Alzheimer's

For many of you it will come as common knowledge that my mother passed away, at the age of 94, as result of contracting Alzheimer’s.

A relatively short while ago a friend of mine invited me to his house to meet his Dad who was also ill with the same sickness.

We attempted to engage his father in conversation but it was difficult. There were moments of clarity but, for the most part, his mind was elsewhere—in a place where we had no access. He passed away a short time later.

I am now informed that another friend of mine has the same problem in that his father, too, has Alzheimer’s.

Coupled with that is the realisation that another close friend has this illness. This friend is someone who is very dear to me; this has come as something of a personal blow.

It is hard to describe, for me, what Alzheimer’s is. There are many medical and learned tracts that discourse on the technical aspects of the disease. These mean little, or nothing, to me.

From a practical viewpoint it is hard to put into words what the effect becomes—not just on the patient but also on the carers and relatives.

It is distressing.

In the first place there is confusion because neither those people close to the patient nor the patient themselves know what is happening.

It is likely that the patient considers that everything is normal but to the close relations it is far from normal

For some relatives they believe that the patient is ‘making it up’, that they need to ‘pull their socks up and behave themselves’.

The truth is that they are slipping away into a different reality.

Trying to make the patient return to your reality is a lost cause and will only serve to increase the distress felt by everyone.

Tensions will rise because there will be occasions when the victim of this disease becomes violent.

Perhaps they suddenly realise that the world around them is not the same as the world they perceive.

Understand that the sufferer is slipping away from you in their heads. There is no blood to see, no rashes, no broken bones and rarely any delirium—at first.

But they cannot distinguish night from day. The memory of you is disappearing. There comes a point when they will not know who you are.

You will give them medication, medication that is often started far too late. One night you will give them a pill and say, “Swallow.”

They will not understand. They may just repeat your words. There is no concept in their heads of what you are attempting to convey to them. Giving them any medication is time consuming. 

Some medications have to be held under the tongue until they have dissolved. There is no possibility of the patient understanding that instruction. The only imaginable way is to start it early so that it becomes an automatic function for them.

Frustration. So very frustrating.

Right from the outset it may be that tempers will be frayed because you do not understand them. They will, increasingly, not understand you.

Trying to restore their reality into your own perceptions does not work. You must join them in their reality—whatever that might be.

They will wander around at night calling out for people, close friends, relatives, who died years ago.

Their ‘just now’ becomes increasingly distant compared to your ‘just now’ as their short-term memory fades away.

The only consolation is that they are unaware of what is happening to them.

The people suffering are those that are looking after them. It is exhausting and it is a twenty-four hour a day job.

At the end we believe that Mum knew she was about to die. We are certain that she was trying to say goodbye to us.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, there was just the smallest inkling of what was happening and who we were to her.

We shall never know.

It is a small comfort.