The A Word

I will never forget the feeling of my heart pounding in my chest as I heard the doctor say those terrible words. My brother and I had been trying for years to get some help for our mother; trying to figure out what is wrong; trying to find some answers.

Divorced for thirty years, our mother has lived alone since 1998. We started seeing the hint of some odd behavior and the decline of her functioning ability in 2005. She was always very independent. A single mother, she had to work hard to provide for us.

My brother and I sit with our mother as she picks us up from summer camp in 1987. Our mom worked hard as a single mother to provide for us.

By 2010, we knew something was wrong. She could not keep a job. She would not pay her bills. She was easily upset and had emotional outbursts. I took her to an ice cream shop once. They did not have her favorite flavor. She yelled at the clerk and stomped out of the store.

Her house was in shambles, she could not take care of her home any longer. We asked her, pleaded with her to sell her house and move to an apartment. But the more we asked, the angrier she got. "I will NEVER leave my home," she screamed.

Three years later, in July 2013, my mother was 62 years old. I sat with her in a neurologist's office. He had just given her a verbal cognitive test about dates, basic mathematical ability and simple memory exercises. She was flush with fury and embarrassment. She could not remember the President's name. She did not know what year it was. She stumbled over numbers as she tried to calculate 40 minus 7. It was too uncomfortable to watch. The tension was so thick I was nauseous.

"Alzheimer's disease," the doctor said. It was as if he stuck a knife in my stomach. My mother gasped and stammered. "What good did that do?!" she yelled.