My Demented Mom

“How’s your Saturday goin’?”

Kathy Ritchie — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 00:20:19 +0000

Lola coffee chick: “How’s your Saturday goin’ so far?”

Me: “It’s been interesting…”

Lola coffee chick: “Oh, no. That can be good or bad.”

Me: “Yeah, well, you know. I’ll take a drip coffee with skim.”

Lola coffee chick: “I’ve had those days [giggles]. Sign here.”

Me: “OK. Thanks.”

Lola coffee chick: “Have a great rest of your Saturday.”

Me: “Thanks. You too.”

FOR THE ALTERNATE ENDING, TURN TO PAGE 77.

Lola coffee chick: “How’s your Saturday goin?’”

Me: “You really wanna fuckin’ know? OK. Here goes…..Well, let’s see. The dude I’m dating just met my demented mom. She was you know, OK, but still, it shook me up enough to where after I dropped him off, I called my friend Catherine and nearly had a nervous breakdown on Central Avenue. Came home. Popped a Zantac for my goddamn heartburn and promptly walked over to your place for desert and coffee. Cause that’s how I cope. What? Fuck you. I like coffee and the burn of reflux at the same time. Don’t fucking judge me. Now give me my shortbread. What’s the total? You take cards right? Good.”

Lola coffee chick: “Sign here.”

Me: “OK. Thanks.”

Lola coffee chick: “Have a great rest of your Saturday.”

Me: “You smell and I hate you.”

“Catherine, I feel embarrassed, ashamed and exposed.”

HE met her.He finally met her. Weird. Anxiety. I wish I could take something. I’ll have a beer with my lunch. Dad, are you gonna finish your beer? I don’t like it. Too sweet. Christ, not gonna let a perfectly gorgeous Blue Moon go to waste.

This is the first time anyone new has met my mom. Most of my new friends know of my mom, but not one has met her. I tell them stories about her. They see my face or hear my voice when I have one of those days, but they’ve never met her. Maybe a few have seen her picture, but I don’t introduce her to people just cause. Weird right? Weird that I have entire blog dedicated to her, her disease and how it has affected my life, but few people actually get to meet my mom.

When old friends who’ve known her for years—pre-dementia—pop over, it’s no big deal. They know me, love me and accept that this is what it is. I don’t really give it much thought…. I’ll ask them what they think, if they think she’s a lot worse than what they expected or last remembered, etc, etc, etc. Blah, blah, blah. Muah, muah, muah, muah…………………………….

Mostly I ask because I forget what “normal” looks like sometimes.

But he’s new.

I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I guess it would be a lot to take in. Still, I feel weird. Exposed. Raw. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Not very good adjectives. But this is isn’t a very normal disease. What if he is so grossed out by the situation that he just wants to say, ‘Fuck it’?

My friend Catherine, who was the lucky recipient of my freak out telephone call, said that if he did do that, he’s not worth it. I guess. But if he can’t handle it, who will? Even I don’t even want to play this hand anymore. Game Over.

The freak out. Well, it was weird. As I was driving home, this tsunami of emotion just came over me. I called Cat. I started crying. I started losing my mind. Peripheral vision gone. Why is this happening to me? Why does she have to be like this? My feelings about this situation, HER, her disease, everything just erupted. I could barely catch my breath.

Cat was at birthday party for her son’s friend. There was screaming. It came from a kid, not me.

I don’t often cry about my mom these days……. crying about her gets me nothing, except a headache, so I avoid it.

Catherine says I should tell him exactly how I feel…. I suppose I will. I’m just writing down my thoughts for posterity’s sake. Right here. Now. Or I’ll forget. It’s a blog. You can do that shit.

She spit on the floor. HE saw it. I didn’t look at his face. She laughed I think.

She spit on the floor.

“She does that,” said my dad matter-of-factly.

She spit on the fucking floor.

Christ. Yes. She does do that.

She spit on the floor.

Sometimes I can laugh at shit. But right now, I’m angry. You know what, it is fucking unfair to have a demented mom. I’m 33 and I’m tired. Normal people introduce their friends and boyfriends to smiling happy parents who golf and drink Chardonnay.

