A Daughter’s Journey Through Her Mother’s Alzheimer’s

Listening to my mother’s cries as she expressed her belief of living in a haunted house was unsettling. She forgot turning on the television and would be startled by familiar artwork on the walls. Sometimes, she feared her trusted nurse might harm her. My mother, who once protected me from childhood fears, now needed me to soothe hers. Facing a stroke compounded by newly diagnosed lung cancer was challenging, but Alzheimer’s pushed us to our limits.

Do you think Grandma will remember me? my 26-year-old daughter asked about my 87-year-old mother. Every two weeks, my sister and I alternated visits to handle her mail, bills, groceries, doctor appointments, and wheelchair repairs until she napped. Each visit made her seem more distant.

Each visit grew harder. Overwhelmed, she’d resist dealing with bills, yet refused to let me handle them alone. I’d get some done before it was time to leave, both exhausted, me on the verge of tears while mustering patience. Our relationship wasn’t always easy, but she meant it when she said she loved you, providing a sense of security. Two Mother’s Days ago, she was as sharp and feisty as ever with her unfiltered quips, offering entertainment with her remarks: She’s not the sharpest pencil,, He likes hearing the sound of his own voice, and my favorite, She’s lost her virginity more times than she can count. Despite laughing at Alzheimer’s chances, we were wrong.

Her Alzheimer’s progressed like a tsunami during COVID’s isolation and quarantine. Restrictions made visits nearly impossible, sparing my children from witnessing her decline. She disliked video calls; seeing faces on a phone confused her.

I learned what worked through experience. The late afternoon or evening’s sundowning was a nightmare, causing confusion and irritation for her, with my attempts to calm her fears ineffective. Explaining it was spring, not Thanksgiving time, only infuriated her more. I apologized for my nonexistent mistake, her anguish breaking me. I scheduled my calls for mornings after that.

Online guidance, like the Alzheimer’s Association’s comparison of the disease to a blackboard, life erased from present backward, helped me meet her where she was. Approaching quickly scared her, so I slowed down, maintaining eye contact and greeting her with Hi Mom, it’s your daughter, Linda. Short sentences and familiar routines worked best. Looking at old photographs or listening to music, especially Barbra Streisand and the Bee Gees, aided memory recall.

Even as my mother’s speech faded, she still enjoyed my presence. She responded to the tone in my voice. Her caregiver helped remind her of my birthday with signs and reintroduced me during visits. My mother studied my face, determined to remember.

A YouTube video showed a daughter with her mother, asking if she knew her, only for the mother to reply, I don’t know who you are, but I know that I love you. This sentiment guided me. As long as love persisted, it was most important.

Now that my mother’s gone, I dream of her often. In my dreams, she’s young again. Her dark hair is glossy, her eyes clear, her voice vibrant. Alzheimer’s may have dimmed her memory, but in those dreams, nothing, not even her love, is gone.

Linda Wolff is a Los Angeles-based essayist and humor writer. Her work has appeared in The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Good Housekeeping, Cosmopolitan, McSweeney’s, and more. You can find her on Instagram @carpoolgoddess when she’s not playing with her Goldendoodle.

All views expressed in this article are the author’s own. Do you have a personal essay you want to share with Newsweek? Send your story to [email protected].