"A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once."
-- Shakespeare
I would hardly call my mom a coward, but watching someone with Alzheimer's is like watching them die a thousand times. Alzheimer's is death by a thousand cuts, dying a little bit each day, slowly, slowly, slowly. The mind and then the body falling into decline.
My dad had to put my mom in a Memory Care Unit yesterday. It must have been one of the most difficult days of his life. She couldn't take care of herself because of her Alzheimer's, and it got to the point where he could no longer take care of her. She can't remember how to walk sometimes, can't bathe herself, or brush her teeth. My dad couldn't keep up with maintaining her basic hygiene. It was almost like inadvertent neglect, which was by no means his fault for not keeping up.
I have a friend whose son is profoundly disabled with autism. She said that for families with disabled children, every milestone their child doesn't reach is a loss, and grief ensues. When other kids are mastering counting or the alphabet, some of these children lag behind. They might not ride a bike, or learn to drive, go to prom. They might not leave for college or work or marriage. For the parents who see the missed milestones, they grieve. So it is with losing a parent to Alzheimer's. Instead of just having a funeral and dying straight up, each step is an erosion and loss, with the knowledge that things won't move forward.
In many ways, my mother has regressed to being a toddler. Unlike toddlers, my mother won't improve. Unless a miracle cure is invented in the next few weeks, her path is towards decline. The Memory Care Unit sounds almost like preschool. There are three activities a day. Today, they baked cookies. My friend Eleanor, who is 94, said she has been to nursing homes where they teach those with dementia letters and how to read. There are even places called "Adult Day Care" where people can send their ailing loved ones during the day to be cared for so the other adults can go to work, grocery shop, or care for children. My dad is fortunate he can pay for this service, buy what about those who can't? What becomes of them and their families? Or, perhaps my dad isn't so lucky. Jack spoke with a friend whose father spent $1.2 million on his wife's institutionalization for his wife with Alzheimer's.
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