Before Alzheimer's: The Diagnosis

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CHAPTER 1

Before my mother became ill"...

My Mom was one of the most vibrant, loving people I had ever known.  She was outgoing, classy, artistic, and extraordinarily creative. She loved to paint and was a published 20th century master painter.  She could make almost anything beautiful. She treated people with kindness and respect, and she did not have a prejudiced bone in her body. I never heard her use foul language. She was simply a lovely woman, and people were naturally drawn to her.

She was also strikingly beautiful. Her eyes were an unusual yellow-green, and they

were absolutely stunning. But there was something beyond her physical beauty. She

had a presence about her - an energy that made life feel more colorful and exciting.

From the time I was very young, I clung to my mother. I wanted to be wherever she

was. Her life was filled with creativity, fascinating people, celebrities and new experiences, and I

wanted to be part of all of it.  As I grew older, she became more than my mother. She became 

my closest friend and, in many ways, my soulmate.

My mother had always been spiritual. As she grew older, she became deeply

interested in metaphysics. She was also a licensed psychic and believed she had

possessed psychic abilities since childhood. Her parents had punished her for talking

about the things she saw and experienced.

Because of that, there may have been early symptoms of her illness that I did not

recognize. When she spoke about seeing people or sensing other entities, I assumed

it was part of her metaphysical beliefs. I did not yet understand that something might

be happening inside her brain.

At the time, I lived in Palm Desert, California, while my mother lived in Sedona,  Arizona, where she had made her home for several years.

When I was around forty, I drove to Sedona to visit her. The moment she opened the

door, I knew something was wrong. She had lost a significant amount of weight and

looked as though she had not been eating properly.

That evening, she made me a sandwich, placed it in a bowl, and drenched it in salad

dressing. It was so unlike her that I immediately knew something was off.

I contacted several of her close friends and told my mother that I wanted her to come

back to Palm Desert with me. I said we would go to the doctor and find out what was

happening.

We eventually saw a neurologist at Eisenhower Medical Center in Rancho Mirage, CA. After examining her and reviewing her brain scan, the neurologist told us that the findings were consistant with Azheimer's disease.

The news was devastating.

We were both in shock. I drove her home, and she cried quietly. My mother rarely

cried in front of me. Although she was deeply compassionate and sensitive, she

usually kept her tears private. She had also battled severe depression throughout her

life, and I imagine she had spent many hours crying alone where no one could see

her.

Later, we sat outside on the patio, as we had done so many times before. We loved

sitting around the table, sharing a glass of wine and talking. She was so much fun to

be with.

That evening, however, our conversation was different.

We talked about what the doctor had told us and what she wanted for her future. She

said she wished to remain at home as long as possible. If she ever had to enter a care

facility, she wanted it to be a small, private home with perhaps ten other artists or

creative people who shared her condition. She imagined them talking, painting, and

remaining creative together.

I looked at her and made a promise.

"You will not go into a home," I told her. "I will take care of you for as long as it takes."

She was deeply grateful.

Neither of us understood what that promise would eventually require.