Alzheimer's: The thief that stole my mother

It was the classic family joke all our lives.

She would put her glasses down and forgetwhere she had left them.

We always found them, and laughed, all of us.

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When I found them one day in the microwave, it wasn'tfunny anymore.

Why would my mother do that?

I asked her she said she hadn't done it. It was a lie, ofcourse.

She never lied. Something was wrong.

The forgetfulness continued; her short-term memoryfaded; things she had known her entire life were gone, lostin a fog.

At her 50th wedding anniversary, she asked me who thatstrange woman was sitting near her.

"She's your niece," I replied.

At that moment, I knew it was time for action.

My family was scared.

A few visits to the doctor and some tests revealed she hadAlzheimer's disease, a progressive, degenerative disorder thatattacks neurons, resulting in loss of memory, of thinking and language skills, and leads tobehavioral changes.

My sister and I were devastated; my dad simply said hehad lost his wife.

My mother, at age 82, was lost and wasn't coming back, eventhough I was looking straight into her blue eyes.

We moved her to a professional-care facility, where shecontinued to decline.

She hated it, and every time we came to visit, she beggedus to take her home.

We wanted to, and felt guilty that we couldn't. We werecrushed; imagine how she felt. Tears flowed as shepleaded with us.

For me, it was difficult: My mother lived in Toronto and Ilived in Edmonton. That geographical gap was huge,expensive and more than anything heartbreaking.

Before we moved her to the care facility, my dad couldn't find the courage to tell her she had to leave her home to live in a strange place.

So I went to Toronto to tell her, and tohelp dad move her in.

I did what she had taught mewhen facing adversity: I looked her in the eye andspoke softly, told her she had to go, that it wasbest for everyone. And maybe it was.Idon't know.

But she accepted it,coming from me, and didn't kick up afuss. It was our bond; nobody in the family had the kind ofconnection we had.

I did all the right things: I researched the disease,prepared myself for her descent, but it never removed thesadness, the anger, that desperate sense of futility andguilt.

Flowers and a walk did the trick

I went back as often as I could. Every time, I'd bringher blueberries and cream, a bouquet of flowers, and takeher for a walk.

We enjoyed those breaks, and I've come totreasure them.

We laughed and smiled. I didn't have a clue what wasgoing on inside her mind, and she didn't have a clue who Iwas.

At times, I was her father, son or grandson. She lacked lucidity, but she was smiling andenjoying herself. We both surrendered to a mysterious,debilitating disease, a thief we could not catch.

On one of my last visits, I could see she was almost in a blankslate, staring into space while I talked to her. I was losingher and felt horrible.I wanted to run.

Instead, Isaid to her: "Things ain't going well today."

She blinked, turned and looked at me, and said: "Warren,we don't use 'ain't.' It's improper language."

Always a strict grammarian

She had spent most of my childhoodcorrecting my grammar and spelling, and on this day, shemade her final correction.

It lasted only seconds,then she retreatedto her foggy world.

My love of language came from her, a beautiful, lifelonggift.

Alzheimer's eventually stole my mother.

But that half-minute sticks with me.

She was with me, bright and beautiful, being my motherone last time.

It's been said that life is made up of brief, specialmoments.

I know the feeling well.

Warren Taskeris an editor with CBC Edmonton's online team.

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