Memory Bank

These were my thoughts about 4 months before my mother died.

When I was growing up, it was always my father and my Sister, and my mother and I. My mother and I did everything together, and I love her beyond what words can describe.

It would be confusing time in my life, when my Mom and Dad started going to see medical specialists and getting test results back. I was probably around 12 year old, but the irony is: I can't remember. Apparently my mother had a chemical imbalance as the result of menopause. My Mom's aunt had experienced something like this, so she was slightly concerned it might happen to her as well. As time went by, something was clearly happening to my mother beyond just menopause. The rest of my family always fell back on 'It is a chemical imbalance'. That is what I told my friends as well. I was in denial. My mother was 50 years old -- young by today's standards.

My mother slowly slipped away from us. It was very slow at first -- sentences being more progressively stumbled, depression, and just being angry at what was happening to her in general. It got worse as time went by - forgetting short term things, but kicking butt in Trivial Pursuit. I didn't know at the time that Long term memories where one of the last to fade.

Eventually, my father sat my sister and I down and told us: "Your mother has Alzhiemer's Disease'. He told us what he knew about the disease and gave us some expectations for what the future would be
like.

Soon after, she lost the ability to drive, and started to wander. She would often get lost and we would need to find her. I remember one time in the Toronto airport she disappeared and we almost missed our flight. They called her name over the loudspeaker, but she was unable to follow instructions at that point and potentially recognize her own name.

My father, for obvious reasons, spared no expense doing everything to help my mother. Aricept had just come out and my Dad up and purchased a huge supply. I read on the internet about how certain treatments might help my mother. I started her on a daily regimen of homeopathic products and vitamins. None of it seemed to work. I really wanted it to work. None of it did work.

My father kept my mom from going into a nursing home for as long as he could. He loved her so much, treated her so well, and supported her beyond belief throughout it all. We hired a wonderful lady to take care of my mother during the day. At this time, my mother could no longer form sentences -- essentially losing almost all ability to meaningfully communicate with words. However, she could still laugh, mumble to music and convey emotions through her face. I could still enjoy a glass of wine with her as well. Things were still OK, but almost all of my Mom's original personality remained.

I love to make my mom laugh. Often times I would pretend to be a chicken and gobble in a circle around her over and over. It was really quite fun to do because she would laugh while I was moving in front of her, but when I went around the back she would stop. Then, I'd come around again gobbling and she'd smile with that infectious smile. That, which happened almost everyday, is one of my favorite memories of my mother while she was suffering from Alzheimer's disease.

My mother eventually moved into a home, and has been living there since. At that point, she had forgotten me and my sister, couldn't speak or write, and had become quite hostile when anyone would try to move her from place to place. I wasn't going to let this stop me from going. As a University student I would visit her room, turn on some oldies music for her and study away while she enjoyed all the tunes. I got my love of music from my mother.

I also made a personal pact, for my own mental health, to visit my mother less often when she forgot who my father was. It turns out, I would visit for longer that this even happened. As long as the
circling chicken impression or crazy dances I did for my mother made her laugh -- I would keep coming back.

I'll never forget the haze in my mother's eyes. One day I came, and my mother was complexly unresponsive. Her eyes were wide open, but there was no life in them. Just gray and lifeless. I figured she might have been sedated by the nurses. I came back again. Lifeless. No response to anything. Each time I would talk to my mother and explain how things were going in my life, tell her I love her, kiss her forhead, play music on the radio. Cry.

I decided I would no longer come back on a regular basis. I could no longer make my mother laugh. My last ability to actually add value and cheer to her life was gone.

I decided in an effort to convince my mother's body to let go, to go down and sing a song for my mother. The song I wrote for months and month and months, on much tear soaked paper on sleepless nights. I rolled my mother into her room, set her on her bed and sang her song. That song is part of this memory box.

After playing the song, I sat down on the edge of my mothers bed and looked her in the eyes. I couldn't hold back the tears. I told her that it was me, her son "Jordan". I told her I loved her forever, that the family loved her forever. I told her to stop being so strong. I told her to fight all her inner most instincts and just let the disease run its course. I kissed her forehead and told her to let go. I gave her permission to leave this shell that was trapping what was left of her. I said goodbye.

I would return a year later on mother's day with my sister and my father. It was not a good experience. My mother, even more than before had become vegetable-like. She just lies there in a reclinable wheelchair. She cannot stand, talk, express emotion, eat, drink, go to the bathroom, love, or live at all.

I used to pray with my mother as a young child. Every night she would make me pray on the side of the bed. I am no longer religious, but I still pray for my mother. I pray that she will be released from the body that traps her. I pray that I will never forget my memories of her.

My name is Jordan Willms -- and I lost my mother June to early onset Alzheimer's. I probably paint a horrible picture, but I did learn many things from my mother's experience. Life can be unexpected and take away people you love from you. It isn't unfair -- that is just the world works. So never go to sleep fighting with anyone you love, always say I love you everyday to everyone you love, and take the time
to actually tell people how much you love them and why.

You may be wondering - Am I terrified that this disease is hereditary and that I will have the same fate at 50? You bet. Am I worried they will not find a cure in time and I will lose the memories of my wife and children and even of my mother? You bet. But you keep on living. You remember that life is a miracle (whether you are religious or not).  Every second I get to spend alive with the people I love is one that I do not take for granted. I am sure my mother had the same mentality. That is where I
got it from.