👋 Hey there! I’m Alexis. I write about life, creativity, being a freelance writer, and everything in between. If you enjoy corny humor and cute cat pictures with a splash of advice (and occasional personal essays), you’ll probably fit in around here.
I went to visit my mom last month in Ocala, Florida. I entered her apartment to find her watching NCIS or some other crime series (not surprising). She was sitting on the right side of her love seat sofa, the beige sofa cushion covered in what looked like a pee pee pad and she didn’t even stand up to say hello and hug me, which was surprising since we hadn’t seen each other in five months. She was frail compared to the last time I saw her in February. She was still recovering from a UTI and wears briefs now (the glorified term for adult diapers).
My mom has dementia. I don’t want to minimize other diseases, but this might be the worst way to go. It’s like a long, slow, drawn-out death. You constantly lose parts of a person you didn’t even realize were parts you could lose. It’s like the person is physically there, but they’re not. They’re so different from the person you once knew. And that’s just how it feels as a child witnessing the disease. I cannot even begin to imagine how it feels for my mom. Losing her independence, dignity, and the ability to do everyday tasks like making a meal, taking a shower, and wiping her ass is unfathomable.
I’ve experienced so many losses in the last three years that it’s hard to remember which one came first. My mom can no longer cook a meal for me or make me a cup of tea. She doesn’t remember my birthday, so I no longer get a call from her on the day. She has never seen (and will never see) where I live in Amsterdam. We had our last meal in a restaurant when I visited last month — the experience made her too anxious — I’m not sure why, but I think the recent development of incontinence might have something to do with it.
We’ve also had a lot of firsts. She has expressed some of her feelings about all this to me, something I appreciate since she has never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve. I’ve heard my mom curse a lot, which is big coming from someone who used to tell me not to say, “This sucks.” I’ve cooked meals for her, helped her change her clothes, given her a manicure, and brought her shopping for a new purse. Most recently, I even helped her eat ice cream when I realized she no longer knew that she had to stick the spoon in the cup, scoop up the ice cream, and then put the spoon in her mouth.
One situation that stands out to me the most, probably because it made me laugh, is the first time I saw my mom drink beer through a straw. She was very adamant about table manners when I was a kid. Sit straight. Put your napkin in your lap. Hold your fork and knife properly. Don’t leave the table until everyone is done. Push in your chair when you stand. She was always reserved and always kept things classy.
During one of my previous visits, my brother, his girlfriend, my mom, and I were eating at Sushi Bistro, a tasty Japanese restaurant in Downtown, Ocala that quickly became their go-to spot after my mom moved into assisted living. My brother used to take her there weekly for lunch, but now he has to bring the food to her instead. Anyway, she ordered her usual Heineken, without a glass. But this time, she peeled the white paper off a straw and stuck it into the long-neck bottle. It bobbed at the top at first, but after she took a few sips, the straw sank to the bottom of the bottle. So with every sip, she’d first stick her finger into the bottle to pull up the straw and then slurp some more beer. It wasn’t gross or messy. It was hilarious.
After we realized her enjoyment of drinking beer through a straw (maybe it went to her head faster, who knows), my brother started sticking a straw in her Heineken bottle the moment the server brought it to the table. And every time (when I was there for it) we’d look at each other with a mischievous smirk. Even writing this now makes me smile because somehow we have found some humor in this morbid situation (and it has brought my brother and me closer).
Author’s note
This wasn’t my usual light post, but I hope you like it (and if you don’t, I won’t be offended). One of the reasons why I started this Substack was to experiment more with personal essay writing. It’s not easy for me to share details of my life like this, but I hope at least some of you find it relatable. I know
and probably will — big thanks to both of you for sharing your Alzheimer’s journeys here — you inspire me and help me feel less alone.Does anyone else have funny anecdotes about aging parents?
I think it’s the only way I’m getting through it.
Oh, my heart. What a rollercoaster this ride is, but how important it is to find the funny moments and humanity amidst it all, too. My mum - who famously hated bbq sauce - discovered a real taste for it in her last few years at home. She loved it so much she put it on everything, even cake!! Now the bbq sauce phase has passed, but the sweet tooth has stuck. Which is a good reminder to bring her some Australian treats when I visit in a few weeks! Thanks for writing about the hard stuff. I know it isn't easy 💜
GRACIAS