Going into this journey with Mitzi 3 years ago, I knew what the end of Alzheimer’s looked like. I had worked in a memory care facility in high school and had my grandmother (who had it) live with us for 4 years. So I was no stranger to what the end result looks like. It was hard to separate my experiences and knowledge of how brutal the images in my mind of Alzheimer’s ultimate goal for its host were with the fact that Mitzi was still vibrant, fun, and chatty in the beginning of our friendship.
But once you’ve seen the end of Alzheimer’s, you can’t get it out of your head no matter how hard you try. For 3 years, the images I’m now watching play out in front of me with one of my closest friends are the same ones I’ve seen Alzheimer’s show off in its other victims.
Even though we are so close to the end for Mitzi, the sweet nurse and CNA offered to bathe her this evening. I hung back and was grateful to only do the simple tasks like pillow case changing. At one point, while the experts did the most amazing synchronized linen change on her bed, I had to help hold Mitzi’s starved, emaciated, and very fragile body on one side to get the fresh sheets and pads underneath her. It is heartbreaking and sickening all at the same time. I’ve seen cancer look a lot like this as well. Haunting. That’s the word that fits.
These last 3 years, a part of me wanted to prepare Gary for what this was going to ultimately look like. It’s so jarring. But the other part of me knew it wasn’t going to change anything, and I frankly wished I didn’t know what it looked like. So I didn’t go into a lot of detail. The closer we got to this stage over the past 9 months, the more I had a growing dread taking up residence in the pit of my stomach when I’d get to Mitzi’s every day.
I still don’t know how we got HERE so quickly. Multiple times I’ve dozed off at night in this funky chair parked next to her bed. I’ve woken up from her breathing and been startled at the reality of where I was and who was dying in the bed next to me.
These are the same awful images playing out now with Mitzi as they were when I worked in the memory care facility 20 years ago. My mind can’t wrap itself around the fact that in 2 decades, we have accomplished next to nothing to move forward towards some kind of treatment, let alone a cure.
Mitzi’s breathing has become more labored throughout the day and now has frequent periods of apnea. Being super empathetic is hard when you’re listening to the apnea happen. My inclination is to breathe for her. But I can’t. I decided to stay tonight so Gary and I could tag-team any issues that might arise. In the dim light as I watch my friend continue to lose this earthly battle against her mental nemesis, all I can do is, yet again, hate this disease.
