Stealing Mother - Again

Alzheimer's disease steals.  It is stealing my mother from me.  Parts of her remain, but so much of who she was is gone.  The disease steals slowly.  Oh, at first it seems like it rushes off with great chunks of its victims, but that is only because the chunks it steals are the big, most noticeable parts.  In reality, it steals slowly.  It inches away with mere molecules of the victim.  Then one day, you notice that even more of the person you love is gone.

Alzheimer's disease continues to steal Mother.  It has stolen her ability to know us at times.  Yesterday, I was Mama to her.  Usually she finally recognizes me as me, but not yesterday.  I was her mama for my entire visit.  She is the frightened little girl who wants to cling to my neck crying mama.  She is the little girl who wants to hold my hand and look in my eyes and say, "Mama, mama, mama."

Alzheimer's disease has stolen Mother's ability to recognize where she is at times.  As we walked down the hall to her room, Mother stopped and grabbed my arm harder.  "Where are we?"  She was lost in that one hall.  She couldn't recognize her room until she saw her name beside the door.  She continued to walk with me, but her grip didn't relax until she saw her name.  She was frightened.  To her, it was like stepping into the unknown.  She was unsure, but willing to trust me to guide her.  Mother had always been the one to know exactly where she was, which direction she was headed, how far she needed to go. She was never lost.  Now she is lost most of the time.

Alzheimer's is a thief.  It steals, and nothing can stop it.  I hold on to the small pieces of Mother that it hasn't taken because I know that in time, Alzheimer's will steal those too.