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‘Please God, take me. I’m losing my mind. Don’t let me lose my mind!’
My mother prayed these words frantically every night for six months after she got the diagnosis: Alzheimer’s disease. I’d hear her cries through the bedroom door,
and my heart would sink.
Seven years ago, my own plans became suddenly secondary to caring for Mom. My life was put on hold—and I’m still here, desperately trying to convince myself that I really do like Chicago winters.
Who was/is my mom?
Alfreeda Radzik was born in Hamtramck, Mich., in 1926. In later years, she told everyone she was born in 1930; she even lied about it once to Billy Graham on an inquirer’s card!
Fiercely independent, she adored her father, a priest in the Polish National Catholic Church. One of her favorite stories was how my grandfather, who ran a Depression–era mission in Chicago, would help feed needy neighbors by scavenging for vegetables that fell off trains.
In 1943 my mother began working as a telephone operator (not retiring until 77). In 1947 she met and married my father. He grew up in a family of nine where, as an elderly relative once observed, “there wasn’t one person in the house over the age of 14 who wasn’t dead drunk by 10 o’clock in the morning.” My dad’s fate was sealed.
The prevailing patriarchy of the day conveyed to women that no matter what the problem, if they would just click their heels and tap dance hard enough—poof!—they could reform any man. So, for a period in the 1950s, my mother—in hopes she could change my dad—felt pressured to become a full–time housewife. She stayed home and baked bread every day. Nothing changed, except that there was a lot of bread lying around the kitchen.
Life with my mother
In due course, my father flew the coop. He died several years later from cirrhosis of the liver. My tiny, 5–foot–tall mom was left to support seven kids ranging from 6 months to 13 years old.
But Mom was grateful for two things. The first was that she worked only a block from home. The second was that she never had to worry about us kids because we were always involved in every activity there was at the Salvation Army Chicago Lawn Corps (church).
Several of us are still active Christians today. Also, my brothers and I have been teetotalers our whole lives, so we have broken the cycle of alcoholism among males that had caused so much grief in our family. Three of us are also graduates of Olivet Nazarene College (now University) in Kankakee, Ill.
Sacrifices
Mom wasn’t perfect—like anybody, she had her bad days—but we came first with her 99% of the time, and we knew it. Considering the difficult circumstances she faced, I don’t think anyone could’ve been a better mother.
When I was 7, I was hospitalized for two weeks. Though Mom was eight months pregnant, she traveled 11 miles each way—every day, on three city buses—to see me. When we were teenagers, she saved up all year to buy my brother and me birthday presents: an alto horn for me and a cornet for my brother. She also saw to it that anyone who wanted piano, guitar, or accordion lessons got them.
Decision
Since I’m single and, as a registered nurse, can get a job anywhere, I decided to remain with Mom for the duration of her illness. My brother Dale, who, along with his wife, Carrie, lives 10 houses down the street, felt even more strongly about being involved. We made a pact to keep Mom in her home.
I work nights and Dale works days as a skilled craftsman. I watch her during the day, and Dale has her at night. We split meals and evenings, and Dale takes care of her for more hours on the weekend and holidays, when I tend to work more. Carrie makes a special dinner once a week. My sister Debbie flies in for two weeks every year to give us relief. Every month, 80–year–old Aunt Chickie, along with her daughters, treats Mom to dinner. I take care of the house, laundry, shopping, and medications, and Dale, who now has legal guardianship, does the yard work and personal finances and gives Mom a bath three times a week.
If all this sounds like an angelic story of brotherly love, think again. It’s not at all like a TV show in which siblings solve all their problems in 30 minutes. Sometimes, the only way that could happen for us would be by police intervention! Dale and I have somewhat different ideas concerning care–giving, and our dissimilar personalities often clash. We’ve also been sleep–deprived for seven years and never get out of the house more than two or three evenings a year. So tempers do often flare.
But we have a system. I told Dale that as long as he’s willing to work with me, I’m willing to stay put until Mom dies. If I had to go it alone, my mother would be in a long–term care facility today. Dale always comes through.
Day–to–day realities
In the beginning, I remember coming home after working all night with ventilator–dependent children (who were themselves chronically ill) only to find my mother “cooking” breakfast in the washing machine.
One month, the village called to tell me that our water bill had tripled. Most of the water was being used at night. We found out that Mom would throw a handkerchief into the machine, fill the tub for an extra–large load, then wash the handkerchief a dozen times.
One of her earliest pastimes was taking all the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher and dipping them in water before placing them back into the cupboards. Then we discovered that even though the garbage disposal can choke on a handful of cherry tomatoes, it has no trouble chewing up dentures.
One time I walked into the kitchen to find suds coming out of the dishwasher—just like in an old “I Love Lucy” rerun. Mom had started the machine using a whole bottle of liquid dish detergent!
Then she began to hide things in bizarre places. Once I found a plate of food in her drawer; it had been there for two weeks. Now, every day I move the washer, dryer, stove, and two couches to clean out whatever’s behind them. I also do a sweep of all the drawers to make sure they’re clean.
To safety–proof the house, the knobs have been taken off the stove, and the garage door opener has been relocated. We give her one crayon at a time to use in her coloring book. Otherwise, she’ll eat them.
At times, Mom has mistaken the closet for her bathroom. So we’ve learned to take her to the toilet frequently, and she now wears adult pull–up diapers.
But by far the worst aspect of her condition is what’s called “sundowning syndrome.” As the name implies, it typically occurs in the evening (but can happen at other times too). She gets violent and screams and cries out for no apparent reason. She can tear into anything in her path with untold strength. Several times that “path” has included my face.
This summer we were informed by a specialist that mom has deteriorated into the last stages of dementia. She’s lost most of what little communication skills she had left. Her sundowning got so out of control that her medications had to be increased dramatically to keep her manageable. Except for finger foods, she needs assistance eating and can no longer help with small household tasks we were once able to give her.
Struggle
I’m always astounded by people who, upon reaching my age (58), claim to have come through life’s troubles with the exact same faith they had as children in Sunday school. I have absolutely no idea what planet they’ve been living on—it’s not the same one I know.
After decades of watching innocent children die from chronic diseases and otherwise healthy adults stricken with horrendous maladies, I now better understand the biblical character Job. Although he would not “curse God and die” as his wife urged him to do, he did the second best thing and cursed the day he was ever born. Ditto for me—many, many times.
Nevertheless, in spite of my doubts and fears, three sources have sustained me spiritually:
First is a verse in Revelation (21:4) that states, “God himself will be with them … he will wipe every tear from their eyes.” This verse, about what it will be like in Heaven, transforms me on a level beyond my own comprehension. The strong imagery calms my spirit in a way that has convinced me the Holy Spirit is at work through it.
Second, I find one of C.S. Lewis’s quotes especially poignant: “Who says God wants us to be happy? He wants us to grow up! We think our childish toys bring us all the happiness there is and our nursery is the whole wide world—but something must drive us out of the nursery and into the lives of others—and that something is suffering.”
The third source is experiential. In those shadowy moments when I feel most abandoned, out of nowhere I sense God’s graciousness. There are no human words to explain it. The J.B. Phillips translation of the Gospel of John describes this experience best as “grace upon grace” through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Grace finds me in the most mundane moments—sometimes in the kind words of others, sometimes while I’m holding my mother’s hand as we watch TV.
Because of these divine instances, I am persuaded that what appears to be happening to my mom may have no relationship to what is really happening. And that one day, God himself will wipe every tear from her eyes.
Anyone who would like to correspond with Daryl Lach concerning dementia can e–mail him at dwlrn@sbcglobal.net.
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