My mother spits. A lot. I hate that. It grosses me out. I cannot, for the life of me, accept it. I try to teach her to spit outside or in the garbage can. She just laughs at me. She fucking laughs at me.

Am I some sort of clown, mother?

Do I amuse you?

Um, that would be a big fat fucking YES.

I know she doesn’t mean it. I know this. I am aware.

STILL…………………

The woman is like the Terminator, I swear to god. She never stops [spitting]. She cant’ be bargained with [when it comes to spitting]. She can’t be reasoned with [about her spitting behavior]. I have no idea if she feels pity for anyone [who has to clean up her spit or watch her do it], or remorse [like when she spits in public].

Ughhhhhhhhh. It’s been an interesting Saturday to say the least.

Coping Mechanisms

Kathy Ritchie — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 23:27:56 +0000

Coffee.

Beer.

Wine.

More coffee.

Baklava.

You Can Never Undo the Past or CLAIM: Substantiated

Kathy Ritchie — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 13:34:16 +0000

Without getting into the details…… as many of you recall last Mother’s Day, we placed my mom in a nursing home………….. the result was, to say the least, disastrous. She ended up in a geriatric psyche ward, doped on on at least four different kinds of psychotropic drugs. They wanted to perform shock therapy on her. Her doctor said she was bipolar. AT THE TENDER AGE OF 72!

Mom had never exhibited bipolar behavior so to receive such a diagnosis was suspicious.

Dad finally sprung her and took her home…. no shock therapy, thankfully. He filed several complaints and yesterday he showed me that the state of AZ found that they could substantiate some of his claims.

I selected the home for her. I condemned her. Her own daughter………….. Reading the claim at the stoplight…. I’m not sure what I felt. Nothing at first. After reading and re-reading, guilt. Yes. But at the time I had no choice. Sad. Yes. But I did my homework. I called the Alzheimer’s Association; The Foundation for Senior Living; I met with the staff at the home on a number of occassions. I’m not sure what else I could have done. I suppose I feel mostly regret. Regret that while she’s happy at home, it’s taking a toll on my dad. If I had found the perfect fit, maybe they both would be happy…………….. now he is retired and staying home with her.

What if she kills him? Now that’s the shit that weighs heavily on me…… I’ve lost one parent to dementia.

I wonder IF or WHEN she’ll take him out…………..

Boy Meets Mom…..

Kathy Ritchie — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 00:42:10 +0000

I wonder……………….. I wonder…………………. I wonder……………………………………………

A new development………. I’ve met a boy. Yes, a real boy who actually doesn’t care that my mom is demented. This has always been one of my greatest fears since leaving NYC: Meeting someone who would happily, openly, lovingly accept me and my family….. my mom. For every boy I’ve met over last year, there’s one thought that immediately consumes me—will he accept her? Will he accept this part of me? Will he still want to be with me after he meets the woman who physically pushed me over so she could get to her crush, the priest?

They’ve all failed….. I simply can’t picture it. I can’t picture these men coming over to my dad’s house, sitting there calmly as she spits on the living room floor.

I think this one can hang. I hope he can hang. He knows. I’ve warned him. Maybe I should have given him a more obvious OUT.

God, will he really accept her, the behaviors?

Would I…. if the roles were reversed? Would I smile sweetly? Pretend it doesn’t bother me?

You know, I don’t know what I would do. If this had never happened to her…………….. what would I be like today?

It is what it is I guess…

So when he meets her……………………………………………………………..

Will he smile when spits on the floor? Will he be patient when she points and laughs at someone because they’re overweight? Will he pat me on the back when she looks in the mirror and starts laughing uncontrollably? Will he accept that, unlike maybe his past relationships, I don’t have a typical relationship with my parents.

I, with my dad, am her keeper.

So,the new man in life is going to meet mom next week. He knows the idea of this big meeting is making incredibly nervous, mostly because I know what she’s going to say………..

Translated for those who can’t read dementia (otherwise insert the word fruita, gatos, pajaritos for every other word)………

“Do you speak Spanish?” Fair question.

“I don’t speak English.” She will likely say this in English as she always does.

