The Small Sweetness of Alzheimer's Disease

When I visited my Aunt Marg recently and asked if she knew who I was, she responded with, “No, I don’t think I do.” But when I left her, I said, “I love you,” and she responded, “I love you, too.” Thus is the pain and the sweetness of Alzheimer’s disease.

People who suffer from Alzheimer’s disease slowly fade into a fog of inability to remember, to speak, to walk, to live. It’s heartbreaking to witness someone you love gradually lose their memory, their independence and their dignity.

But the disease has a tiny bit of sweetness because you get to see the real essence of the person without their rules and masks. My aunt was never an easy person to love. She was a spinster who excelled at a career she despised and devoted herself to caring for others, in particular my grandmother, who was house-bound. Aunt Marg had seemingly boundless self-discipline and felt a responsibility to teach her rigid rules to her nephews and nieces. She wasn’t the aunt you shared your secrets with or went to with a problem. She certainly wasn’t the aunt who told you she loved you and was proud of you.

But now, she does tell me she loves me. She giggles at silly little jokes. She thanks me in a sweet and heart-felt way she never would have before. And she revels in being touched, something that really wasn’t proper to do when she was well.

My mom died of Alzheimer’s disease after fifteen years of slow decline. Like her sister, Mom was sweet and child-like as the disease progressed. It’s a small compensation for the sadness and loss that the disease brings about but it is a small blessings for all who witness it.