Forgetful

This morning I couldn't find my car keys. They weren't in their usual places: purse, key hook, or kitchen counter. They weren't in the basket full of junk on top of the computer desk. They weren't anywhere. Starting to feel a bit desperate, I turned a circle in the kitchen with my eyes searching everywhere and found them on top of the printer. I had no memory of leaving them there. In moments like that I always have this feeling of sheer panic. Panic. The shortness of breath, lightheadedness is because I'm so afraid that I'll inherit this disease of forgetfulness that took my Grandpa Hollie's memory and is now taking my mom's. I realize that everyone has moments of forgetfulness, that everyone loses their keys, that everyone missplaces their wallet or purse from time to time. But when it happens to me I can't stop the shiver of doom that trills down my spine.

In my family we have a history of breast cancer (my mom's sister), type II diabetes (my dad, and his two sisters), heart disease (dad's brothers). None of those diseases worry me the way that dementia does. Alzheimers. Shiver. It scares me to death. I don't want to lose my memories. I don't want to lose the part of me that makes me. . . well, me.

When I was home for Christmas I noticed a couple of new developments in my mom's condition. They are things that are so unexpected and so heartbreaking. She is losing the ability to use a spoon and fork. About half of the time she starts out eating with her silverware and after a few unsuccessful attempts at figuring out how to hold the fork, she abandons it and just uses her fingers. Like a small child, she'll be covered in her meal by the time her plate is clean. Fingers, hands, shirt. It is so very sad.

She can no longer read and often picks up the wrong bottle when washing her hair. While I was home, I found her washing her hair with dish soap on one day and with my dad's shaving gel on another day.

She didn't call me by my name the entire time I was home. Not once. She didn't call my boys, her only grandchildren, by their names either. But she still loved having them there. She followed them around and laughed at their antics.

And at times she would have heartbreaking moments of lucidity. In those brief moments, she is my mom again. But those moments are much too short and much too few.