There were many activities over the course of Mom’s – well, here I sit pondering what to call this beast.  Is Alzheimer’s an illness?  But to call it an illness makes it sound like it is the Measles, Flu, or Chicken Pox – something one endures for a while and before going back to enjoying a life of wellness.  For the afflicted person, there is no going back; only going on.

If I’d only been able to be more proactive instead of reactive, perhaps I’d have fared better.  It always seemed as though I was running full-tilt-boogey trying to stop an out of control train that was spiraling down an icy track.  I felt as though I was always flailing, scrambling, out of breath and behind.  The reality of this disease, which is a better word than illness, is that it manifests in an individual manner.  No two people will have the exact experience but they may very well share similarities.  Now, I’m certainly no expert; the previous statements are based on some of my reading.  It makes sense.  We all bring our unique pasts to the game.

Sidebar over, back to what I intended to relate: there were so many activities Mom and I used to share that became impossible as time went on.  Some naturally slipped away: the Netflix movies we enjoyed, TV shows, discussing some of the same mysteries we read, working crossword puzzles, Yahtzee – she loved Yahtzee, working in the yard, taking care of our cats and so many more things that just invisibly ended with no definitive event.  Then there were activities, like going food shopping, which became major trials before finally becoming impossible for us to undertake together.

The last time we did go food shopping together was certainly  a significant emotional event for me.  A lump comes into my throat as I think about it now, a few years later.  What I didn’t know that day was that what transpired was a sneak preview, a mere hint of what was coming; it wasn’t pretty.

If only [oh those proverbial words] I’d had the presence of mind to abort the outing and just redirected our energy to something else that day….  The flags were flying but I just kept pushing to tick that task off the list.  When every day is a struggle to accomplish anything; you begin grasping at any opportunity no matter how small.

Probably I should frame this with more surrounding information.  During these days, unbeknownst to me, Mom was slipping into the sun downing syndrome.  That was not a term I’d ever heard at that time.  But my observation was that she would stay up until all hours at night until I’d finally stagger off to bed too tired to keep trying to get her to bed.  After sleeping fitfully for a few hours, I’d be up early in the morning taking care of the cats and whatever else needed tending to until I reasoned it was time to begin the struggle to coax her out of bed.  This might go on for hours.  Sometimes it was 1pm or so before I could get her to eat breakfast.

We were both exhausted. Her medication schedule was all screwed up.  My frustration was mounting with feelings of isolation, the inability to control any part of my life and the struggle to achieve even the simplest of tasks; some fundamentally crucial for our day-to-day existence – like food shopping.

My Dad, as I believe I may have already mentioned in earlier posts, had spent his life in the military and Mom, his widow, was entitled to certain privileges.  One of the remaining privileges was shopping at both the Commissary and Post Exchange on the military base.  Just like any store, one had to watch pricing but overall, it was somewhat less expensive to purchase groceries on base.  More importantly, it was extremely convenient at less than 2 miles from our house.

Mom had a heart condition and was not supposed to lift more than 10 pounds.  Her doctor wrote a note so I could obtain an assistance card which allowed me to accompany her to the commissary and help her shop.  This had been in place for some few years prior to the AD onset.

Some of the shopping trips leading up to this particular day had been uncomfortable; Mom acting oddly while we were there.  I attributed this behavior to the strong fluorescent lighting and the way the sound reverberated in that huge space.  No doubt, I thought, these things bothered her cataract-corrected vision and hearing aid respectively.  She had previously made non-descript complaints during our visits which I couldn’t really pin to anything tangible.

This day, we were getting ready to leave; we were both dressed and ready to go with our list in hand.  We needed her military ID card to gain access to the base, since 9-11 the base which had previously been open, was now closed.  No one was [and it’s still this way] allowed access without proper identification which must be shown to guards at the check points.  I went to her room to get her purse and found her wallet missing.  This became a recurring issue until I finally removed important documents or items from her possession and placed them in a secure spot where they could be found as needed.

But, this fateful day, her empty purse was all I found.  Tick-tock, tick-tock, is all I could think as I pulled my heart up out of my shoes.  The time was speeding away and I had no idea where she had hidden her ID card or her check card so we could pay for the groceries.  We both had a check card, one for each of us, in each our names for our joint account.  This had been one of the things Mom, when she first realized she had AD, wanted taken care of so we did – Thank God!  However, to check out at the commissary, the name on the card had to match the name on the ID card so my check card could not be used.

Therefore it was imperative to find both of her cards but where oh where had she hidden them?  Mom would go through moments or longer periods of time in the day when she did not know who I was and she believed that I was there to rob her.  During this early period of her AD, I really had no idea that’s what was going on in her mind.  But, looking back, I now understand why she would sometimes want me to leave.  When I’d try to explain who I was and that I lived there; she usually did not believe me.  Once she made me show her my driver’s license and she still would not believe me.  

