly from her husband and daughters who don’t like seeing her put on shirts she pulls from the clothes hamper or dirty jeans she “put away” under the bed. 

As the summer heat and humidity intensifies, so, too, do her complaints of being too hot.  Finally, on a day when the heat index is high and the air is drink-ably humid, my father decides that he will help my mother find something cool and comfortable to wear. They retreat into their room; a while later my mother emerges wearing a bright yellow Tweety t-shirt, khaki capris, her huge, Velcro shoes, and tan cotton socks that reach halfway up her shins.

“What did you do?!” The words barely make it out before the shock of the sight chokes me.   The remark is intended for my father, who had the most influence on the chosen apparel.

My mother just looks at me and blinks, her indifference belying another aspect of her diminishing personality.

“What?” my father counters from behind her.

“You’re just staying around the house, right? She’s not going out in that.” These are not questions so much as pleadings.

“I thought we would go to the store,” he says. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
 
My eyes are set to roll before I realize that he is being sincere. I quickly check over his own attire: red t-shirt, cargo shorts that end below the knee, white tube socks, and white tennis shoes.

I am at a loss for words while trying to think of a practical way of explaining what is wrong with my mother’s outfit. 

“Tall socks completely cancel out the whole point of wearing capris,” I begin. “And those shoes…,” my eyes are drawn to them by some evil magnetic force. The sight causes my stomach to churn, but I just can’t look away. I want to shout those shoes should never be in full view of anyone, cover them with pant cuffs for heaven’s sake!

Hoping to sound tactful, I explain, “Those shoes shouldn’t be worn with short pants. Mom should wear sandals or slides so she doesn’t have to worry about socks.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know this stuff?” my father asks, irritated that he now has to deal with these mysterious fashion guidelines on top of everything else.

Support

“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.

Laughing at Old Jokes

One of my mother’s favorite movies is (and has been for as long as I can remember) Animal House.   Over the past year, my mother and I have watched this movie at least once every few weeks. Usually, I play it while we make lunch. As the chords to the opening credits play, my mother snickers, “this movie,” and automatically sits down at the kitchen table to watch.

“If you want, we can watch something else,” she says almost immediately, feeling a pang of guilt about her new-found pleasure. The attention her eyes give the screen and the permanent smile on her face tell me that any thoughts of turning the movie off would be an injustice on the same level of kicking puppies for sport.

The characters’ antics capture her attention so entirely that sometimes watching her is more entertaining than the film. For most of the picture, she sits on the edge of her seat, elbows leaning forward on the table while her feet stay tucked under the chair. She chuckles at the golf balls landing in soup and causing chaos on the practice field. John Belushi’s incredulous, “They took the bar,” provokes louder expressions of mirth. During the raid on Dean Wormer’s office, my mother finally sits back in her chair and laughs so hard that the only noises she makes are frequent gasps for air.

When my father stops by on his break, he makes his usual comment about us watching the movie again. To this remark, my mother shrugs and replies innocently, “It’s just on TV.”

Though she has seen this movie more times than she can count, Alzheimer’s has erased many of the details from her memory. Thus, each viewing is as funny as the first time, and her enduring enjoyment makes it the silver lining of this very dark cloud of a disease.