The Forgotten

No one can understand how ratifying a mental illness is until they themselves, or someone they love dearly experiences such a tragedy. Alzheimer’s is defined by alzfdn.org as, “a progressive, degenerative disorder that attacks the brain's nerve cells, or neurons, resulting in loss of memory, thinking and language skills, and behavioral changes.”

Any doctor can give you a textbook prediction on the progression of this disease in a specific patient, but there are some things they can never prepare you for.

There is no right way to tell you that the hands you once nurtured hundreds of children with as a elementary school teacher, will never have the ability to hold another little hand.

There is no right way to tell you that your grandchildren wont understand when you can no longer hold them in your arms, let alone remember their names.

There is no right way to tell you that all of your kind words, which mended so many broken souls, will slowly lose the ability to pass your lips.

There is no right way to tell you that at the young age of 56, you will be diagnosed with a debilitating disease, and have your father hold you, when you know you should be the one holding him.

There will never be a right way to tell you that after years of helping others, you will no longer be able to help yourself.

As a daughter to a 10+ year care giver, I've seen far too many illnesses that directly correlate to old age. None of them seemed to be as heartbreaking as Rebecca's. Once claimed a hometown hero for her loving nature, she lost the ability to exhibit the person people once knew her as.

No one would wish such an illness on even their worst enemy. SO the pending question then becomes, why do we turn our heads to these helpless victims?

As Alzheimer's progresses, the brain begins to shrink dramatically, causing nerve cells to die. Within a limited amount of time, the person affected loses motor skills as well as verbal abilities.

This creates challenging barriers. Ones that loved ones of the person may not want to accept.
I've found that people will often limit there visitations with the person, and in some cases, they stop placing themselves in situations around them all together.

This person still has a soul. They still can become happy and sentimental. Sad and angry. Frustrated.

They are not what their disease makes them appear as, lifeless.

My beloved mother cared for Rebecca like a sister. After all, she had known her years before the disease took over. She would play show-tunes most of the days and dance around the house just to get a little smile. On days when the anger got the best of Rebecca, she would hold her and call her darling in a soothing manner until Rebecca's trembling and teeth clenching would come to a halt. She would dress and bathe Rebecca, as she no longer had the capability to do so on her own. She would go for lengthy walks in the fresh air, pushing Rebecca in her wheel chair, as she no longer had the ability to walk or stand.

Most of all, as a caregiver, my mom suffered with Rebecca. There would be nights she would come home in tears after a long day of work, cursing the horrible disease as it captured her friend.

After all that time, my mom had reached an important conclusion: although she no longer appeared as the person everyone had known her as, she still was. She was alive and loving as ever. She touched so many souls throughout her lifetime, and continued to do so until she passed peacefully.

 

In loving memory of Rebecca Clark