In Memory of My Mom Who No Longer Lives in her Body
Insight from the Impact of Mom's Alzheimer's
The Beginning
A missed appointment. A forgotten bill. The growing pile of papers unsure what to do with. The frustration of business being online and her lack of wherewithal in how to deal with it. The slow loss of control. The greater loss of self. The identity slips away, leaving a body with a mind elsewhere.
What happens when Alzheimer’s takes over your brain?
Where does your identity go?
The Process
I watched as my mom slipped away. There were moments of cognition in between the segments of confusion. She would slip into her old self. She had been a great athlete in her youth, and she prided herself on her ability to stand on one leg and put her pants on without aid at 89. She liked to do things herself. Stubborn was a compliment for her.
She was so many things that I wasn’t. She was decisive. Determined. Inflexible. Adamant.
From the outside, she seemed hard.
She was hard.
Who She Was
She grew up believing there was a right way to do everything, and that was the way it was to be done. She didn’t accept slipshod work. She had standards. Very high standards.
As one of her three daughters, I am surprised she didn’t spend more time teaching us the right way to do things. She had a great sense of style, but shared none of that with us, except maybe in a negative remark when we didn’t meet her standards.
Even as her memory faded, she still beat us at cards. It was uncanny.
She was a home economics major because it was one of the few options available to her in college. But she wasn’t an award-winning cook by any means. She had 10 regular meals she rotated through… fried liver and onions my least favorite… right up there with stuffed bell peppers. Meatloaf. Pork chops. With apple sauce, of course. Right out of The Brady Bunch.
She had excellent posture until she didn’t. One day, she couldn’t stand up straight anymore. We lifted her up, and she curled right back over.
How she loved to read. It was a great escape for her. Mysteries. (The apple doesn’t fall far…) British mysteries. Not gore. Not psychological suspense.
Mom was wicked at playing cards. She’s been playing cards since she took the train to high school. Her group played on the train. Bridge. Canasta. Hearts. They were a tight lot. Separated by marriages. Even as her memory faded, she still beat us at cards. It was uncanny.
She grew up in the church. Her uncle was a parish priest. She always helped out there with her mother, my grandmother. When we moved west to California, she enjoyed working in the church. She felt at home there. She kept the linens ironed, the silver polished, the candles ordered, and the music on key. She also fixed all the flowers. She worked so hard for that church.
Not that anyone from the church has visited her since her mind went on a separate sojourn. The new priests don’t know her, have no memory of her, and all the years she dedicated to the parish. How she worked so hard to make their lives easier. That’s the problem with moving the priests around so much. Loss of continuity. Loss of respect. Loss of connection.
Where did she go?
If you look in her eyes, the spark is often still there, lighting up her face. She had so much energy.
The person she was is no more. But for that little spark. It’s hard to explain.
They debate over when a fetus becomes human and has a soul. When does a body lose its soul on the other end of the lifeline? When is it ok to say goodbye?
Tonight, my friend said goodbye to her dog. Milo had been a family member for 16 years. He was suffering. It was time.
Why is it we respect that with dogs and cats? What about the people who have served us well and are ready to move on? Can they not end respectfully? With dignity?
In Lois Lowry's The Giver, when a citizen reaches a certain age, they are released. No one really understood what exactly that meant, but it becomes clear in the story. The person’s usefulness is deemed over, and they are “retired.”
We don’t attempt to make that judgment call. We let people suffer with the loss of identity, loss of bodily control, loss of ability to feed and care for themself, loss of their minds, and linger on… for years.
I sit with my mom as she speaks nonsense. But I can see the gleam in her eyes. The bright blue-grey eyes that have seen so much and are now left to this small enclosed world of hers. I would love to talk to her. Ask her about her own divorce. How it felt to sleep alone. What she enjoyed most about her years. What she misses most right now. I would love to ask her about falling in love with my dad and her wedding. Silly topics that I didn’t think about before. And now it’s too late.
She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know I am the fruit of her womb. I smile at her and listen as she babbles on. And then she puts her head down and falls asleep, only to wake up 5 minutes later because lunch is served, and she loves to eat. She eats more than I do. Finishes every last bite. A habit leftover from her childhood. The Clean Plate Society.
Every time her living facility calls, I wonder if this will be THE call. I answer with great trepidation. No, not yet. Needs more diapers.
What is left
The funny/awkward thing is… my mom still carries the essence of my mom. It’s amazing, really. How she relates to the caretakers at her facility. She winks and smiles at John who brings her coffee with sugar because he knows she loves it that way. She always was quite the flirt. How she laughs when the caretakers dance and sing for them. Her way of being in the world is somehow the same… her energetic imprint is still there. Her energy is still that of my mother. She is somewhere inside there. When she touches me, the impact on my body is the same. Her tone is there. How she makes eye contact and insists upon it when she’s speaking to me. That underlying sense of who she is lingers on. The history is gone. But something is there…
The Impact on me
I go through my day and then remember something I’d forgotten to do. I panic. Will I follow my mother’s footsteps? Is someone coming to steal my mind? I try to relax and tell myself my brain is sharp and healthy.
Which is my mom’s problem. She is so healthy, strong, determined. But her memory…
Her sense of self is gone. She doesn’t know who she is. Or who I am. Or my sister. But she’s still happy to see us and to drink coffee with us.
I tell my daughters everything I can think of that they might want to know. Probably too much… but just in case.
I read every book on prevention. I analyze all the factors of my mother’s life. But her brother has it… and her sister….
They said they don’t see any genetic markers in me.
It must be the liver and onions.
Or stuffed bell peppers.
I never wanted to eat those.
Could it have been the orange flavored Jell-O? Or chocolate pudding?
NO. Liver and peppers.
Good to avoid.
What Does the Tarot Suggest?
After writing this, I pulled the Queen of Wands.
At first, it didn’t make sense. This card is about vitality, presence, life force… and Alzheimer’s feels like the opposite of that.
But then I realized…
Maybe this isn’t about what’s being lost.
Maybe it’s about what remains.
Because even as memory fades, there is still something unmistakably her.
Her warmth. Her essence. Her way of being in the world.
And maybe my role now is not to reach for what’s gone…
But to meet her in what is still alive. To connect with what is possible. Accepting what is and moving forward with that.
She is still inspiring others. In that way, we are the same.