Hiatus

I will be on hiatus for about a month -- we are taking a magnificent trip overseas. The decision to go was based in part on mom's diagnosis. Life is short. Seize the day. It sounds trite, or did, until now.

Dumbed down

Mom is on a cocktail of drugs for a variety of symptoms: Aricept, supposedly to help her short-term memory issues; and now Namenda, which is supposed to slow her decline in thinking and behavior, whatever that means.

The docs didn't give her SSRI's (serotonin re-uptake inhibitors), which are commonly prescribe for FLD, because they don't think her disease is related to depression, or that she shows depression symptoms. I'm not sure if I disagree, because her decline seems to follow a progression since the death of my grandmother; at first, she grieved. Then she was at loose ends as to what to do with all her spare time, as my grandmother demanded her every spare second.

Then she was busy establishing her vacation home with my Dad. Once that was finished, and quiet reigned...that's when all of this started. As if the silence opened a door.

I suppose the drugs are working; she has fewer inappropriate verbal outbreaks. But at the same time, they seem to have rendered her catatonic. I used to be able to get some kind of response from her -- maybe with some coaxing, but I could get a response, or a laugh. Now she responds mainly to the kids and to our cats, often with a very strange, hoarse laugh I don't recognize.

When I dropped an open container of salt on the kitchen floor last week, with predictable results, she didn't respond at all to my scream and loud wail of despair. Before, she would have laughed. "You idiot!" and then come over to help. Now, nothing. I do think she was amused, somewhere inside, but she didn't show it. Even when I threw a pinch over my left shoulder for good measure.

Same thing when the kids and I spied a big bug in the bathroom, and exited en masse, screaming like the Devil was nipping at our hindquarters. No verbal response. But I think she chuckled internally. Maybe I'm making it up, projecting my own memories on to this shell of a person. But I don't think so. Not yet.

What do we tell the kids?

A friend said something priceless to me about reading this blog: "Just reading about her made me want to be a better mother, to cherish every minute I have with [my son] and count it as a blessing and to have yet more patience with him."

First, I'm thrilled that these writings have any kind of effect on anyone. But more importantly, it made me realize that this whole mess has actually made me a better mother, too. What if I've inherited this awful disease, and it kicks in soon? I'm 44 already. I've heard stories about folks coming down with it at 48, abominably.

So I've tended more to the little things since getting the awful news about my mom. I'm more patient. I read to the kids, something I was too lazy to do after they gained a certain level of competency. I'm a better daughter, too; I call my mom more often; I try to humor my dad's OCD.


A week or two ago I arrived at the point at which I started considering how to tell my own primary-school-age kids about Mom's illness. My partner wanted to let it ride, as is his common response to many things in life, but I didn't think it quite fair. I'm taking advantage of knowing by getting every last hug in, by showering my mom with treats. Why should my kids be denied any chance to remember Nana as they knew her?


One of my daughters in particular was very attached to Mom, almost bizarrely so -- would coo and smile in her presence and, later, have hysterics when Mom left. It made me think she imprinted to her as an infant, or whatever the heck they call it -- Mom sure held the kid enough. They're not as close now; my parents moved down south and the kids have many pursuits competing for their attention. But still, I wondered how she would react.

In the end, I wimped out a little. "Nana's sick," I said. "Haven't you noticed she's not really herself lately? And you know how she used to steal your candy? That's because her brain isn't working quite right." I stopped short of talking about the death sentence frontal lobe dementia really is. One kid took it quite well; the other, the close one, was upset, but only for a few minutes.

Which made me upset. I know they're too young to appreciate the gravity of what's going down, but I hope they will realize, someday, the preciousness of what they have lost. I don't dwell on it, though. I just nudge them over for one extra hug when Nana comes to visit.