We picked up my mother on Christmas Eve. They sat in a straight line in front of the TV set. I think they were supposed to be watching but judging from their eyes they were elsewhere. Mom sat beside another patient who was asleep, slumped over in his wheelchair. She was all decked out in a long tunic blouse. Her eyebrows were painted on, as was her lipstick. She had on her necklaces but she had no teeth. She refused to wear them.
Seeing her happy this way is something of a shock to us, her family. My mother in her normal years would take any means of transportation to see her dentist immediately if something in her mouth went wrong. She never once stopped seeing a dentist – in Manila, in the US, in Canada – she always had a dentist. Now, at age 85 and at Level 6 of a Level 7 disease, she is happy to live without her teeth. No heartbreak for her. The heartbreak, strangely, is ours. "Why doesn’t she wear her teeth?" my son asks. He takes her photographs and he wants her to look good. I say, "You must photograph her the way she is. It’s part of the stage she’s in." I say that very calmly, ignoring the anxiety and the pain buried deep inside.
Should I write this about my mother? I know there are people out there who judge me as well as people who thank me for acknowledging publicly what Alzheimer’s is and how it makes us feel. How would my mother feel if she could read? These are questions I constantly roll over in my head. In the end, I think my columns are written for others who have Alzheimer patients, too, so they can relate, so they can feel the relief that comes from knowing they are not alone.
We pick her up, put her in the car and drive off to my daughter’s house. She talks all the time about the women who hate her and how she hates them back, the places they get from her, including her bed, her clothes, her things. Everything, it seems, is covered by the word place. She talks constantly in a voice loud enough to be part of the conversation when, in fact, it is not. In my mind I hear our neurologist warning me not to spend more than half an hour with her. But it is Christmas, a special occasion. We spend about three hours together. They are three maddening hours when she talks non-stop. I try to agree with her, she doesn’t notice. I disagree with her, she doesn’t notice either. She lives in her world where we are just props – people who say things that she does not understand.
She is complimentary about my daughter’s house. It is a nice place, she says. She now calls my son her "good man." She does not call me anything but when she includes me in her speeches, I am her "Mama." She knows my daughter but does not call her anything. She no longer knows my grandchildren and I sense they are relieved. They don’t have to talk to her.
What is Alzheimer’s Disease? It is a progressive brain disorder that gradually destroys a person’s memory and ability to learn, reason, make judgments, communicate and carry out daily activities. As the disease progresses, the individual may manifest changes in personality and behavior, may show anxiety, suspiciousness, agitation, delusions or hallucinations, all of the foregoing at different times. There is no cure for Alzheimer’s Disease yet. There are palliatives.
My biggest learning point with my mother was changing her medicine from Aricept to Abixa. Aricept apparently made her very cranky and suspicious. Abixa made her much more pleasant. Now, after Christmas, I am thinking of maybe asking the neurologist to visit her for her annual checkup. She may be needing more drugs.
What do you do when your parent has Alzheimer’s Disease? There is no cure for it. None. Zilch. There are drugs that are palliatives but no cure. When your parent has Alzheimer’s you get a grip on yourself. You learn to find humor in her behavior. You learn to laugh. Laughter will bring you relief. Ideally, if you can afford it, you put your parent in a home. I learned that they are happier with other Alzheimer patients.
So anyway, this is the last Saturday of 2006. By the time you read this I will be in Subic with old friends celebrating New Year’s Eve for a change. I will be out of my little flat and temporarily done with staring out the window at my terrace garden. I will be trying to be happy.