NSU Horizons Fall 2006

28 horizons verbatim A daughter’s long Farewell I have been grieving for my mother for two years. No physician called the time of death. No agency issued a death certificate. But for all intents and purposes, the essence of Rose N. Cooper died in December 2004. My mother has advanced Alzheimer’s disease. I learned about Alzheimer’s impact on the family in 1995, when I was working on a feature story for a local newspaper. Debora, a 43-year-old married mother of three, was the caregiver of her 75-year-old mother, who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s five years earlier. Debora told me she had watched her mother deteriorate from a vibrant, fun-loving woman to a paranoid, combative screamer to a noncommunicative, dazed-looking shell who had to be fed, bathed, and diapered. I listened to her stories intently, feel- ing immense sympathy for this woman who was sandwiched between her own children and her ailing mom. Neither of us could get through the interview without constantly reaching for the box of tissues. I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for my own mother who was older than Debora’s mom, but thriving and showing no signs of slowing down. My parents live in New York, and my mother and I were always very close. I had a rose tattooed on my ankle in her honor. We spoke on the phone every other day. On Saturday mornings, while still lying in bed, I’d call her and we’d chat for two hours or more. I couldn’t make any major decisions without getting her advice and guidance, nor could I fully enjoy an amusing incident without sharing it with her. We gossiped, shared secrets, laughed, cried, prayed. She was my best friend, my confidant. In 2001, barely six years after I interviewed Debora, Mother was diagnosed with the early signs of Alzheimer’s. It all began so innocently. I noticed a subtle change in her personality and behavior as early as 1999 during a visit to New York. It was her uncharacteristic outburst of anger and a moment of disorientation that prompted me to tell my sisters that Mother should see a doctor. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m the baby of the family and only saw her twice a year, but everyone in the family dismissed my concerns. It By Mara L. Kiffin wasn’t until 2000 when my mom, a card-carrying Democrat, showed no interest in the presidential election and refused to vote, that the family knew something was seriously wrong. I admit when I first heard the words, “Alzheimer’s disease,” I wasn’t as upset as everyone else. After all, my mother was already 86 years old; surely in the years she had left the disease could not progress to the extent of total debilitation, especially with medications that can slow down the progression. Maybe she will just be a little more forgetful, I thought. I was wrong. During the past six years, I have watched Mother get lost in her own home, forget the names of her grandchildren, set the kitchen on fire in the middle of the night, physically fight with my sister and father—and forget me. There’s no recognition when she looks at me now and no smile in her voice when she mumbles, “hello.” This person who looks like my mother, who used to laugh so easily, now doesn’t even smile. I have to study old photos to see the light in her eyes that’s been replaced by a distant, confused gaze. When I visit her, there’s no easy banter, no jokes, and no reminiscing. My sisters feed her, comb her hair, wash her face, and do whatever needs to be done. I feel uncomfortable