Karen Alma

I found this note that I jotted down while in Minnesota visiting my mom and dad a few weeks before my mom died:

I must have written a record of that moment in my notes app so I wouldn’t forget it. In the late stage of my mom’s battle with Alzheimer’s, she always responded to my dad, my siblings, and me. She knew we were her people, while she couldn’t call us by name. Even so, moments where she would lock eyes and say something so clear were such a gift.

I’ve been thinking a lot about memories lately. First, because my mom had Alzheimer’s, and so she forgot everything, and that concept of losing memories is just terrifying and tragic. Second, in the final months of her life, I was storing up moments to hold on to them forever.

When I reflect on my mom, so many memories crowd into my head. Here are the ones that filter up to the surface most clearly right now:

Standing in the elevator in our apartment when I was in high school. We were on our way to a concert wearing the same orchestra t-shirt. I looked in the elevator mirror and was struck by how much we looked like each other. At the time, I was appalled, but as I got older, I was proud of our similarities.

The night after I had my second baby. She went out to get groceries with my oldest. We got a call a couple hours later that she’d been in an accident, and everyone was ok, but she was a bit banged up, and she and my kiddo were at the hospital. Scariest call ever. I’d just birthed a baby, and we spent the night at the hospital with my mom.

The day she told me she had Alzheimer’s. I already knew, but she’d gotten an official diagnosis and wanted to tell me and my siblings face to face, so we went out to coffee at the Hastings bookstore, which is no longer open. It’s a Goodwill now. Interestingly, shortly after she told us, she moved into a state of denial, which was a challenging phase to navigate.

Teaching me how to make fruit bread in cans. We used to keep 15 oz cans (like from canned fruit and tomato sauce) leading up to Christmas so we could bake little fruit bread loaves to pass out as gifts to friends. I hated those breads when I was in high school. Later I had a neighbor who would bring over Christmas fruit breads she baked in cans, and I loved them. It goes to show when your mom does it, it isn’t cool. Someone else does it? Neatest thing ever.

Getting so frustrated with teenaged me when I wouldn’t do my chores. She had these bonkers phrases like “I’m so mad I could spit nails”. What a visual. And to my teenage brain got not much more than an eye roll. Poor Mom, I really gave her a run for her money.

Dyeing her hair when she was 40ish. She went back to school to get her Bachelor’s degree when I was in 1st and 2nd grade. I think she dyed her hair to look a little less “old” in class with all the 20-somethings. I remember watching her lean over the sink to wash the dye out. I was so fascinated by the whole process. Side note: she finally stopped dyeing her hair, which is probably why I never covered up my gray. Her salt and pepper hair was so cool, and I wanted to be just like her.

Alzheimer’s may have claimed her memory, but the essence of who she was persists in these fragments that I carry in my heart. It’s in these memories, both heartrending and heartwarming that I can revisit the thread of love that Alzheimer’s could never unravel.

My mom has been battling Alzheimer’s for many years now; I have sort of lost count. We started to notice it probably about 10 years ago give or take. It’s funny how when we first noticed it, we would get so frustrated by the things she would do, like ask the same question a million times over. A million times is hardly an exaggeration. If you know anyone with Alzheimer’s, you know what I mean!

We’d be driving from our house to church, a drive we took at least once a week, and we’d cross the same river we crossed countless times.

“What is this place called? Does this place have a name?”

She’d also ask this about any neighborhood we drove through. And we’d all just internally be like, “MOM, NO, IT DOESN’T HAVE A NAME, IT’S JUST A NEIGHBORHOOD.” Obviously, we would NEVER say that to her. We’d all search on our phone map apps to see if there was some interesting answer we could give her.

“Oh yep, this neighborhood is called Elder Neighborhood.”

That would satisfy her for a few minutes, until she’d ask again. Looking back, it’s funny how annoying it was. Sometimes we could make things up. She mainly wanted to be heard and engaged with and treated like the incredibly intelligent woman that she was. Even though this terrifying, horrible, tragic disease was turning her into a child a little more every day, and even causing her to forget she had Alzheimer’s, we never let on anything was wrong. Every time she asked a question, it was the first time for her, so we answered like we’d never heard the question before.

She used to fixate on the mountains on the edge of our city and comment on the blue sky or the green trees. Always fixated on colors. She’d notice cars that were bright yellow or red and explain to us how those were new car colors and how amazing it was that they were making cars with these new colors. Now, I find myself noticing new car colors too.

One of the most random things she would talk about was how tree roots were messing up a sidewalk. We’d go for a walk and come upon a broken uneven section of sidewalk and she’d launch into an explanation about how terrible it was that tree roots were doing this and did you know that it didn’t used to be like this? And that someone really should do something about it.

We’d nod along and agree, as if we were hearing it for the first time, “Yeah, for sure,” “No, really,” “Yeah, it’s really a shame.”

She doesn’t do any of these things anymore. She still talks a lot, in her own way, but she doesn’t say many actual words. There are words mixed in with her chatter, but mostly it’s a feeling she’s expressing, and we can all sort of follow along and respond appropriately. Yesterday, we were sitting side by side on the couch, and she was eating a bowl of fruit, and she looked at me.

“This is heavy!”

I laughed, “Yeah, Mom, it sure is!”

And she laughed and smiled. It makes me wish she could talk to me about the mountains and the sky and the cars and the sidewalk again, but I’ll take it.

She’s living in a really great memory care place, and she’s doing pretty well, considering. Everyone there loves her. We were in the elevator with the Marketing Manager, and he asked us who we were visiting, and when we told him, “Oh yes, Helga! She’s so sweet.” You cannot possibly forget a woman named Helga.