As I was growing up, my parents were in pretty good physical health. Both were very active in the community. My mom did regular volunteer work, even serving for a time on the national board of the Canadian Save the Children Fund, while raising two children: me and my younger, adopted brother, Paul. My dad was a bookkeeper for a local paint company who, after he retired, became active in the Kiwanis and United Way.
When my mom was diagnosed, it was with "probable Alzheimer's" – "probable" because a diagnosis could be confirmed only when an autopsy showed the hallmark plaques and tangles in the brain. Blood work had ruled out other possible causes of her dementia-like symptoms, including Parkinson's disease, stroke and thyroid problems. A Mini-Mental State Examination and a more extensive cognitive exam also suggested Alzheimer's.
Mom accepted her illness and her increasing limitations with grace. Dad dropped everything to care for her. He tenderly bathed her, washed her clothes, fed her, sat with her and rarely left her side. When he had to go out, I took over, but it was difficult; his absences only made her anxious. She would continually ask when he was coming home.
Typical of Alzheimer's patients, my mom suffered several "deaths." Almost every day, the disease took away another little piece of her mind. There was also the physical death; she died in her sleep on Sept. 14, 1999, at the age of 85. The official cause was old age. (Alzheimer's is rarely the direct cause of death, but it makes people more vulnerable to other illnesses, especially pneumonia.)
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