“Are you going to get married?” Woman cuts to the chase fucking pronto!

“Are you going to have babies?” Jesus, mom!! Really?

“Are you going to take care of her?” I’m 32 for Christ’s sake. Minus the fact that I can’t figure out my budget and I’m over $40+ in my checking account, I’ve made it thus far just fine!

“Do you speak Spanish because I don’t speak English” Again, spoken in English.

My manfriend is very sweet and compassionate. I think he’ll do OK. I keep saying that. I can’t help it. The spitting for me is the worst part. Every single time she does it, it kills me…….. He knows she might hack one right next to him, but he says he understands, that it’s part of the disease and her behaviors are not who she is……… who are you, dude?

Still, there’s a part of me that’s scared. Not because my mom keeps pictures of my ex-husband (not my ex husband, but she can’t remember his name and that’s how she refers to my ex boyfriend) in the house—I’ve told dad to remove. ASAP—but because what if he decides it’s just too much. Too grotesque. The never-ending burden. She’ll only get worse. There is no happy ending. What if he says, listen…….. I just want a normal girl in my life…….

Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Pretty. Sweet. Docile. A mom. A dad. Normal. Happy. Smiling. Laughing. Lunches. Pedicures. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. Scottsdale. Normal. Normal. Normal. Healthy. Normal. Normal.

I feel like damaged goods. Damaged in the sense that I know that my load is a heavy one. I don’t come with one piece of carry-on, I come with several pieces of luggage that are clearly way over the weight-limit.

I don’t know how this is going to unfold. I think he’ll be OK. I think I’ve met someone really great. Kind. Patient. Understanding. I’ll post an update. Meeting is slated for next week.

Turning the BIG 33 on Thursday. It’s been 5 years since we’ve known something was wrong. Here we are. Another chapter: Boy Meets Mom.

>>Photo from Flickr’s Creative Commons ECATONCHEIRES

A New Friend or Speaking of Alzheimer’s (dot, dot, dot)

Kathy Ritchie — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 13:35:15 +0000

I have a few friends that I know I can call or send a message on Facebook who will answer ASAP….. If something happens with my mom and I need to talk. I know one of them will be there. Interesting thing, we don’t talk much outside of Alzheimer’s. Even when I lived in New York City, I only saw these people about once a month…….. when we did meet for 3+ hours, we laughed, we cried, comforted each other, spilled secrets, made startling confessions about ourselves, our parents and the players in our lives.

Sofa (inside joke).

This was my NYC young adult Alzheimer’s disease support group……. a bunch of 20 and 30-somethings getting together once a month to share stories about our demented parents….. and how we’re coping with it all.

Yes. I realize. This is not the “normal” way to make friends.

Stil, what amazes me about this motley crew, who still meet up once a month (minus me), is that in all likelihood, our paths would have never crossed had it not been for my mom — or their own sick parent. The actress, the professor, the fact checker, the accountant, the marketing exec…… people I never would have met if it weren’t for my mom. They are a blessing to me……… and her disease is a curse. I care for each of them very much — even if I don’t see or speak to them often. I think of them almost daily. I see them on Facebook. I comment on their lives. I miss seeing them. Sharing stories about my mom and dad and how things are going in my demented world.

When I left NYC, I left my support group.

Another loss in a way.

So as I navigate the world of Alzheimer’s and dementia, meeting others who are in my same or very similar lifeboat is important. It reminds me that I’m not alone and that there are other people willing to listen. To be a friend.

Meet Lori La Bey.

I stumbled upon Lori’s blog, Alzheimer’s Speaks, and reached out to her to see if she would guest blog or share a story on My Demented Mom. We spoke for over an hour about our moms. Her mom is in the final stages of the disease and Lori is chronicling her story and other stories in her blog. She’s also working on a book due out sometime this summer, tentatively titled, “Alzheimer’s Speaks
Guiding Caregivers To Be Their Very Best! Giving Voice and Enriching Lives—As the Cookie Crumbles.”

