My mom was’t crazy. She had Alzheimer’s.

“I will never get my licence”, I forget”… 

It was spring, 1992. I didn’t realize it at the time, but those eight words would dictate the direction my life for the next 25 years and beyond. At the time, my father was in the hospital  recovering from heart surgery. His prognosis was bleak; we were told he only had a few years to live. My mom on the other hand was as healthy as women half her age, so I figured she should learn to drive so she could maintain her independence.  Where was her first driving lesson?  At the cemetery where many of my relatives are buried, of course!  

Like me, my mom was born in the mountains of Greece. When she was a little girl the Nazis burned down her village. She shared a pair of shoes with her three sisters, and married a shepherd.  Caring for her young family without running water or electricity was a hard life.  At 40 years old, she came to the United States without a word of English or any money. From the nuns in the mountains of Greece, to the girl scout girls that came to her door, she loved everyone and would help in anyway that she could.  In her tiny kitchen she would feed an army of relatives and friends on New years Day every year. At seventy five she was up two stories high cleaning out the gutters with my dad leaning on his cane “holding” the ladder for her. She was minutes away from passing away in 2001 from the West Nile Virus. As the doctor was ushering me out of the ICU I asked him if I should call the family. He nodded yes. Over eight hundred people were diagnosed with the virus in Illinois that year and 67 died, many in our neighborhood. Two hours later she was arm wrestling the doctor.

In 1999 we took my mom to Rush Memory Clinic in Chicago, where she was examined by a doctor who put her through a quick test. “Dimitra, I want you to listen to the following three words. In a few minutes I will ask you to repeat them.”  I still remember them vividly, “table, apple, penny.”  The doctor proceeded to ask what was the season and the year.  Not only did my mom not know the season, or year, she had also forgotten the three words originally mentioned by the doctor. His diagnosis was quick and decisive; she had Alzheimer’s and would probably only live a few more years. Another grave prediction that didn’t come true since she live 14 years with Alzheimer’s. 

Like my mom, my dad was a tough guy. Running around mountains most of your life will do that. Instead of the couple years that the doctors were giving him, he lived eighteen. He drove until the end, so ultimately there was no reason for my mom to learn to drive. In her sixties she began showing signs of forgetfulness and many other odd behaviors. Among her odd symptoms, she became fond of alcohol, yes she started drinking, and asking my father for money. Her temper grew and she even threatened my dad a few times, something we took lightly as their relationship was always playful. She would say, “I worked, I have my pension, I want my money!”  

On one particular afternoon, the lovely Soozie and I were driving in Chicago when I received a call from my dad. He was distraught and couldn’t take it anymore; my mom was demanding more money. My response was for him to just give it to her. My dad said he gave her money daily, but didn’t know what she did with it. After the conversation had ended, my wife knew something was wrong even though she didn’t understand Greek. I was hesitant to discuss the situation, simply stating it was my dad complaining that my mom was driving him up a wall.  Eventually I filled my wife in, at which time she chuckled and told me she knew where the money was. It turns out my mom needed her own money to feel comfortable, and had stashed a secret pile of money under the carpet in her closet. She had let the lovely Soozie in on her secret and her theories on women’s independence a while back. Apparently my mom had been told long ago by her mom that a woman needed to have a private source of money that her husband didn’t necessarily need to know about just for emergencies.  These are the daily challenges facing those who care for Alzheimer’s patients. 

My dad  loved his wife. They were best friends and spent every minute together. During their courtship, while he was in the army, he would send love letters to her addressed to his cousin’s  taylor shop with an X signed on the bottom. Their most serious “arguments” had to do with where to put the chicken in the fridge, or when to harvest the tomatoes. After her diagnosis no one cared for her as well as he did, even though he was battling his own various illnesses and was constantly spending short stints in the hospital. He always had her multitude of pills in order and would pass on her pill boxes to us when he went into the hospital.  

So what is Alzheimer’s? In laymen’s terms I would define it as a disease that attacks the brain. It is the most common form of dementia. Dementia is another word for a decline in mental ability severe enough to interfere with daily life. There is no cure for Alzheimer’s as of this writing, although neuroscience research is moving at a rapid pace to develop more effective treatments.  This clinical definition was something not easy for my family to comprehend; in fact, we struggled many years with the meaning and consequences. My parents continued living their lives, including travelling to Greece for four or five months out of the year. Eventually my father’s medical conditions caught up with him and he passed away – and that’s when we encountered the full frontal assault — of Alzheimer’s. 

Dealing with my mom without my dad is a whole other story – one you’ll read about in the next article.

On June 21, 2014 I participated in The Longest Day.  I covered 60 miles on my bicycle from 5am to midnight, stopping along the way and visiting with people that have dealt with ALZ. The money I raised goes to the Alzheimer’s Association. This is a disease that is near and dear to my heart and diagnoses of new cases increases every year, so please consider donating a few dollars to this worthy cause.

See you on the bike path,

Unkle Bill

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