My mother, Elizabeth Kane, had suffered for many years with dementia. My parents were from a generation where you did not seek help, you did not talk about problems, and you certainly did not allow outsiders to lend a hand. The family takes care of their own. My father, Emmett, had always been an eternal optimist, and a doer. He was ‘fine’ taking care of Mom. They had no worries. Fifty years of marriage could solve anything. 

We hit a number of bumps in the “taking care of our own” road. Mom would not bathe and she would not readily leave the house. Just a trip to Target took days of planning and coaxing. She would only go to one restaurant.

Dad could not keep the house work up, and I was too far away to clean for them, but they would not let me hire someone to help.

Social workers tried on several occasions to send in help, but my parents always threw them out. I would make appointments with doctors and specialists and my father would cancel them. Sometimes, we would find there was no food in the house. One time when we arrived, there was only one working lamp in the whole house. My husband spent an hour changing light bulbs. But we just thought it was the stress of taking care of Mom.

I would get so mad at my father. Why would’t he take care of Mom? Get her some help. Let the social workers and home health people in! But he was stubborn. He could do it himself. Then my father came to me with a shut off notice from the cable company. He asked if I had ever seen “one of these” before. No – and I was shocked to see one now. He agreed to put my name on their checking account and I began paying their bills.

This was the beginning of the end. I did not see it then, but it is crystal clear now. Four months later, my father was hospitalized with an unrelated problem, but they would not release him because he was too confused. The ER doctor wanted to know how I could allow this to happen. He accused me of neglecting my parents. He couldn't’t understand my father’s will to take care of his own.

My father could not go home to my mother. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and it was recommended that I try to get him into a specialized care facility, but what about Mom?

I was able to get them both admitted to Blaire House of Worcester. They were even roommates for several months. Mom’s dementia never progressed, and with care and treatment, she thrived at Blaire House. Ironically though, her health declined and six months after entering Blaire House, she died of heart failure. My father is still there. He thinks my mom is at home. He is still taking care of her.

One of the hardest parts of Alzheimer’s is how the generations deal with it. My father is from a time that turns a blind eye. I am from a time of heroic measures and technology. The Alzheimer’s Association was so good to me over the years as I struggled to get my mom help. Even though I could not get through to my parents, the Alzheimer’s Association reminded me to take care of myself. They helped me get the tools. I was ready when they needed me.

 

The research that the Alzheimer’s Association does, and the services they provide, helps so many families like mine. I felt it was very important to use my mother’s death as an opportunity to bring attention to a disease that is affecting so many. My mother was helped in so many ways by the Association, and it was a chance to give back