I like Lori. She gets it. She gets that this isn’t a cute disease……. It’s really rather sick and twisted. The beautiful thing about Lori is that she tells it like it is and does what she can to make her mom’s life as pleasant as possible — even if it upsets other people, or makes them uncomfortable because they are witnessing the grotesque.

Raw. Grotesque. Dementia.

Painting a picture of dementia is something I’ve done using my mom. Other guest bloggers have mostly focused on their personal experience, their pain, their ability to weave this disease into their lives and making the impossible, possible. So while I tell stories about dementia using my mom, I wanted to paint another picture, using another soul……..in this case, Lori’s mom………. this is a great story and another portrait of the disease.

Thank you Lori for giving me permission to share, and good luck with the book! Please check out Alzheimer’s Speaks and don’t forget to check out her blog and add it to your blogroll!

The Mother of the Bride

By Patty Lien: This is a wonderful story written about my Mother attending a wedding a of good family friend. Thanks Patty for writing it!

Dorothy has been a major part of my life since I was born. She has as well, been a part of the lives of my children. My parents were best friends to Dean and Dorothy; and they built their retirement homes side-by-side. My parents passed away young, and my husband, children and I, ended up being neighbors to Dean and Dorothy. It was Dorothy who hosted my own first bridal shower, and it was only natural that she was included in my daughters wedding preparations and celebration. She had watched her grow all the way from birth through college.

On the day of my daughters, Kelly’s wedding; the gals at Dorothy’s care center took special preparations in dressing her and fixing her hair. All the while, she apparently told them about the wedding. At the Catholic ceremony, Dorothy, who is Lutheran, wanted to receive communion. And she did…not only from the priest, but from each of the four others distributing communion to the congregation as well. Right down the line she went, getting a Host from each of them. And, as she turned to walk back to her pew, with her son Scott helping her navigate; she smiled and bestowed the “Queen Elizabeth” wave to the entire congregation as she passed. She visited and shook hands all the way back down the aisle.

After the ceremony, I went up to Dorothy and greeted her, “You look so pretty today Dorothy”, I said. “Did you enjoy the ceremony?” Without missing a beat, she advised me that, “Of course I did. I’m the Mother of the Bride. Aren’t my children beautiful? I love my children.”

To me, that was one of the “beautiful moments,” of the day. Reality isn’t for an Alzheimer’s patient, necessarily what we perceive it to be. She was happy. That was her reality. The wedding was about love. Being loved, loving others, and sharing a moment with those people in your life that you love. It did not matter that she was confused about which people were her children. She had known each one of them since the day they were born. But in that brief moment, when she was happy and celebrating…she knew she was a Mother. She was a Mother who loved her children, and that made her happy. This is what makes it a beautiful moment. Her reality was complete. She was surrounded by those who made her happy, safe, and loved.

And, if this is your reality at that moment…and you aren’t the Bride…you may as well be the next best thing!

>>Photo from Flickr, Photographer craigCloutier

“Quote”

Kathy Ritchie — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 13:12:35 +0000

“A keen sense of humor helps us to overlook the unbecoming, understand the unconventional, tolerate the unpleasant, overcome the unexpected, and outlast the unbearable” ~Billy Graham (American evangelist, b.1918)

WORD.

A Place for Me in the Kingdom of Heaven

Kathy Ritchie — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 14:13:20 +0000

I suspect not.

My time with mom, no matter how brief (or how long), is a time for me to think about my role as her daughter — successes, failures, unmitigated disasters and the like. This past Sunday, as she yelled at the two women in the pew to move because she is Margarita Ritchie and this is HER pew (move bitches — she did not say that, I inserted that for effect) and threw someone’s purse so she could place her purse down — it’s how us Latina Queens mark our territory and secure our seat in overly crowded church — I felt guilty. Not about the two women.

Please, you better move when my mom comes barreling into the house of our Lord and Savior.

Just kidding. Not really. Please move. You will make my life easier, so fucking move. Now. Or I will devein you in front of the manger. No, I jest. OK. Not really. Move please.

I think about if my role in trying to make her life semi-better…. and the words an old Spanish woman uttered many months ago…… God will reward you with a place in heaven.

God will reward me.

ME? A spot in the kingdom of heaven?

