Mom, Alzheimer’s, and Me

My mother and I as a little girl in Puerto Rico.

When Dad called me on that fateful January 10th, 2001, I breathed a sigh of relief. It’s not that the news did not move me. It did. But, my mother had been ‘dead’ for years, you see – only now it was official.

Mom lived the last ten years of her life trapped in the quagmire of Alzheimer’s disease. At first, she forgot the most basic things about her daily routine. She would forget where she left her keys and failed to recall turning off the stove. Forgetting things disturbed her; it was a feeling of distress that no one was able to assuage. As she gradually lost her memory, she eventually opted not to leave her home, the only place she truly knew and felt safe in.

That was only the beginning. As time went by––slowly at first, then a faster pace––she started mistaking names, dates, and even failed to recognize family members. Confusion led to more forgetfulness. Her physical decline became evident. Once a young, stunningly beautiful woman, with caramel color eyes, pale skin with light freckles, elegant, as well as smart, ––she slowly withered away, ravaged by the disease.

I was her firstborn. She was 38 when she delivered me. Back in those days, she was considered an old woman to start raising a family. She was a loving “mama” and she cared, but even as a young child, I perceived that being a mother and a housewife overwhelmed her. She looked to me like a trapped animal.

I never saw her happy. I don’t recall seeing her laugh out loud––ever. I remember slight smiles. Sometimes, I would notice her crying or sobbing in secret. Other times, she would pray, and listen to tango, with lyrics marked by nostalgia, sadness, and laments for lost love. I imagine these songs transported her to a safe place, insulated from the pain and frustration of everyday life.

Alzheimer’s would one day come and take her memory away––and her pain, as well.