Sarah Kelly51 said:My mother began her battle with Alzheimer's three years ago, though she wasn't officially diagnosed until just six months ago.
I am struggling today. Truly, deeply struggling. I haven't quite managed to internalize the fact that she is slipping away irrevocably, leaving behind nothing but a shell of the woman she once was. I find myself remembering who she used to be, and it feels as though I am grieving two entirely different people. She was wonderful—the kind of mother you see in movies. Somehow, our roles have inverted; I have become the caregiver. It feels premature... at nineteen, I still needed my mother. I cannot say if it would have been easier had I waited longer, but I am simply not coping. People tell me I’m handling it beautifully, and on the surface, I function well enough, but it has hollowed me out inside. I feel stuck, unable to move forward. The pain is just too heavy to confront, and I have only just begun to truly feel its weight. It is difficult because the mother I knew is gone. All that remains are these fleeting moments where she is somewhat aware of her surroundings and who I am. In those seconds, she tells me she loves me, which serves as a haunting echo of the mother she used to be. It seems impossible now to imagine her cooking dinner, running errands, picking out a Christmas gift for me, or even nagging me for not wearing a coat because I might catch a cold.
I miss her. I miss her terribly. Everything has shifted because of this disease, and I no longer feel like I belong in my own home. I never even got the chance to build a sense of home for myself. I feel paralyzed. In these moments when my defenses crumble, the grief is overwhelming. There is nothing to hold onto. Perhaps it is better this way, clinging to the smallest straw just to avoid facing the stark reality... and the truth is, the mother I know is gone. She isn't coming back. It is harder because every single day I am looking at what is left of her, waiting for those occasional flashes of the person she used to be.
It took far too long to get a diagnosis because she was so young to be facing this, starting at fifty-two. During that long stretch of searching for answers—navigating endless doctors, hospitals, and scouring the internet for every possible outcome—it felt almost easier, because it felt like we were actually doing something. We were in motion. Now, I can do nothing. I can only watch as she fades away, slowly and steadily. And I don't know how to accept that.
I am so sorry you are having to face such a devastating illness at such a young age. I can't possibly know exactly what you're going through, but I think I understand the weight of it.
When I left for college eight years ago, my grandmother was beginning to develop Alzheimer's, and it was eventually caught. We were lucky that the doctor warned us immediately; we received instructions and medications. However, she wouldn't take them regularly; she would pretend to take them and then hide them away. In just one year, while I was away for the summer, the disease progressed so much that she became unrecognizable. She became manic, forgetful, and would do things that made no sense—like putting salt in her tea instead of sugar. A few more months passed, and the "person" I knew was gone forever.
It was incredibly painful for me to accept that she didn't recognize me, especially since I was her only granddaughter. She was the one who looked after me and raised me during the times my mother couldn't. Eventually, I stopped visiting just so I wouldn't have to face that reality. It wasn't until my grandfather passed away that I finally forced myself to admit she was truly gone.😢 Today, four years later, nothing has changed. She doesn't recognize me, nor does she recognize her own children; she remembers things from her youth, and occasionally, there are moments where she remembers I exist. Physically, she is doing well and will celebrate her 86th birthday this year. When I was little, I told her that once she turned eighty, I would be the one baking her cakes, and she just told me not to worry, because she would still be capable of making her own special cake.
You will always carry the memory of your mother as if she were a character from one of those classic Hollywood films, and it is precisely because of that legacy that I am certain you will find the inner strength to face her illness... to accept the person she has become through this struggle. Every mother pours so much of herself into her children, and it is simply our duty to return that love and devotion when they finally need us most.
Stay strong.
