My mother has Alzheimer’s disease. When did it begin? I remember about 11 years ago being shocked one morning by an assault from her. I was peacefully reading the newspaper and sipping coffee when she came down and began a harangue against my daughter who lived with us. I could not understand her rage. I asked my daughter about my mother’s claims. My daughter denied their ever happening, was quite shocked in fact, but Mother would not let up. She produced stories that took off from something that was true. but then wandered off to some things that were not and there was no convincing her that she had strayed into a dangerous land of falsehood.
Distressed, I asked help from her family. I went to her youngest brother, then alive but recovering from a stroke and he said, "All she needs is a little cariño," a comment that did not go down well with me. How could I give her more affection when she was so hostile towards me? I remember wondering to him, "Does she have Alzheimer’s disease?" It was the only way I could explain her strange behavior and even then I did not know too much about it. It was just impossible to explain. "No," he said.
Now I believe she had Alzheimer’s then, was starting it and that’s why she made no sense to my daughter and me. She drove us to tears yet she would not take the time to listen to us. She was always enraged, angry. She wanted me to choose between her and my daughter. I begged her not to require that from me, told her it was unfair, but she insisted. I chose my daughter and sent her back to Vancouver. That is the beginning of her story. I tell it now simply to help other people who may be having to deal with such patients.
Eleven years ago, I believe she was in Level 2 of Alzheimer’s disease. Now I know for sure she is at Level 6. Alzheimer’s disease has seven levels. It is regressive. You regress from mature adult to your baby days again. There are no drugs that can help you except a strong tranquilizer to calm you down. Nothing restores your memory. They say gingko biloba does. I bought her several bottles in Vancouver. I bought her a bottle here. She refused to take it. She should take B12 and vitamin E also. Okay, let’s see but if you look up Alzheimer’s on the Internet, you will find no real cure for it. You cannot reverse regression. The patient is happy enough to regress and enraged when asked not to. She has no problems.
I, on the other hand, am normal still though I have problems. I had a stroke, but two years have passed and my neurologist is impressed with my recovery. She thinks I should write a book about it. She told me this when I asked her for help on a book about my mother’s Alzheimer’s. My stroke was in my right brain so I don’t feel any pain. No heartaches, replaced by occasional mild headaches. Often, my head feels like it’s full of cobwebs and dust, therefore it is muddled. I think this muddled, weighted down sense of desolation is the way I now experience pain. My mother does not like me. She thinks when I make her coffee that I am trying to poison her so she has stopped drinking coffee. I don’t make it for her any more. She doesn’t like to see me or talk to me. I know this is part of her disease and she is not to blame for any of it, but it pains me. It makes my heart make funny sounds and I always have headaches.
I wish people around us – relatives and friends – would show just a little bit of empathy for me. My mother does not do anything except hate me and a couple of other ladies, but only I am here. She has no reason to. It is a natural part of her illness. When they speak to me they could say, "Oh hija, I feel for you. It must hurt you to be treated that way," and not, "Just be patient, hija, she is sick," which is the standard statement I get, said without pause, uttered without thinking about how they make me feel. I am already being patient. I am being very, very patient. I feel like Mother put on her finest boxing gloves and gleefully gave a me a left uppercut that knocked me down on the floor. Over me, I hear the referee count one, two, three ... I am tempted to stay down, knocked out completely.
Sometimes I pray to God that He take me. I am more ready to die than to live. If He does not, then in January I am going to have to look for work to pay for my towering expenses for my mother. I have no choice. Until then, it’s just going to be boom boom bum bum flip flop fizz from my heart before I sleep. Maybe it will stop. Please God?