My mother, Effie Johnson, was second generation Alzheimer’s. Her mother, Emma Sue (for whom I was named) died from Alzheimer’s when she was 87 years old in 1986, in the same nursing home in Jackson, Mississippi where my mother would spend the final eight years of her life. I remember watching my mother care for “Mamaw” and wondering what our future might bring.
Twenty years later, in 2006, I moved Mother into assisted living. My father had died of cancer in 1998, leaving Mother alone. After eight years of watching her gradual decline and taking on more of her day-to-day responsibilities, especially her finances, I offered first to move her in with us—which she declined—and second to move her to Memphis to an assisted living home. She begged me to let her stay in Jackson, which I did. This meant I would spend the next ten years making the 400-mile round trip to participate in her caregiving, although she did have help, first in assisted living, and finally in a nursing home. Continue reading →
About ten years ago my life took a turn. I guess you would say it took a turn for the worse, but really, it just changed. I was in my mid-twenties, living in London and working in fashion. My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in his early 60s, and within the year, I had moved back to small-town south Wales to help my mum look after him.
His decline was swift, his actions included (at the start) repetition of stories, misplacing items, and accidentally putting on Mum’s cardigan to go to the shops – so far, standard! He had really mellowed and was fairly stoic and philosophical about the illness, often making jokes about his forgetfulness, even though it must have been terrifying for him. Then life took a turn for the “even worse.” Mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer and passed away just three months after I moved home. The effect this had on dad was profound and catastrophic. The seismic shift in the family dynamic tipped him right over the edge. By this point, my older brother was also in residence, but still we couldn’t give dad the level of care he needed. One day he mistook me for a burglar and came at me with a knife. It was at this point that we had to seek more help and Dad went into a care home. Continue reading →