There is no reasoning with Alzheimer's. Nor is there an ability to recognize an authority figure who may be acting on your behalf.

I was having a lovely time laughing and singing with Mom today. Most of what we talked about was nonsense, but she was in a relatively good mood. One of the residents kept crying. It seems she had fallen and her arm was in a cast. The staff gently placed a pillow under her arm, trying to position her as comfortably as possible. The TV was playing some Russian pop music. Other residents were calling to each other, chattering, talking. The staff was conversing. It was a noisy e

Twice now in the space of a few weeks, we’ve been handed a pair of Mom’s summer pants with a big rip on the left hand side. The tear is near the seam, but also cuts into the soft, pliable fabric of her pants. “Do you know how they ripped? Has this happened to the pants of any other residents,” I asked the duty nurse. “No, there’s nothing in the log book. You’re unique,” she chuckled. Hmm. What could this be from? After the second incident, I checked Mom’s bed and the chairs s

It happened unexpectedly, a feeling I did not anticipate, a depression as I walked away from Mom’s residence. For the first time in a long time since Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s more than eight years ago, I felt that she was no longer there. This goes against my whole outlook on Alzheimer’s. Despite all the hurdles and obstacles, all the anger and unpredictability, the overwhelming sense of loss, I have always made a conscious decision to find joy in Mom’s existence. W

Sometimes there are large billboards on the side of the road that seem to scream out at you as you drive by. I felt I was passing one this past Friday when we visited Mom for her birthday. “ALZHEIMER’S SUCKS! IT WILL STEAL YOUR TIME.” That’s what was written on my private billboard. Sadly, Mom has no sense of what it means to have a birthday. None of the anticipation of growing older, maturing or receiving presents that kids feel, or, sometimes, even us middle-aged adults exp

I was proud of myself today for bringing Mom home from the mall with absolutely no displays of anger. It was an intense effort to be with her and talk to her in a deferential, unquestioning manner, one of the tips I have learned from the book, Contented Dementia: 24-Hour Wraparound Care for Lifelong Well-being by Oliver James.* Along with asking no questions, the book suggests deferring to Mom in a way that builds her self-esteem as the one who knows more than me. When we wer

There is always a certain risk involved in taking Mom to the mall. She may not be able to shed her angry morning voice, she may run determinedly away, or she may become overly tired and refuse to move. Thankfully, today Mom and I had a wonderful outing. We gaily sang our way on the 15 minute walk to the mall, then went shopping in the grocery store. It took more than an hour to shop and make arrangements for the delivery; and though Mom was nonplused some of the time, I kept

We are at a crossroads. Should we give Mom anti psychotic medication to combat her hostility and irrational behavior (i.e., hallucinations, delusions, aggression, agitation and uncooperativeness), thereby knowingly accepting possible side-effects of these drugs? Or should we continue to shepherd Mom through her heart breaking performances and embrace her anger? Mom is regressing into a world of incoherence and fantasy. She experiences what my dad calls psychotic episodes betw

I lost my temper out of frustration this week. Mom had taken my coat and wouldn’t give it back. The moment I yelled at her, though, I regretted it terribly. Here’s what transpired: We had attended a sing-a-long of Chanukah songs. About an hour into enjoying the music and humming along to most of the songs, Mom asked me to find her coat so that she could put it on. Then she saw another coat on the back of a chair near her and wanted to put that one on, too. “That’s not your co

I don’t have patience for this, I thought as I listened to the woman on the phone. As part of my job, I sometimes answer a hotline for people who have immigration-related questions about their lives in Israel. The hotline is supposed to be for quick calls—simple questions with little follow-up. As I struggled with this call, it became evident that the woman on the other end of the line had memory problems. I repeated the information she had requested. Then I repeated it again