Will it be on his left or right-hand side?

And for what, might I ask? For placing my mom in a nursing home on Mother’s Day?

For walking away from her ever single morning as she screamed and cried for me to take her home?

For that one time…………that one strangely lucid moment when she looked at me through her tears and said, YOU DID THIS TO ME. WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?

For telling her no every single time she wants to buy birdseed?

For not being able to clip her toe nails because, in truth, it grosses ME out.

For not moving home sooner?

For not taking her to Banner Alzheimer’s sooner?

For prolonging my dad’s suffering and leaving him alone with her? Willingly (sometimes eagerly) boarding that flight back to New York, knowing he would not be able to cope………….. the act of a good Catholic girl, no doubt.

For making my former love suffer? Nothing like shacking up with a grotesquely, tragic girl

For making all of my friends suffer along with me? Nothing like making them hear the same story over a dozen times (in a single week).

For hating my mother more than loving her?

For sometimes resenting both my parents never cutting the cord?

A confession: Not even I can sever the rotting cord.

I can’t always say no to my dad and yes, I give my mom dollar bills here and there because they make her happy. She loves money. Boundaries? Ha. The curse of the only child.

My most reckless act, going to Vietnam, caused me so much anxiety becuase……… if something actually happened to me……………………………. they wouldn’t be able to cope without me.

He would be destroyed.

She would never understand.

And I fear a place in heaven will keep me by mother’s side FOREVER — because her ticket is booked. She is destined for heaven….. and if she isn’t, then there really is no God.

ETERNITY with my mom.

Still, I can’t help but laugh at the idea of God surrounded by the demented…………… imagine my mom spitting in heaven. Classic. Better get out your wipes God… and read my one blog about your demented Must Haves.

So, my place in heaven. I don’t know what this woman sees. Her vision is narrow because I’m no saint. I’m a realist and very much into self-preservation. I question the very existence of God. If there is a God, I don’t believe he is of the loving/kind variety — I think he or she is sick. Demented.

I have fallen asleep in church — more than once. How many Hail Mary’s is that one worth?

Talk about a view askew.

>>Flickr photo by Darwin Bell

The Boyfriend or A Little Dead Inside

Kathy Ritchie — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 13:41:23 +0000

I’ve promised anonymity……………….. thank you for contributing to My Demented Mom. Think this piece beautifully captures the grotesque pain.

A Little Dead Inside……………………..

My couples therapist tells me that I am a little dead inside. This is her way of saying that I am living life with the volume turned down. That I am unresponsive. That I am uncaring. That I am emotionally detached and untethered from the world around me. I think my girlfriend would agree, but this is a solo session.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: relationship, year six.

If you are with someone long enough, eventually you start experiencing some calamities. If you are lucky enough, you get to turn these affairs from your crises into our crises. My lucky gal got to watch my mom get cancer, turn colors, and die like a kaleidoscope. While she was watching, she got to hear my dad tell her how awful she was for not marrying me so that my mom could live to see it, even though I hadn’t asked. This was during mom’s yellow period. Still, he made her feel bad enough that she eventually broke down and offered to get married. This was during mom’s gray period. After I said no, we eventually got to spend some quality time in my parents’ home, watching my mom slowly lose her mind from the ravages of cancer and too much morphine. This was during mom’s splotchy magenta period. Then mom died, leading to her second gray period, proving to be her final, glorious color change. My dad would later go on to say that my girlfriend never visited while my mom was dying. This may have stunted their relationship a bit. It also allowed us to live through separate crises, fracturing the shared one.

If you think I seem callous, remember: dead inside, untethered. When I recently found out my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, it just felt fitting; another swirl in a spiral that had gotten out of control a long time ago. It certainly explained a lot of erratic behavior. He has been acting more and more childlike for quite some time. See, my dad was the kind of person that everyone—and I mean everyone—just loved. Funny guy. Self-deprecating. Didn’t take life too seriously. He certainly wasn’t someone who would boss you around, say cruel things, and accuse you of abandoning him for no reason.

