I Forget to Remember
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
By: Christina O'Connell

A day in the life of my mother with Alzheimer's disease: From waking up, to attending an adult day care, to going to bed

I Forget to Remember
By Christina O'Connell
"You treat me like a child," she blurted out with great force. Her emotions stirred within her, yet all she could do was storm away as a child in anger.
My day begins like anyone else's. Someone wakes me up and I stumble out of bed and slowly make my way to the bathroom. I return from there and go back into my room, make my bed and get dressed. I enjoy this time because I am alone and I have not yet sensed the pressures of the day.
It is not long after I venture out of my bedroom that my private world, the one that I enjoyed just moments earlier, is shaken and I find myself in unfamiliar territory. It is I am soon to discover, not a place that I prefer but one in which I must live. I try to recover my private world again but there is too much going on around me, too many demands and expectations.
I now find myself with people who appear to be familiar but who I see more in a distant mist than clearly and up close. I hear voices, some louder than others yet there is one voice I recognize. It is this one voice, this one image, which is most familiar to me. Although there is great comfort in this voice, I often hear great frustration at the same time, sometimes towards me and sometimes in general.
I offer to do what I feel capable of doing only to be treated like I can't do anything at all. Sometimes, I try to wash the dishes but am told that I don't do it right because I don't use dish soap. I find my confidence diminishing in being able to do less and less as time goes on but I can still do some things if given the chance. There are times when I turn my emotions inward and don't say anything for fear of what I might say, but then there are other times when I can't help but show anger and frustration.
I eat my breakfast not because I am hungry necessarily but because I am being told that I must. Breakfast, I am discovering, is not a meal to be enjoyed but to be consumed. Soon after I am finished with breakfast, I find that the comforts of my home are left behind and I enter into the unknown. I feel confused, bewildered, and lost in an area that only looks vaguely familiar. I begin to wonder where I am going, but more so, why I can't stay in my familiar world.

I am now with strangers, some look slightly familiar, while others make me feel like I am a foreigner in a far-off country. A few of the more familiar faces are kind to me, while the others appear to have their minds on other things. I tend to speak only when spoken to and even then I feel limited in what I can actually say. I frequently discover that my conversations are reduced to brief comments but that is okay with me since I do not have a lot to say and when I do, the words do not flow easily from my mouth. I often find myself doing things which I feel like I have never done before, activities that others do with ease, like using a pencil or pen, is so complicated for me. I am not afraid to try new things but do not have the confidence which I once had. I often feel insecure if left alone for any length of time.
Eating is not a problem for me on most days. I have never had a large appetite, but I do have plenty of opportunities to eat throughout the day. I sometimes forget that I need to eat but food is readily available as others put it in front of me. At times I try to prepare a snack or small meal but am reminded that I ate a meal only a short time ago. I have discovered that it is easier for me to eat with my fingers because it requires less thought and is not as confusing to me as utensils. "What is next for me?" I wonder, "Will I lose the ability to eat at all?"
As the day wears on, I find myself aching for what is most familiar to me, my apartment, my bedroom, even the comfort of my chair, but I feel that it will never come. I feel anxious so I sit by the window and wait. "Have they forgotten me? Must I stay here all night?" I ask myself. The anxiety in me builds as I feel so alone even though others are all around me. I call out, "I want to go home," but no one hears me or, if they do hear, they don't seem to care. Those friendly faces which brought such comfort hours ago do not seem to notice the fear that I am experiencing inside. They go about their day as if I am not even here. Some people speak softly to me, assuring me that all will be fine but even their words do not bring the comfort that I am yearning for.
At last, I see that very familiar face which I have been longing to see for so long now. I breathe a sigh of relief that I am able to return home and back to the place that is so familiar to me. The anxiety that I had been feeling is now gone and I leave with good memories while looking forward to returning to my private world once again.
I am so grateful to be with this person again but my words seem so shallow since all that I am able to say is, "Thank you." I mean them far more than the way in which they come across, but I trust that the sigh of relief upon my face expresses more than do my simple words.
My evening ends as my morning began. I am once again back in my bedroom, this time longing for a good night's sleep. I am not anxious for another day to be with strangers, but knowing that it is coming, I must prepare myself and so I go off to sleep.
This is not just a story about anyone. Although you may find yourself in my shoes one day, it is my story: I am a victim of Alzheimer's disease.
Is it any wonder that I have become the mother to my own mother and she has become the child? Instead of her learning new things each day, she is forgetting what she has known all her life. She does not realize that she was the one who taught me to be the person I am today. Above all else, she no longer knows who I am, although she always recognizes that I am a familiar face not just a face in the crowd.
Unlike a child who remembers they have forgotten to do things that their mother asked them to do, my mother just forgets to remember.
[Note: My mother passed away on June 18, 2011 after 11 years with Alzheimer's disease.]