Last night I got the saddest, scariest email from my dad. My parents were dog-sitting a terrier named Oliver for some neighbors in their retirement community. Everything was going well. My mother took Oliver for a walk, and then she returned to the apartment…
I asked her where Oliver was and she did not know what I was talking about. I pressed her, and she vaguely recalled taking him out but did not know where he was or what she had done with him.
When I read this, my heart fell into my stomach. More precisely, I had three simultaneous reactions:
- Terror: What the fuck did she do with the dog??? My parents frequently take care of my dog, who is often the only thing tethering me to this life. What is there to keep my mom from losing my dog too?
- Vindication: Every time I visit my parents, there is a fight about this very issue. I will not let my mother walk my dog until she proves that she has her cell phone on her and that it is turned on. I am terrified that my mom will get lost and not be able to find her way back. At least if she has the phone…well, let’s be honest, it just means that a kindly stranger who searches her person might be able to call us, because my mom often looks at her phone like it’s a moon rock. Anyway, every time–Every. Single. Time.–it is a struggle to find the phone. We have a locator device for this purpose, but sometimes I have to search the pockets of a dozen sweaters and jackets in the closet before the phone turns up. Meanwhile, my mother becomes enraged at the implication that she is not capable of walking a dog without intervention. She hurls accusations–you think I’m a blithering idiot, you don’t respect me, you don’t love me–but, every time, I stand firm. And every time, I end up feeling like an asshole. Not anymore.
- Sadness: Beyond sad. For my mom, for me, but mostly for my dad, who is losing his love of 50+ years one missing cell phone/purse/dog at a time. He sounds so defeated. When I asked him how he felt about her decline, he said, “Well, I guess it’s just part of the marriage deal.”
What happened? He thought she would be ok walking the dog by herself, and he just wanted 20 minutes alone to go to the dining room to fetch their dinner in peace.
I already cannot allow her to go to the dining room alone. She goes with a list that says buy A, B, and C but brings home X, Y, and Z. Or she becomes confused by the menu offerings or gets into an argument with the manager over whether or not corn is a vegetable. Her short-term memory loss seems to be escalating. Today she had no idea what to do with the trash or recycling. Her world is shrinking by the day.
And she knows it. That is the horror of Alzheimer’s Disease. Initially, at least, you know the totality of what you don’t know. It must be terrifying, like waking up stupid-hungover in a strange place with no idea how you got there–several times a day. Being around my mom is kind of like the movie “Groundhog Day,” except that her story doesn’t reset after 24 hours. It resets every couple of minutes, and when it does, she’s lost your dog.
I can’t tell which is the greater fear–that my mom will lose my dog or kill her altogether. My mom likes to sneak my dog people food as a form of rebellion against what she imagines to be my dictatorial rule. But we’re not talking about bits of cheese or meat, we’re talking about slabs of chocolate cake so large they would kill my 12-pound pup. Despite loving my dog immensely, my mom has also looked right at her and said, “Whose dog is that?” One time my mom tried to return my dog to a neighbor’s apartment, but thankfully my dad caught her in time. So, with good reason, I live in fear that I will lose my dog at my mother’s hand. And then I will lose my family, because I will never be able to forgive her for that.
It turns out that Oliver’s owners returned home while my mom was walking him, and they ran into each other outside. Oliver was surely glad to see his mommy and daddy, and my mom enthusiastically handed him over. Then she returned to her apartment–which is a goddam miracle in and of itself, because at some undetermined point in the future, she won’t be able to find it anymore. By the time she rode the elevator one floor and walked perhaps 60 paces to her front door, she forgot not only that she had returned Oliver, but that he had ever existed in the first place.
As far as my mom was concerned, the world was born the moment she walked in the door.