In trying to locate where she’d put her things, I looked through all the places I could think of.  Finally, after an extensive search, I found her wallet but no cards.  The wallet only contained a few pictures and business cards.  We were both pretty stressed trying to find them and she began whining and wailing over the situation.  All I could do was to keep reassuring her that they were somewhere in the house and we would find them which, ultimately, I did.  They were tucked in a drawer under the paper lining in the drawer.  Phew!  We’d lost a good bit of time but could still go shopping.  My bad!

She immediately demanded to have possession of the cards telling me that I could not have them because I was not military, only military people could have an ID card.  The fact that she wasn’t technically military either eluded her.  She was considered my Dad’s dependent.  But, I shut my mouth.

This is the point at which I should have thought, stop while you’re ahead.  We could shop tomorrow.  But, oh, no, we just sailed on to the commissary.

She was narky but we managed to get to the commissary without further incident and began the process.  However, soon enough she was acting even more oddly than ever.  First, she took the list away from me.  She was beyond annoyed that I was with her.  Any suggestion I offered was quickly put down so I carefully followed her like a well-mannered servant.

We wound our way up and down aisles, finally finding ourselves in the cat food area.  Surprisingly she allowed me to pick out cat food and litter but not the full amount we really needed.  I tried to be as quiet and compliant as I could so as not to inflame whatever what going on.

Very shortly she began complaining that she didn’t feel well, she was light-headed.  I suggested she sit and rest; I could go ahead and finish collecting the groceries and then we’d go through the check out when she felt better.  NO!

We pressed on and soon she began saying that she had been poisoned, that I had poisoned the coffee she had before we left.  She became riveted on her conclusion and got herself very worked up over it.  She became loud and abusive toward me commenting loudly about how I’d poisoned her coffee.  By now we were up near the dairy area where the store had placed a large display filled with packages of Oreo cookies.  She gave it a good sound kick!  Heads turned; people were beginning to take notice.  A startled little boy looked with big eyes in my direction.

Whipping out my cell phone I quickly dialed my brother who I believed was working on base for a few hours, as luck would have it.  But, my call went to voice mail – of course.  I called his [grown] son and asked if he knew where his Dad was hoping he was with him.  But he was working over in PA.  This was Saturday so I’d hoped one of them might be available.  Also because it was the weekend, the commissary was pretty crowded – oh happy day!  More people were now glancing as Mom continued being even more provocative giving the display another whack.

I started to call my brother again but my phone rang – he was returning my call after listening to my pitiful message starting with “HELP!”  I briefed him about how I’d poisoning our Mother while he suppressed a laugh – easy for him – and I gave Mom my phone.  She was very distrustful of me.  She snatched the phone and walked away so I couldn’t make out what she was saying.  Before she moved out of earshot, I heard her beginning an angry tirade.  Ultimately he was able to get her to listen.  He was the one person who was almost always able to calm her.

While they spoke, I perched on the edge of that Oreo display feeling emotionally congested and pondering options.  First I thought about putting everything in the cart back on the shelves.  Or, we were close to finishing our list; maybe I could find those last few items real fast.  There was always the possibility of leaving the cart to the poor store personnel who’d be stuck with the odious task of returning all the items to their rightful places.

But the thought I pondered longest and hardest; the one I was having difficulty letting go and the one with the most appeal was to give into an almost insuppressible feeling to simply walk away.  In my delicious fantasy I saw myself leaving, getting into the car and driving and driving and driving far away.  I would just leave her there and go somewhere quiet and peaceful.

I took a deep breath and checked to see where she was and what she was doing.  She was moving back toward me and offering me the phone.  The look on her face had changed.  My brother had been successful this time and she understood now vaguely who I was.  By the look on her face it was evident she felt embarrassed, upset with herself.  How that look broke my heart!  She handed me the phone and he and I arranged that when we got home, I’d give him a call and he’d stop by.

She took over my perch on the display while I finished gathering the few things left on our list.  We went through checkout without further issues and arrived home and back to our warped normal.  He stopped by later for a visit and the incident was behind us.

But this episode forced me to obtain documentation necessary for me to have proper credentials to go on the base alone.  I would shop for her without her being required to be with me.  She could not be left alone but usually a neighbor would stay with her.  Never again would we go food shopping together.

My first solo trip was full of sadness; my heart heavy filled with the memories of all our trips there together: watching Mom select the most perfect broccoli crowns, our inane chatter as we filled our cart or me patiently waiting while she stopped to speak with people she knew.  Yes, she had worked in this commissary for many years and knew lots of the people — those she’d worked with as well as customers.  They would stop me and ask where she was. They’d tell me they missed her too.  But that chapter was now closed.

This trip marked an ending and a beginning.  The shift had begun.  More and more from then on we did less as equal participants.  My caregiver role grew until our roles reversed: once her child, now her parent.