Sohn: Meet the devil

As reporters, we learn to report and write stories at arm’s length.

Since true objectivity can be a bit elusive for us, a good sense of fairness and the regular experience of pushing ourselves away from our subjects usually serves to keep us honest.

So the first few times editors asked me to work on a package of stories about Alzheimer’s disease, I was less than enthusiastic. Alzheimer’s is not a subject I care to be objective about.

My mother has Alzheimer’s.

And I am her primary caregiver.

So, as of now, in this blog and with the package of stories completed, consider me off duty and freed from the eggshell wall of objectivity I was temporarily able to construct.

And just let me say this:

Alzheimer’s is the devil.

It’s a screaming demon that stole from me the warmest, smartest, funniest woman I’ve ever known.

It’s a thieving evil that hides my mother’s life from her even while it leaves with her the panic of scattered confusion.

And it scares me to death — this vampire that sucks away our past and present and preys upon our future.

My mother was the woman who had a plan every morning for the family she glued together. Now she asks me 10 times a day what day it is.

My mother was the woman who wouldn’t go to the corner grocery store without a scarf and meticulous make-up. Now she has to be tricked or dragged into a shower or sponge bath.

My mother was the woman who until a couple of years ago devoured a book a day and wanted to give you a report on it in the evening and hear your opinion of the writer. Now she reads the same book over and over, never recalling what she just read.

Her entire existence is, quite literally, in the moment.

Though we talk — mostly I talk — every day, our conversations are rare.

Occasionally I’ll quiz her gently. Has she talked to my sister today? I know she always has, but she doesn’t.

How many grandchildren does she have? It varies.

Last week she didn’t know if I was married.

She didn’t know my son’s name.

Next week, she may not know mine.

Just over a month ago, my husband and I moved into her house so someone would be there all the time.

Each night when I tuck her in (yes, a complete role reversal), she asks if I’m spending the night.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I live here now.”

Usually she just looks at me with the blank look that has begun to mask her once-vivacious, expressive face. But one night last week she took a deep breath and said, “Good. I won’t have to be afraid ever again.”

I was shocked. This woman has never admitted fear or pain. I’ve only seen her cry once in my life. And for most of my life I’ve been convinced she wasn’t afraid of the devil.

Of course, I realize now that until now she’d not met the Satan known as Alzheimer’s.

No one needs to be objective about this disease.

I’m pleased to be through trying to be.