Me and My Mom and Her Alzheimer's

By Jeannette Grindele

This book is for those who may have loved ones developing Alzheimers and are in a state of confusion. The author was in that same state until she did much research when her own mom began having unusual symptoms. Like forgetting how to perform even the simplest household duties such as using an electric can opener, or making coffee or tea.
The author hopes her personal experience will benefit others. Its all about making sure the family stays together, stands together, and becomes stronger. In every family, there are hearts that truly care.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503543492

Jeannette Grindele

Jeannette Grindele is a widow who lives in Texas. She used to teach art to children, but recently, she’s devoting most of her time to her love of writing. Her mom used to tease her that she was born with pen in hand because, even as a child, Jeannette was continually writing or drawing.

Book preview

Chapter One

Alzheimer’s kind of sneaks up on its victims; at least it did in our family back in the 1980s. I’d heard only of dementia, the end result of all old people—always—regardless.

At least, that’s what I thought … but I was wrong. Alzheimer’s can and often does strike at any age.

Dementia and Alzheimer’s are not the same. Dementia is only a decline in memory, but with Alzheimer’s, the memory is slowly destroyed. Completely. It’s a horrible disease that worsens over the years.

It might occur suddenly, but usually, family members begin noticing the short-term memory loss, especially when the victim repeats the same story over and over several times.

We can safely say dementia is the prelude to Alzheimer’s.

My mother had Alzheimer’s. I can vaguely recall she might’ve gone through a period of dementia but it wasn’t noticeable until she began accusing the family of stealing from her.

Well, let me tell you the story.

You probably won’t recognize the beginning of Alzheimer’s. My sisters and brother didn’t, but perhaps it was because our mother was an unusual individual as far back as I can remember. I didn’t realize it until years after I was grown; however, I did know she was different.

I used to compare her to mothers of my school friends, so I presumed my mom was just too strict.

She could be very nice when other people were around, but she was very critical of everyone and everything and said whatever came to her mind.

When I was small she made fun of my looks. She said my eyes were too far apart, and I looked strange without a bridge on my nose. So I became shy, felt ugly, and developed a super case of bashfulness.

Mother could be cruel at times and she often spoke harshly to family members, but at other times, she was somewhat loving.

I can’t recall her ever saying she loved me.

She had a temper. Wow, did she have a temper!

I have to give her credit for keeping me well dressed when I attended school. She made all my clothes. We’d go downtown to upscale department stores to see the latest styles, and she’d create a pattern out of newspaper and make me a dress identical to one we admired in a window.

I was thirteen when she was expecting her fifth baby, Linda, and I remember she sewed constantly for the baby. She made a bassinet that was fit for a princess as if she knew she was having a baby girl.

Linda was my pride and joy. I had three brothers and had always wanted a sister, so I didn’t mind babysitting her whenever Mother had to do her shopping.

It seemed I was always trying to please my mother, but everything I did was wrong, and I was harshly criticized. I bent over backward trying to earn a word of praise, but instead, I earned a lot of switchings.

Well, I didn’t earn them, but I got plenty.

Most of the time, I was completely innocent because almost always, one of my ornery brothers had broken something or did something he wasn’t supposed to and wouldn’t ’fess up. So we all got switched. Or we had a leather belt used on us.

Chapter Two

I left home when I was seventeen and married a fifteen-year-old neighbor boy by the name of Raymond just to get away from her name-calling and abuse.

I liked Raymond okay. We’d been friends for a long time, but I certainly didn’t love him. However I learned to love him and we stayed together for forty-six years.

I believe Mother’s behavior as we were growing up was the reason my siblings nor I recognized she was ill as her Alzheimer’s developed. We thought she was just getting meaner as she grew older. She was mean to Daddy. They fought all the time.

Well, she fought, and he held her hands, defending himself.

He said once he couldn’t die before she did; she’d drive us kids crazy.

But he did die first. He dropped dead with a heart attack at the age of seventy-one. She was seventy. He was right—she almost drove Linda and me crazy. It seemed she was our total responsibility. James and Carolyn weren’t always around, at least not very often.

She was afraid to live alone; so she sold her home, stored her furniture, and moved in with Linda. As far as I know, Linda didn’t invite her to live with her and her family of five kids. Mother had always been bossy and didn’t get along with Linda’s kids or mine. Because of this, her grandchildren more or less avoided her.

Perhaps her personality had nothing to do with her Alzheimer’s, but it might have. That’s why I mention how she was as far back as I can remember.

One day she and Daddy Raymond and myself were outside, and I said something that must’ve angered her. She snatched my glasses off my face and threw them on the ground and stomped on them, breaking them into a million pieces. I was horrified. I was very nearsighted.

How do you like that? she screamed. You can’t see a damn thing, can you?

Daddy was embarrassed when she did things like that.

So you can imagine that after she moved in with Linda, it wasn’t long until she made a nervous wreck of her and her family.

After a while, I felt it was my turn to help with Mother. Linda seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. So I made a foolish mistake. I mistakenly assumed she’d enjoy having her own apartment near us, so I rented an apartment for her in our lovely building. She agreed to it and seemed quite enthused.

We took some of her furniture out of storage, and the whole family helped decorate her new home. It was lovely; Mother was an expert interior decorator.

Chapter Three

In due course, she decided to have a garage sale and get rid of some furniture. My youngest brother, James, and his wife, Joyce, had a large house with a large yard and a two-car garage, perfect for a garage sale. He offered to bring over whatever she wanted to get rid of, and help her sell it.

He had a pickup and so did Raymond so they took the rest of her furniture out of storage, and we all set up the sale.

She had a patio set I’d long admired, and when I saw that James had set it out for her to sell, I said I’d like to have it. But she fibbed and said she wasn’t selling it. I learned next day it wasn’t true.

She spent that night at my brother’s house, and the next day I went over to help with the sale. As I entered the garage I noticed she had a customer. I overheard the woman ask how much was the patio set, and Mother replied, Thirty dollars.

I quickly intervened. I’m sorry, but the set has already been sold.

The woman strolled away, and Mother was immediately angry with me. I quickly reached into my purse and pulled out all the cash I had with me. I had twenty-five dollars so I handed it to Mother. This is all the cash I have with me but I’ll give you a check too—is seventy-five enough?

I gave her a fifty-dollar check.

Next day my younger daughter, Cindy, and Linda’s younger daughter, Debbie, took it to our apartment in our pickup and we set it on our patio. But several days later, I decided it was a tad too large for the space, and I offered it to Billy, our oldest child. He and Beverly had a large patio, and the white table and four fancy chairs looked great sitting there.

A day or so later, Mother came up to our third-floor apartment, came in, and strolled over to the patio