They’re he-ere! I can’t quite believe it. All the planning and agonizing has finally come to fruition. My parents are now officially my neighbors. The noise of the move, boxes strewn across the floor, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings—all overwhelmed Mom. I took her to my house for several hours where we pet the cat, drank tea and read children’s books. Mom wasn’t happy about returning to her new home, but when she saw my dad she visibly relaxed. The strangeness of the da

What must it seem like to outsiders—that foul mouth, the anger, the obstinacy? Yes, it’s embarrassing to hear Mom lash out verbally at someone, but my dad and I, while not used to it per se, know the rage is fleeting, and though unpredictable, it repeats itself with increasing frequency. We had lunch today with Mom and Daddy’s dear friends from England. My dad and Manny were in junior high school together. In fact, Manny was instrumental in setting my parents up on their firs

A dear friend posted a video on my Facebook page of a woman with Alzheimer’s describing the disease and how it affects her. Imagine, she says, that your brain is like a bookcase. The most recent memories are on the top shelf: what you had for dinner, the concert you saw yesterday, the walk you took in the afternoon. At about shoulder level are the memories from your 50s. By your knees is the shelf containing memories from your 20s. And at the bottom, on the sturdiest shelf of

“Mom has been very belligerent this morning,” Daddy told me on the phone. I was on the last leg of my journey to their apartment, having boarded the shared taxi from Tel Aviv to Netanya. “She’s been shouting and yelling. She pushed me out of the bathroom and swore at me and called me a ‘dirty old man.’ Then she refused my help getting dressed. I wanted you to know.” I was still about forty-five minutes away, so there was not much I could do, but I did say hi to Mom on the pho

The day my brother Simon left, Mom threw a temper tantrum when she and my dad were out enjoying an afternoon stroll. She used the foulest of language towards him and refused to walk home with him. Daddy managed to convince her to follow him, but her anger persisted all the way into the apartment. Was there a connection between Mom’s outbursts and Simon’s departure? There’s no real way to know, but perhaps Mom was telling us how much she misses him as best she can. Not that sh

We took Simon out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate his impending 50th birthday. We had a laugh-filled evening, despite it being harder and harder to take Mom out to eat. Mom can’t always remember how to use a fork or knife, or eat a sandwich, or she removes parts of the meal from the plate claiming it belongs to someone else. She purses her lips when we try to help and pronounces loudly that she is not a child. We try to placate her as best we can. My dad, Simon and I remin

Why don’t any of the Alzheimer’s books or websites prepare you for the rage? Or your helplessness and guilt when you can’t defuse it? We’d already walked out and come back twice. I’d even called her on the phone from the privacy of the study, pretending I was somewhere else to see if I could calm her. She stood by the door for two hours. Two hours! She tried kicking it, using a nail file, even a wet rag. She gathered things for her journey—a book, her nightgown, four bras—and

I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into an Alzheimer’s version of Naomi in Wonderland. My dad flew to Miami two days ago, and I am here taking care of my mom for the next 10 days. We’ve thrown out logic along with any concept of personal space and emotional buffers. The only time I am alone is when she’s sleeping. I have been relying on my creative parenting skills and using her memory loss to keep her on schedule. Once Mom is showered and dressed—a process I assist

I lost my temper today. Not at Mom, but at her hairdresser, the one who has been cutting her hair for about 20 years. When I called last week to make an appointment, Hairdresser X—we’ll call him Ralph—was hesitant to make an appointment for us. He’s seen Mom become more frail and unpredictable due to Alzheimer’s, so I could understand his hesitation. I assured Ralph I’d be there, too, reminding him that Mom dotes on him and enjoys being in his salon. We showed up early for th

We are standing in the middle of the mall and we have a half hour to spend before my father picks us up. Mom is agitated. She wants to be with him already. “Why are you angry?” I ask. Up until now, we’ve been having a good time window shopping and drinking coffee. It is a rainy day outside, and this is the perfect place to loiter. I don’t really expect an answer. I ask because I am surprised by her sudden turn in mood and until that moment we are any mother and daughter enjoy