She said she’d been sad, but her sadness was not new. Her mom had died a long, slow death in many ways. With Alzheimer’s patients, you lose a little bit of the person slowly, over time. They start to forget little things, and then larger ones. In the beginning, they realize they’re forgetting how to do things and get increasingly frustrated or sad. As they struggle, you feel a bit helpless, too. They can tell you what they were doing as a nine-year-old, but don’t recall what they ate for breakfast.
As hard as things could be, there was still much joy. One time she brought her a peach from a nearby stand. My grandma took a large bite and smiled at her.
“It’s delicious, Linny!” she exclaimed.
Then they start to forget who people are. This is perhaps the hardest part. Everything changes, but slowly.
She remembered feeling particularly sad when my grandmother stopped using the phone. “You know, I couldn’t just call her up anymore and ask her how her day was going,” she said to me. It was something she’d cherished.
I’m still getting to know my mom. And now, after hearing her story, every time I pick up the phone and have a conversation with her, I think about it differently. I call it newfound treasure.
Today I’m calling up my mom for no particular reason. Just to say hello because I can.
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