Which leads us to our current not-shared crisis. Start losing the people who love you the most in life and see if you don’t feel a little clingy and dramatic. One day while I was talking to my girlfriend, I decided to throw in a desperate non-sequitur about how we should get married. She said she wasn’t interested. Didn’t believe in the whole concept of one-person-for-life.

Do I believe this stuff? No. I think when nearly anyone says, “I don’t believe in marriage,” what she is really saying is, “I don’t believe in marriage to you.”

Still, I can’t really blame her. She has seen into the crystal ball of my fate, and the vision sucks. Marry this guy, and you can expect early death or young doddering frailty.

She doesn’t see the things I get to see. She doesn’t see my dad weeping, wishing he didn’t say these things to alienate her, blaming himself for what has happened. The man knows what is happening when you bring it to his attention, he just can’t help himself. She wrote him off a long time ago. She realizes he can’t be held completely accountable for what he says. But it still hurts to hear it. And she isn’t dead inside. Not even a little bit.

So now we are in therapy, at my insistence, because I want this to work.

I want very badly for my girlfriend and my father to get along. I want her to love him, to love my family, to love me. Maybe I want her to love me unconditionally, the way only parents can. I know that these are the two people who keep me from collapsing inside myself. I desperately need them. They are the proof that I am alive, that I am substantial, that I matter for something.

They both tell me that they love me. I believe them.

>>Photo by Ferran on Flickr

Terminal Sleep… Dealings with the Devil

Kathy Ritchie — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 16:59:10 +0000

“Kath, your mom’s gone.”

That’s the phone call I expect to receive from my dad when my demented mom dies.

I have no idea when that call will come. Could be next week or could be 10 years from now.

Really not sure how this disease will kill my mom.

Alas, it varies from parent to parent. Dementia likes to mix things up.

My guess, however, is that dementia will continue to invade and warp her brain, twist her reality, manipulate her thoughts, finally ripping apart her mind with its black, twisted tentacles until she can no longer remember how to swallow her own food.

Larry carefully placed Olivia in her arms. And suddenly it was like a switch had been turned on. She smiled and cooed. Her love for babies cut through the Alzheimer’s fog. She was the little girl who was born to be a mommy. “Baby,” she said. “Baby.” It was the last word I heard her say. Soon she forgot how to speak. Then she forgot how to eat. And, lastly how to swallow. ~ From Irene Zutell’s new book, Pieces of Happily Ever After

This idea, DEATH….. is something I think about often. I think about her death and I think about my own. I don’t know if Death is something to be feared or something to be welcomed with open arms. Is Death my salvation or the Devil? If death is another part of life, why are so afraid of his arrival? I suppose the unknown is always frightening….. but it is what it is and we are so attached to living — yet we’re never taught how to cope with our own mortality. We cling on to life, as we should, yet we can’t let go when it’s time. Is this healthy?

Or has dementia twisted my mind too?

Death in near, that’s a fact. So what course of action should we take when he taps on our door? Should we invite him in? Or let him fight for his prey?

What pact will YOU make with the Death?

When she doesn’t know your name. She can’t place your face. She becomes agitated at the littlest thing. When other parts of her body begin to shut down. When pneumonia has invaded her lungs, when death is imminent — the inevitable right around the corner, let me ask again, what do you do? What should you do? What should I do?

The patient, Leo Oltzik, an 88-year-old man with dementia, congestive heart failure and kidney problems, was brought from home by his wife and son, who were distressed to see him agitated, jumping out of bed and ripping off his clothes. Now he was sleeping soundly with his mouth wide open…

Mr. Oltzik’s life would end not with a bang, but with the drip, drip, drip of an IV drug that put him into a slumber from which he would never awaken.

The New York Times today had an interesting article about Terminal Sedation...

… A treatment that is already widely used, even as it vexes families and a profession whose paramount rule is to do no harm. Doctors who perform it say it is based on carefully thought-out ethical principles in which the goal is never to end someone’s life, but only to make the patient more comfortable.

But the possibility that the process might speed death has some experts contending that the practice is, in the words of one much-debated paper, a form of “slow euthanasia,” and that doctors who say otherwise are fooling themselves and their patients.

