Friends and family who have experienced the progression of Alzheimer’s disease say that things get a lot easier once the person with the disease stops remembering.
I can definitely see how that can be the case. People with the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease are often combative and difficult to deal with. As example, I offer my own experiences as caretaker for my grandmother.
In the early days of the disease, she was very defensive about gaps in her memory. If she couldn’t remember something, it was because nobody had told her. Sometimes, her brain would come up with a story that made sense to cover the gap. I remember one time I was going to spend the day with friends in Philly. But when I got home that evening, she asked me how New York was — she hadn’t remembered that I was going to Philly. Instead, her mind concocted a day trip to New York City to see a play — a logical explanation that was relatively similar to what actually happened.
She was also very resistant to doctor visits and treatment plans (like “old lady jail”). I can see how taking care of her will be much easier once she’s not quite so argumentative. But reaching that stage also means that the last of what makes my grandmother the person I remember growing up will be gone. I know it’s been disappearing slowly over the last few years, stolen by the failing connections in her brain.
I remember one evening, I was upstairs in my room and my grandmother was dozing in front of the television after dinner. Suddenly, I hear her voice calling, “Mom? Mom?”
I ran downstairs. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
She was nearly in tears. “I can’t find Mom.” Her mother passed away ten years ago, and I tried to be gentle as I reminded her of that. We went into the den and sat down on the couch together. “I must have been dreaming,” she said.
But then she looked at me, and for a moment, she knew what was going on. “I’m losing it, aren’t I?” The look on my face must have been answer enough, and she burst into tears. So did I.