Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘usatoday’ Category

The latest stats released by the Alzheimer’s Association paint a grim picture.

USA Today reported that ten million are expected to get Alzheimer’s over the next 2 decades.

Most boomers I know are a bit stunned. 1 in 8 will get Alzheimer’s.

I started bunching people I know in eights. Terrible, I know.

My husband has 8 siblings. Which one?

I mentally grouped my friends and imagined myself visiting them, trying to rouse the remnants of our relationship.

It was so much easier in my imagination for it to be somebody else other than me!

I felt like those people in the Titanic lifeboats. The boat’s too heavy, who’s going to get the ole’ heave ho! We always kid about poor Leo’s icy fingers being pried off one by one. My husband says he can see me doing that. I tell him I’ll sing him a Celine Delion song and wave to him as he sinks to the bottom of the Atlantic. Just kidding.

I walked around for days living too far into the future, speculating too much about whether or not I’d be the one in eight.

Then, I remembered the quote:

“To tell a man his future is to condemn him to one.”

That’s kind of what this news did. Maybe it didn’t mean to.

I assume their reasons for imparting this knowledge was to spar research, educate the masses, but I wonder if they know what they’ve done?

It doesn’t take long for the rebellious inner child to stand up and yell, “Hell no!” I’m not going without a fight.

I’ve already seen Alzheimer’s up close and personal with my mom. She had Parkinson’s for 15 years and Alzheimer’s for at least the last three years of her life. That’s when I brought her into my home, so I know how brutal it can get. What I’m not willing to face is a two, three, four decade old bully poking at me, taunting me, telling me over and over he’s gonna get me in the end.

Are you worried about getting Alzheimer’s too?

One thing I’ve done is to go ahead and play my own devil’s advocate.

So what if I get it? What will life be like?

Many scenarios here: I could be mean and belligerent. Doesn’t sound half bad, I’m kind of tired of being nice all the time.

If I just had one day where I told people what I really think…

It could be scary. That’s what I don’t want. To be on the edge. Nervous, agitated, restless to no end. Paranoid. Angry beyond consoling. To that, I say, drug me. Drug me in a stupor if you have to. By then, I promise you, I’ll have had a good life, and if it’s too awful for me or for you, then I give you permission to gork me out of my…mind. If the last couple of years are a throw away then so be it. If it’s painful to watch, then don’t.

Go live a big, bold, purpose-filled life. That’s the best way I can think of being honored.

I’ve told this to my husband and my girls and it’s going in the “important drawer.”

If you love me, then do something meaningful with your life–in my honor, if it makes you feel better.

But, if I’m just in la-la land, rambling around in the past, and I’m rather amiable, then let me enjoy it.

Don’t remind me who’s dead or that I’m nearly there myself. I don’t expect you to play along and mess up the delicate balance of reality you’ve scrambled for–just make me comfortable. If I think I’m sixteen, or twenty four, or forty-four, then let me enjoy it.

I learned the hard way with my mom that most people fear Alzheimer’s (both as caregivers and for themselves) because they can’t control it. It scares them, rattles their nerves. Their loved one acting “not like themselves,” angry, sexually explicit, fussy, playing in feces–it unnerves people. Is it really all that bad? My brain went kaflooey. It’s not a reflection of the kind of person I chose to be–we are in fact, what we choose. It’s not a reflection of our relationship or of you. It just happens.

Brains go haywire and you can’t control it any more than you can control your dreams, your nightmares, and all those random blips that you dare never admit or mention to anybody. It’s just random electrical spasms of disconnected thoughts and of all the other thoughts you’ve suppressed. We all have it inside us, don’t kid yourself. We have to eventually make peace with our humanity, and our lack of humanity.

We have to make peace with this base self, animalistic, driven, insatiable self.

This isn’t even the bad part.

Alzheimer’s does a lot more to the body and mind than simply making a person different or moody or playing in their poop. You think that’s your biggest hurdle at the time, it’s not.

The forgetting grows like a fertilized weed and it begins to invade a different part of the brain and a person’s life: recognizing not only those they love but even themselves and what it means to be here, recognizing objects like what to do with a spoon, what to do with the food someone placed in your mouth, or when your body forgets to take its next breath.

 That’s when you wish for your fiesty loved one to return to you–memory intact or not. We have to come to terms with this too, and this is much harder and deeper. This is when chaos collapses in on itself. This is when as a loved one, you get quiet. You stop talking about it all, complaining. You’ve shed so many tears you don’t have any left. 

This is Alzheimer’s.

I kidded with my girls on Easter Sunday. I told them if I have mild dementia or Alzheimer’s, that I want a dress-up box–with a fireman’s hat like I had as a child, and French beret (we always had a dress-up box when they were little) I want a boa, and lots of make up, and a yellow rain slicker and golashes. I want a cat, I’ve always had a kitty. I want paints and crafty things. I want my room filled with Van Goghs. I want to work in a garden. I want to dance. A lot. I want loud music and me in my boa and fireman hat clutching a bouquet of forget-me-nots and a kitty in a windowsill looking thoroughly disgusted with it all.

We laughed. They said they would. Then they argued as to who would get me. They said they all took their turns with Nanny (my mother). I told them if I had known that would do them in, (trust me, I was the primary caregiver, not them), then I’d have let her fend for herself (joke, we’re quite a facetious bunch).

Each of my daughters have their attributes. At my youngest daughter’s house, I’ll be a fashionista–coach purses and Italian scarves. She promised me we’d make tents in the living room out of sheets and blankets.

At my middle daughter’s house, she’ll clean out my ears and under my nails. My clothes will be folded neatly–neater than they’ve ever been folded. We’ll color a lot there, and I’ll finally be on time wherever she takes me.

My oldest daughter will feed me anything I want. She’s a candy-aholic. We’ll stay in our pjs and watch movies, and she will kick butt with doctors, let me tell you.

While all this is “play talk,” it’s a good way for families to start easing into the more serious conversations.

I do this on purpose. To open the doors. To make everything not seem so ominous.

We all have living wills. We kid about what we want, but we also have the serious stuff in writing–about sustaining life, feeding tubes, and issues no person should have to make for another.

Am I worried about getting Alzheimer’s? Sure, but I fight it.

Are you? It’s only natural, but I hope you find your own ways to work through some of the fears.

I hope you turn the light on the bully monster in the closet and let him know you don’t plan on being intimidated for the rest of your life.

As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, I know what to do to prevent it as best I can–but life’s still a crap shoot.

I think I’m better off concentrating on having some big adventures, some wild tales and daring feats.

If I’m going to eventually forget everything, I plan on having a lot to forget.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

www.kunati.com

Advertisements

Read Full Post »