Crazy Town

Dementia makes you crazy.

I'm not talking about the person diagnosed with the disease; I'm talking about the caregiver. I'm talking about myself. If there's a sane caregiver out there, I'd like to meet them. Or maybe not, because then I'd feel even worse.

Lately I feel like my emotions are all over the place. Sometimes I feel strong, resolute. I am proactive with my work in the foundation, which gives me a focus and a purpose. I am patient with my mom and I get the job done without breaking. I try to focus on all of the good things I have going on in my life, things that bring me joy: my beautiful kids, my incredible husband, my amazing and supportive friends, my home-based sewing business (which doubles as my therapy time!).

But mostly, I just put on a brave face as I face the day, going to play dates, escorting the kids to their sporting events, attending church groups. I wear a smile on my face but inside, my heart is ripping into two. The truth is, my mom is always on my mind. Always. The sadness always lingers with me, like a black cloud. I worry and think about her when I'm away and miss her when I'm with her.

It's a complicated thing-to grieve for someone who is still living. I don't think there's any way to describe it to a person who has never experienced it. You grieve for the loss of the person that was once there, while still holding on to the physical being that remains. The grief is relentless and suffocating at times. I feel on edge; any unpleasant thing can bring me to tears. I am a ticking time bomb; one wrong move can set me off.

It's a continual rollercoaster of emotions; one day I'm up, the next I'm down.

Over the weekend, we received some unpleasant news that kind of sent me into a downward spiral. It would have been upsetting even if my life weren't plagued by dementia, but that dark, hovering raincloud (called dementia) met with this other passing, dark cloud and together they brewed a nasty storm. I stewed about this particular situation for days and I was left feeling, hurt, sad, and angry. Very angry. I'm not even saying my anger is justified, but when you're already slightly unbalanced it's as if the senses are heightened and what might start out as disappointment or sadness can easily fester into some other (stronger) emotion. For me, it was a lot of anger. Anger at the situation but probably mostly triggered by this disease. I'm angry that dementia has made me such a basket case. I'm angry for the strain it has put on some of my relationships, and at the people who I feel have let me down over the years. And most of all I am ANGRY that this disease struck my mom. I am angry for her, that she has been robbed of what is supposed to be the best years of her life. I am angry that my dad is losing the love of his life, for the pain and the helplessness he feels at watching her slowly fade away each and every day; for the helplessness I feel for not being able to fix it and make it better. I am angry that I've lost my mother, who was so much more than my mom; she was also my friend, my confidant and therapist, the one person that I could talk to without fear of judgment, who could give me advice or help me navigate my way through a problem, the one person who loved me and thought the world of me. I am angry that my children have lost their grandma and will never experience what I had growing up: the grandma to spend the night with, to bake cookies with, to have at every one of their music recitals or sports events or any important life event, to be their biggest cheerleader and to be their refuge from their "mean" parents. This is the kind of grandma I had and this is the kind of grandma that my mom wanted to be. And I'm ANGRY that was all taken away from us.

I don't usually post negativity on my blog; I like to keep it away and I don't want to sound like a whiny, sniveling baby. I'm not the first person to lose their mom at a young age and I'm certainly not the last. At the same time, I think it's only fair to my readers to be real. Somebody out there might be reading this while riding their own rollercoaster of emotions and I think it's important for them to know that they aren't alone in this. Because so often with this disease, we feel alone. I feel alone. You aren't crazy. Or maybe you are. But if you are, I'm right there with you!