Speed up Death’s arrival? This is an interesting question in the case of dementia. Do you give the demented damned medication that is only designed to SLOW the inevitable or do you let the disease take it’s course… naturally… allowing dementia to invade the brain at its leisure, turning it into protein-infested mush……….ultimately killing its host or at the very least, turning them into a person you hardly recognize.

Yes, this piece pertains to VERY end-of-life situations. Death is actually sitting on your bed, holding your hand. Dementia, however, can take years… even when your loved one is gone in the mind, their body still functions………………

Death is playing a game.

Their heart still beats.

Talking about death and dying is something we’re taught to avoid discussing at the dinner table. No one wants touch this very morbid topic, but it IS a part of life.

Very easy to gloss over, yet a very real question to ask.

Slow euthanasia………

An interesting ethical debate.

It’s SIX pages, but you might want to read the entire article……………………..

~Images by Pareeerica from FLICKR

Prevention, Cure………….. Hope?

Kathy Ritchie — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 16:49:02 +0000

Originally appeared in CNN.com and written by Kate Mulgrew. Ms. Mulgrew a stage, film and television actress who is best known for her TV role in “Star Trek: Voyager.” She is currently appearing in the NBC series “Mercy.”

BELOW IS AN EXCERPT OF HER STORY, HER HOPES…. APPEARED ON CNN,COM:

After the Alzheimer’s came, my mother could not know how shadows fell across our once ebullient family: our solidarity fractured, our tempers flaring in furious incomprehension, hearts breaking in mute despair.

None of us knew how to watch this woman disappear, her features slowly masked with blankness, her supple body rigid and wooden, her absolute vividness obliterated by the heavy fog of her disease.

As those of us touched in some way by Alzheimer’s know too well, the emotional, social and economic burden of this disease is nearly unbearable:

• 5.3 million Americans are living with Alzheimer’s disease; a new case develops every 70 seconds.

• One in eight people aged 65 and older has the disease, and the risk is even higher for those over 85.

• Today, 9.9 million people are caring for a family member with Alzheimer’s.

• Alzheimer’s and other dementias cost Medicare, Medicaid and businesses $148 billion annually, a number that will grow quickly and substantially as baby boomers reach age 65.

Prevention. Cure. Hope. These are words seldom associated with Alzheimer’s disease. But groundbreaking scientific research and an opportunity for powerful collaborations could lead to discovery of the ultimate cure for Alzheimer’s disease: its prevention.

This achievable goal adds “hope” to the vocabulary of Alzheimer’s disease and holds the promise that my children and yours will never suffer its hardship.

My son, Alec, is an artist like his late grandmother. His paintings are large and uncompromising, stunning in texture, original in design. He’s got the real thing. He’s got “it,” just as she had. But what if he also has something else, like the APOE-e4 gene, known to increase the risk of Alzheimer’s? What if he is in line to inherit this devastating disease?

What I could barely endure happening to my mother, I know I could not possibly endure happening to my son.

My friend Dr. Karen Hsiao Ashe, an internationally renowned Alzheimer’s disease researcher at the University of Minnesota, has developed a research road map that calls for bringing together a group of the world’s foremost laboratory and clinical investigators in the field to make prevention a reality by 2020.

Karen is identifying the biological processes that occur in the earliest stages of the disease — long before symptoms appear — to develop cost-effective, widely available interventions.

Karen and her colleagues are homing in on a promising possibility: a pill containing the molecular compound that could block the chemical chain reaction in the brain that leads to Alzheimer’s.

So what’s the holdup? Well, money, of course, and attitude, perhaps.

According to Harry Johns, president and CEO of the Alzheimer’s Association, “No other disease causes so much suffering, is so certainly fatal, affects so many and drives so much cost with so little spent to overcome it.“ Why is that? Johns names ignorance, age discrimination, stigma and denial as likely explanations.

My plea is deeply personal, but by 2050, Alzheimer’s will affect as many as 16 million Americans, and none of us will be able to deny the reality. We must fight mightily now to prevent the shadow of this disease from darkening the lives of our children and grandchildren.

We must invest today in research that will most swiftly lead to the ultimate cure: PREVENTION.