Personal Essay
Slipping into Darkness
A parent’s journey into an abyss
A few years ago, my then eighty-three-year-old mother called me on my way home in Bay Area rush hour traffic. Before I could say hello, she said, “Guess where I am?”
“Okay, I’ll bite, where?”
“Los Angeles.”
“What?!”
She said she had driven to Los Angeles and was having breakfast at Denny’s on Wilshire and Vermont. Her doctor advised her not to travel on the freeway or at night at least five years prior.
I kept probing for a reasonable answer; “Come on mom, stop playing, no way you’re in L.A.”
“I’m serious,” she snapped. “I’ll call the waitress over — she’ll tell you.” The waitress confirmed my worst nightmare.
“Mom, are you crazy?”
“Yes, I think I’ve lost my mind.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I wanted to see if I could drive on the freeway.”
“You had to drive over 300 miles to figure that out?”
“I don’t know — I passed a sign that said 193 miles to Los Angeles and decided I’d keep going.”
“Mom, I can’t believe this, what were you thinking and what time did you leave?”
“I left around nine this morning. I thought I might go pick up my degree from Pepperdine.” My alma mater, not hers.
“Huh, Pepperdine?”
“I meant Temple,” she said. Mom attended Temple University in Philadelphia, but never graduated.
My mind raced, trying to make sense of her road trip in the middle of rush hour. My feeble attempt to remain calm sounded like a recording set to the slowest audio speed; “Okay mom, what’s your plan — do you have clothes and where are you going to stay?”
“No, all I have is my purse and a jacket — I’ll drive back tomorrow.” I advised her to stick around while I called to see if my aunt could pick her up from the restaurant. She refused, reasoning the time it would take, she’d already be at her house. At that point, I wasn’t sure if I was mad or panic-stricken. Maybe a little of both. I told her to go straight to my aunt’s house. She said okay and that she would call me as soon as she arrived.
I called my husband to relay the story. He laughed. I did too until I realized this was disturbing — something was amiss. Meanwhile, traffic ahead swirled into a kaleidoscope of metal and I felt like I entered the twilight zone.
The next day, I bought mom a one-way ticket back home and took her to the doctor. The entire story stunned him. He asked me to repeat the tale twice. I understood. I had the same reaction — a tilt, scratch your head kind of moment. It was out of character for mom. To look at her and listen to her speak, she seemed normal. He immediately referred us to a neurologist who after administering a few tests delivered the grim news.
Mom has Alzheimer’s dementia.
She apologized to me in the doctor’s office as if it were her fault. She could foresee becoming a burden to her only child. The doctor and I tried to reassure her while my heart felt suctioned out of my chest.
Since Alzheimer’s destroys the brain, it affects everyone differently. There isn’t a true timeline when symptoms appear or worsen. First, her lights went out because of an unpaid bill. Then she wasn’t able to complete paperwork for her health plan. One day, papers and old bills carpeted her living room floor like she was looking for something and gave up, frustrated. I noticed when we picked her up on the weekends she had on the same outfit every time — all very unusual. She’s the most organized fashionista I know.
Her cognitive ability has declined. It’s difficult for her to form complete sentences — she repeats whatever I say. She stares at the television as if she’s confused. When I ask if she understands what’s going on, she says no.
Now that the pandemic is an additional layer of concern, I am her sole caregiver. It never occurred to me that I would take care of my mother like an infant. Managing her life and mine is double duty. It is the hardest thing I’ve had to deal with so far. I try to keep her engaged with family pictures and talking her through events in her life I think she would remember. Most of the time if I ask her a question, the answer is “I don’t know, or I don’t remember.” All she does is sleep, eat, poop — repeat. My heart is heavy.
Anxiety pulsates through my body when I visualize the next phase of her life. I ask myself how this poster child for feminism will navigate her shifting reality. Mom left Philadelphia at twenty-one in 1955 and traveled across country alone. When she arrived in California, she had one friend to call. Six years later she cheated death in a tragic car accident that left her with a broken neck. The surgeon gave her a fifty percent chance of never walking again.
Mom walked out of that hospital over sixty years ago. Despite physical and emotional scars she wears like a badge of honor. If she were a superhero, defiance would be her power. She’ll fight, but this will be the one battle she will not win.
Feelings of inadequacy stalk me like a black panther in the still of night. How will my role help shape her journey through this debilitating disease? I’m haunted by a daily fear that creeps into my psyche; when I’m with her, when I go to sleep at night or wake up in the morning. It’s ticking in the background.
I realize projecting into a future that has yet to come is futile. Experience is teaching me one day at a time. Stay in the here and now is my mantra. As her memory fades into a blank canvas I am reminded that all we have is the present moment. For that, I am thankful.
