Alzheimer's and Mom: Of the living and the breathing dead

I made one of my two weekly calls to my folks today and realized, belatedly, that my last meaningful, even understandable conversation with my mother was sometime in the past.

Truth be told, it probably was a couple years ago.

My folks are in Assisted Living in Spokane, Washington. Mom has Alzheimer's disease, a form that has rapidly deteriorated her ability to reason, understand or even speak without referring to every noun as "that place" or "that thing." 

 

Half the time, she has to think hard to remember who I am, her only son. The other half of the time, she thinks I am her grandson, or her brother, John.

She has forgotten how to use the phone, and as her vocabulary has evaporated along with her ability to think, the conversations have disappeared.

Two years ago, Mom could talk your ear off. If I called home, I knew I needed to have emptied the bladder beforehand, because 45 minutes was a short conversation.

She was articulate, interested, sharp. This is the woman who got me through math in high school, for crying out loud.

Now, she doesn't know the difference between $100 bills and a quarter, she has forgotten how to use a washer, or the TV remote; she gets lost in the hallways of their facility, and floods their unit regularly when she tries to wash clothes in the sink . . . and leaves the water running.

All that is left for her are emotions, and a resolute stubbornness. That stubbornness got her through a childhood that saw her going to work at 15 to help support a Montana preacher's family of 14. . . and raise her own family during times of hardship and too little joy.

And now with Mom 85, my 62-year-old developmentally disabled big sister -- who has the mental faculties of a 4-5 year old and lives in a group home -- has more on the ball.

I hate Alzheimer's. It has robbed me of my mother, while leaving behind a poor, fading reflection of her.

In all the ways that matter, my mother -- the vibrant, optimistic, natively intelligent person she was -- has not-so-gradually passed away. All that is left in a breathing, emaciated shell of a confused woman, a shadow, a wraith that bears her name.

All that is left is to love her, on an increasingly primal level. Even her ability to return love is fading, as her world continues to implode, retreating back to . . . what? A psychic womb? A spiritual ovum?

Where has she gone? How do I find her?

No answers. Just faith that what is Katherine Powell Mims is being safeguarded in the arms of the Eternal, to live again.

Maybe the best 'revenge' really is forgiving?

I could only laugh, with not a little bitterness -- tempered by the survivalist humor I've learned to cultivate as an observer of human nature -- when I read of a columnist in my home state of Washington citing commentary on his writings as part of the reason he's hanging it up.
More to the point, Steve Kelley of the Seattle Times referred to the tendency of commenters, protected by anonymity, to slither into the depths of human meanness, cyber-stalking and character assassination. This has become predominant in many of the so-called "public forums" newspapers provide online for their articles.
Most papers have moderators assigned to identify and delete the most egregious comments, and some commenters even get the boot for repeated personal attacks, profanity, racism or bigotry. But it is an easy thing for them to recreate themselves with new "handles" and resume their diatribes.
Such is the case with a former boss of mine. Almost 15 years after I tendered by resignation and left him in his black cloud of impotent rage, the man periodically shows up under various identities. At one point, a moderator at our paper found he had created no less than six identities to comment negatively on every story I wrote.
Each account was terminated and yet he would return. Eventually, his IP addresses were identified and blocked. But it is no difficult thing to change IP addresses, and he has. His most recent identity was that of a faux female, but as always, his bipolar (diagnosed) arrogance was his undoing. Too many little hints dropped in comments here and there.
This time, though, I have asked his account not be deleted. Part of the reason is realization that doing that only feeds his anger and desire for retribution for imagined wrongs. But the larger reason is pity.
His unrelenting hatred, expressed in the comments, gives me regular practice at forgiving. And in a world where so many people act on perceived slights to the harm of themselves and others, at least this is a real, repeated offense.
Life gives us malevolent mysteries, does it not? Instances where we endure the ill-will of someone and never quite figure out, Why?
Sometimes, there is no answer. There is no logic to mental illness, no reasoning with psychosis. So, what else is there to do but forgive?
Maybe Kelley has his own cyber-stalkers and has just decided enough is enough.
As he puts it: “The level of discourse has become so inane and nasty. And it’s not just at the Times, it’s ESPN, everywhere – people, anonymous people, take shots at the story, writers, each other. Whatever you’ve achieved in that story gets drowned out by this chorus of idiots.”
I understand the sentiment. Still, I have to work for a living: Too many people depend on me to just give up.
And, it's just not my nature.
What goes around, comes around. That will happen all by itself; I don't need to push it along.
So, I will continue to forgive. It's been well past Christ's "seventy times seven," in this case.
But the lesson was this: Strike back, hold hatred or offense, and you not only feel the pain of the blow, but you allow it to cripple you spiritually.
And the lesson is this, now: To one for whom much has been forgiven, much forgiveness is expected.
That's me.