Alzheimer’s is a fascinating disease – a terrible, awful, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching disease, but fascinating nonetheless. As the brain tissues break down and synapses begin to misfire, there is a regression in the life-timeline that is all too Benjamin Button. Watching our mother deteriorate from a vibrant, intelligent, funny woman into what could only be described as a petulant toddler was one hell of an experience. My sister and I felt all the feels and then some. Our saving grace through it all was that we allowed ourselves to find the humor in an otherwise devastating and humorless situation. There are those that would say it’s cruel to laugh at someone so far removed from their faculties, but I’d be willing to bet most of those people have either never experienced dementia firsthand, or they had no discernible sense of humor to begin with. Fortunately, our mom did not become violent, as so many do – she just became goofier. Seriously, toward the end, she would giggle when she sneezed. We took comfort in the knowledge that if mom from ten years prior could have witnessed what was happening, she would have laughed at herself, and then asked why in the hell we didn’t toss her into an institution ages earlier. *

There were times when we experienced brief moments of guilt while cracking up over something that she said or did, only to remember that her brain function, especially toward the end, was akin to that of a small child. I did a fair amount of turning my back and stifling giggles when my nieces were little (because they were sarcastic little smart-asses and it was hilarious) and I did a lot of the same when random and hilarious nonsense came from my crazy mom. But while it is easy, in theory, to tell yourself that this is just what happens to a sick brain, it’s much more difficult to reconcile it in your own brain when you’re looking into the face of your parent. She was a wife, a mother, a grand-mother – with the mind of a five-year-old. It just did not compute. So when we were preparing food and she wanted to sample everything, all the while declaring that she “hadn’t eaten in three days!” we had very little choice except to chuckle and make, “I haven’t eaten in three days” our new go-to catch phrase whenever we get hungry.

Even before illness set in, mom always had a flair for the dramatic, and passive aggression was her WMD when she was looking to elicit sympathy. One day, a few years ago, when she still knew who we were (more or less), I lost it and snapped at her because she was being a bit of a princess and kept getting snarky with my dad. I should point out that my dad was the hero of this saga, insisting on taking care of her himself for as long as he could before he let us find a place for her (he got to 91 before he decided he was tired). Anyway, she kept snapping at him and, although I knew she didn’t fully comprehend what she was doing or how she was acting, I told her to cut it out and be nice. She then proceeded to pout for several hours, eventually coming to my room as I was trying to pack to tell me she “would never have spoken to her mother that way.” When I related this little drama to my sister I think her response was something along the lines of, “ha! PUULEEASE!” She then told me about some of the arguments between my mom and our Nona to which Rene had been privy as a kid. We were both in stitches in no time.

Without doubt one of our favorite “stories,” was the one she told us about when she lived in Vegas and Frank Sinatra sought her help in dealing with a young soldier who had been wounded in the war (yes, you read that right, Frank, Old Blue Eyes, The Chairman of the Board). The young soldier had been badly injured and doctors were going to amputate his leg. Luckily, Frank found mom and she told him that her mother worked for a great doctor and that they should take the soldier to him and find out if he could save the kid’s leg. So Frank piled them all into his jet and off they flew to Wheatland, Wyoming to get the expert advice/medical aid of Dr. Rosene. Who, obviously, was able to save the leg… It should be noted that mom did, in fact, live in Vegas in the early 60s and that she did encounter the Rat Pack from time to time. Whether they engaged her in conversation beyond buying cigarettes I can’t say, but I’m fairly certain they weren’t seeking medical advice from a cocktail waitress at The Pussycat A-Go-Go.

While mom was telling this tale, my sister and I were trying to stay busy by doing dishes. Luckily for me, my sister was washing, stuck at the sink facing our mother across the kitchen counter, somehow managing to keep a straight face as mom went on about how Frank was, “determined to save this young man at any expense.” I was drying and was therefore able to turn around and hide my mirth. For the most part. At one point I was convulsing and had to put down the plate I was drying and leave the room. Poor Rene was stuck standing there saying, “uh-huh. Oh really?” and biting her tongue. I’m surprised she didn’t bite the damn thing off.

In the few years since we lost mom, our ancient father has, mercifully, forgotten what she was like when she was sick. He has always had a rather selective memory (as most of us do, I suppose), and he has selected to remember her healthy. Which is such a blessing. We still talk about some of the funny things she did as a result of the awful disease, but she was pretty funny before that, and that’s what we focus on, particularly with him. After all, there is no need to remind a nonagenarian that his wife went a little cuckoo. But cuckoo is what happens so why not embrace the crazy and revel in the funny. Because it’s the loved ones that suffer; the patient reaches a point where, literally, every day is a brand new adventure, so why not meet them in their world?

*Just to clarify, we didn’t “toss” her anywhere. Her facility was quite lovely and charming (as much as a place like that can be) and I’m pretty sure they frowned upon tossing the old people.