Two years ago, I had to come face to face with Alzheimer's disease upon Mom's diagnosis. I had seen the disease from a distance when Mom cared for her mother. At that point, I was a college student who was pressed into visiting Grandma, who had dementia, at the nursing home during summers and breaks. Many years passed, dulling these memories. Professional duties and then taking graduate courses consumed many of my hours (and thoughts).
Then Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in September 2005. Two difficult years later, Mom succumbed to Alzheimer's disease and Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) and I've been left to survey the aftermath of what happened.
And surprised as I am to report it, I have to say that I am happy to have spent these past two years in the company of Alzheimer's disease. I can hear many of you who are reading this sharepost now: "Dorian, you have lost your mind!" Please know that I never in a million years would wish this horrible disease upon my mother (or anyone else), but I believe that I am a changed person. In fact, I told someone that I actually find myself being a happier, more fulfilled person, due in large part to the lessons I've learned thanks to Alzheimer's disease over the past two years. Let me give you some examples.
Lesson #1: Learn to Stop and Watch the Dragonfly
One gift that I seem to have been given during my life is the ability to see "the Big Picture" and anticipate what will happen next. And yes, this gift has served me well not only with my professional career, but also with my caregiving duties when I had to anticipate what was going to happen in the fragmented day-to-day world that Mom inhabited after her diagnosis. But this gift also often meant that I found myself single-mindedly running from place to place and situation to situation, focused on trying to interpret the signs and determining what my next steps should be during fall 2005.
Yet as Mom's mental condition deteriorated, I found that I had to determine how to simplify. For instance, I increasingly had to carry more of the conversation during our regular visits. Mom could no longer grasp the "Big Picture" world where I tended to live; she couldn't even understand complex statements, instead looking puzzled until I would reframe my comment into a simple sentence.
I found that my attention turned by necessity to the little things in life so that I could tell stories to Mom. My stories might focus on the hummingbirds and butterflies that feasted on the nectar of the flowers located by my dining room window. Or it could be a story about the Yorkie puppy next door who would race around in delight whenever I would laugh at him. Or it could be the "fussing" that the cardinals did when I hadn't filled the birdfeeder.
While "researching" these stories so that I could tell them to Mom, I discovered that I was slowing down and living at the pace of the natural world (instead of the supersonic pace of everyday American life). Even during the weeks before Mom died, I found myself remaining in the moment. As I drove to the nursing home one afternoon during Mom's final two weeks in this world, I found myself waiting in a long line of cars halted by a red light. Prior to Alzheimer's, I would have spent this time pondering whatever thoughts were in my head and worrying about what I should be doing. And if I had done that, I would have missed seeing the dragonfly who continually danced in front of my front windshield. The dragonfly's entranced interest in the glare off the glass elicited a laugh and the realization that, despite Mom's declining health and the sorrow that might - and ultimately would - be awaiting me soon, life still has delightful experiences that balance the tragedy of Alzheimer's disease.
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