Measuring Time (a few thoughts)
As my mother's disease progresses, time becomes an odd concept. She hasn't been able to read a clock or understand numbers on a calendar for several years, and even grasping the concepts of "morning" and "weekend" as something-that-will-happen is tricky.
When I stay the night at my parents' house, my mother hesitates going to bed. I tell her that I am tired and that I will see her in the morning. She stands in the darkened hallway, wearing her pajamas, frowning. Even when I reassure her that I am in the next room and will see her in the morning, she mumbles, "Come back" as I disappear into the guest room.
This is how she says goodbye to me right before I drive away. "I'll be back next weekend," I say every Monday morning on my way out the door. She stares at me, her eyebrows slowly shifting upward as "next weekend" somehow gets translated to "never." Her bottom lip quivers as she pleads, "Come back."
A few years ago, my mother got a desk calendar that had a different family photo accompanying a grid of each month. Though she could no longer track the days, each month we flipped the page to expose a new photo. When the year was over, we started back at January. Thus, the calendar always shows the correct month, but it may seem like we are perpetually in the year 2010.
If only we could halt time so easily. Alzheimer's is a disease that is almost paradoxical. It is a disease in which you wake up every morning knowing that that day will be worse than the day before, but you are grateful for it because you know that it will be infinitely better than tomorrow.
So what gets measured when standard measurements of time become irrelevant? My mother was diagnosed when she was 54 years old; she has a birthday coming up, and she is now nearing 60. Does this matter? Somehow, in my mind, she is still 54. Is it fair to appoint another year to someone's life if they don't remember it? What about three or four more? Maybe this works in reverse. I know she doesn't understand that I have aged, too. Does she still think I'm 24?
Without clocks and calendars to mark change, the most significant measure is the rate at which the disease takes over my mother. This seems like a better indicator of the last few years. Phases are referred to as "the time before Mom forgot how to write checks" or "when Mom was still driving," or "before Dad started doing her hair."
Though my mother might not be aware of them, the last few years have brought changes in other ways. McKenzie has gone off to college and graduated; Sara has relocated a few times, started a new career, and excelled; I, too, have graduated and am working on a new career; and my father, over the last few years, has found an inner strength to face each day not knowing what little part of his wife has disappeared, yet he is absolutely committed to making sure she is comfortable and provided for.
Though she can't put it in words, she seems more attuned to the work he does than anything else. He gives her cards for her birthday, anniversary, Valentines Day, Mother's Day, Christmas, and reads them to her because she can't understand them. She holds on to the cards, adding them to her "library" of well-read magazines, family albums, and picture books.
Perhaps the best way to remember this unmeasurable period in my mother's life is simply as "the time she knew she was loved."
When I stay the night at my parents' house, my mother hesitates going to bed. I tell her that I am tired and that I will see her in the morning. She stands in the darkened hallway, wearing her pajamas, frowning. Even when I reassure her that I am in the next room and will see her in the morning, she mumbles, "Come back" as I disappear into the guest room.
This is how she says goodbye to me right before I drive away. "I'll be back next weekend," I say every Monday morning on my way out the door. She stares at me, her eyebrows slowly shifting upward as "next weekend" somehow gets translated to "never." Her bottom lip quivers as she pleads, "Come back."
A few years ago, my mother got a desk calendar that had a different family photo accompanying a grid of each month. Though she could no longer track the days, each month we flipped the page to expose a new photo. When the year was over, we started back at January. Thus, the calendar always shows the correct month, but it may seem like we are perpetually in the year 2010.
If only we could halt time so easily. Alzheimer's is a disease that is almost paradoxical. It is a disease in which you wake up every morning knowing that that day will be worse than the day before, but you are grateful for it because you know that it will be infinitely better than tomorrow.
So what gets measured when standard measurements of time become irrelevant? My mother was diagnosed when she was 54 years old; she has a birthday coming up, and she is now nearing 60. Does this matter? Somehow, in my mind, she is still 54. Is it fair to appoint another year to someone's life if they don't remember it? What about three or four more? Maybe this works in reverse. I know she doesn't understand that I have aged, too. Does she still think I'm 24?
Without clocks and calendars to mark change, the most significant measure is the rate at which the disease takes over my mother. This seems like a better indicator of the last few years. Phases are referred to as "the time before Mom forgot how to write checks" or "when Mom was still driving," or "before Dad started doing her hair."
Though my mother might not be aware of them, the last few years have brought changes in other ways. McKenzie has gone off to college and graduated; Sara has relocated a few times, started a new career, and excelled; I, too, have graduated and am working on a new career; and my father, over the last few years, has found an inner strength to face each day not knowing what little part of his wife has disappeared, yet he is absolutely committed to making sure she is comfortable and provided for.
Though she can't put it in words, she seems more attuned to the work he does than anything else. He gives her cards for her birthday, anniversary, Valentines Day, Mother's Day, Christmas, and reads them to her because she can't understand them. She holds on to the cards, adding them to her "library" of well-read magazines, family albums, and picture books.
Perhaps the best way to remember this unmeasurable period in my mother's life is simply as "the time she knew she was loved."
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