My 80-year-old mother has Alzheimer’s, a brain disease that causes a slow decline in memory, thinking and reasoning skills. We started noticing early signs of dementia in her about six years ago. It has not been an easy journey for our family, and it has been different for all of us. This is my perspective on how the changes affected my mom and the people around her that love her. 

Almost two years ago, my mom moved into a memory care facility near my parents’ home. Taking care of her at home had become too much for my dad to do alone. After hiring help to come in during the day for a few months, they decided that wasn’t the right kind of care for them. The other option was a full-time, live-in program.

It was an agonizing decision. My parents had made their home together for 58 years.

Before the memory care move, I went to stay with them as often as I could to help, and I experienced for a few days at a time what my dad was living with constantly. Nights had become long ordeals. It was gut-wrenching to lie in bed, desperately hoping she wouldn’t come into my bed and beg me to help her. I was afraid to get up and go to the bathroom, fearing that she would be waiting for me in the hall, hunched over, so small, her hands reaching out to grab me. “Please, Judy, please help me.”

But there was no way to help. She would tell me her terror, her guilt, and her fear, but she could not believe that she was safe and loved, could not rest, and could not break out of her distress. There were a few tumultuous months. Her suspiciousness increased, making her sure that we were trying to get rid or her or harm her. She endured trips to the ER and stays in the hospital for infections.

My dad’s physical and emotional exhaustion wore him down. I worried that it would break him and he would end up in the hospital too. I was losing both of my parents. They were drowning and I was too far away to save them. My sisters and I flew out to Colorado to help as much as we could, but it wasn’t enough. We started discussing finding a place where my mom could live and receive the day-and-night care that she needed.

My dad found a small, family-owned facility that they liked near their home. The director, Deborah, is compassionate and experienced with Alzheimer’s patients. My dad started the  process of enrolling my mom, but was unsure how he would coax her to leave home and move there when the time came. Almost every time my dad, sisters and I tried to talk about the options, she appeared out of nowhere, eyes shifting between us, sure that we were plotting against her. She must have been lurking around the corner, listening. She knew something was happening and she wasn’t cooperative.

One day, my dad was ready. The constant energy drain had become completely overwhelming. He got in the car and pulled out of the garage into the street in front of the house. My mom saw him out there and was afraid he would leave her, so she hurried out to the car and got in. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“We’re going to Deborah’s house.”

It was an adjustment, but my mom settled in, and my dad finally caught up on his sleep. He visited her every day, assuring her that this was best for now. At the memory care facility, the residents’ world is kept intentionally small and predictable. There is nothing to decide or plan. The medical staff adjusted her medications to meet her needs better. Her anxiety quieted, and she slept at night. When the fear or confusion bubbles up, the caregivers know how to distract and soothe.

I began to have hope that we would make it to the other side of this crisis and find normal life again–even though it would look very different.