dumped it into the trash can.
âI need a cup of tea,â she said to me. âFix me a cup while youâre doing yours, would you?â
âSure,â I said. âIâll put a kettle on the stove.â
When I turned on the faucet, I saw my hand shaking.
I spent the rest of the day over there. Mother went back to bed after she took two sips of the tea. I didnât comment that it was only 10:00 A.M. I just did the dishes, made some sandwiches for lunch out of what wasnât moldy or shriveled in the refrigerator, and did my own search for telltale signs of alcoholismâor even drug abuse. It never seemed to occur to my mother that it was unusual for me to hang around her house like that. In fact, half the time, I wasnât sure she was even aware I was there.
But I was aware of her. How could I not be?
Saturday afternoon, she kept asking me what time it was, even though she was wearing a watch and there were three clocks in the kitchen alone.
Saturday night, she rambled on about campus politicsâsomething sheâd claimed that morning to care nothing about. She went nonstop for forty-five minutes without once looking at me.
The next morning, I called to tell her Iâd be there at noon so we could go to lunch. When I got there, sheâd already eaten and was napping on the living room couch. I put on a CD of Bachfugues and she came up off the sofa shrieking, âTurn that off! I canât stand that noise!â
Yet there were stretches of time when she seemed normal. She talked about a new resident at the lab who didnât seem entirely committed to his work, something she abhorred. I was relieved to see her straighten the CD cases because she was always a control freak about tidiness. In the midst of one rambling monologue she said, âI am quite happy with my current state of affairs, and if anyone has a problem with who I am that is unfortunate, because I have no intention of changing.â I was sure then that the whole idea of her somehow losing it had been a figment of my imagination, if not a total hallucination.
But then she would abruptly get up and go to the refrigerator and stare into it, or wander off to take her fourth nap of the day. I was left wondering,
Who is this erratic woman, and what has she done with my mother?
The most telling thing of all was that not once during the entire weekend did she ever say a word about me. There wasnât a single attempt to exert control or even question my most recent moves, decisions, or choice of lip gloss.
I knew it was time to find out what was going on.
FOUR
I stayed up half the night Sunday, surfing the Net. No, actually, I was ransacking it. If I didnât find some kind of answer by morning, I was going to be bald.
I bit the bullet and started with Alzheimerâs. The minute it crossed my mind I went into major denial, but it was the only thing I could think of that might even remotely explain the changes in my motherâs behavior. After scanning one Web site, I was sure I was on the wrong track.
Alzheimerâs involves a loss of memory. Mother was losing words and being somewhat absentminded, but she didnât seem completely forgetful. The things she was doing were deliberateâlike not using the microwave because she couldnât stand the noise and being outright rude to people on the phone instead of just coldly brusque. And there was nothing under Alzheimerâs disease about slurring wordsâor showing up at the front door in your underwear and casually exposing yourself to the neighborhood. This whole thing with Mother was about language and behaviorâand just plain judgment.
I hate to admit it
, I thought,
but maybe Max is right. Maybe it is a bad case of depression
.
There was a vague sense of relief, but even as I tried to get a few hoursâ sleep and then attempted to move into my dissertation compartment for a possible meeting with Nigel, I couldnât shake
âI need a cup of tea,â she said to me. âFix me a cup while youâre doing yours, would you?â
âSure,â I said. âIâll put a kettle on the stove.â
When I turned on the faucet, I saw my hand shaking.
I spent the rest of the day over there. Mother went back to bed after she took two sips of the tea. I didnât comment that it was only 10:00 A.M. I just did the dishes, made some sandwiches for lunch out of what wasnât moldy or shriveled in the refrigerator, and did my own search for telltale signs of alcoholismâor even drug abuse. It never seemed to occur to my mother that it was unusual for me to hang around her house like that. In fact, half the time, I wasnât sure she was even aware I was there.
But I was aware of her. How could I not be?
Saturday afternoon, she kept asking me what time it was, even though she was wearing a watch and there were three clocks in the kitchen alone.
Saturday night, she rambled on about campus politicsâsomething sheâd claimed that morning to care nothing about. She went nonstop for forty-five minutes without once looking at me.
The next morning, I called to tell her Iâd be there at noon so we could go to lunch. When I got there, sheâd already eaten and was napping on the living room couch. I put on a CD of Bachfugues and she came up off the sofa shrieking, âTurn that off! I canât stand that noise!â
Yet there were stretches of time when she seemed normal. She talked about a new resident at the lab who didnât seem entirely committed to his work, something she abhorred. I was relieved to see her straighten the CD cases because she was always a control freak about tidiness. In the midst of one rambling monologue she said, âI am quite happy with my current state of affairs, and if anyone has a problem with who I am that is unfortunate, because I have no intention of changing.â I was sure then that the whole idea of her somehow losing it had been a figment of my imagination, if not a total hallucination.
But then she would abruptly get up and go to the refrigerator and stare into it, or wander off to take her fourth nap of the day. I was left wondering,
Who is this erratic woman, and what has she done with my mother?
The most telling thing of all was that not once during the entire weekend did she ever say a word about me. There wasnât a single attempt to exert control or even question my most recent moves, decisions, or choice of lip gloss.
I knew it was time to find out what was going on.
FOUR
I stayed up half the night Sunday, surfing the Net. No, actually, I was ransacking it. If I didnât find some kind of answer by morning, I was going to be bald.
I bit the bullet and started with Alzheimerâs. The minute it crossed my mind I went into major denial, but it was the only thing I could think of that might even remotely explain the changes in my motherâs behavior. After scanning one Web site, I was sure I was on the wrong track.
Alzheimerâs involves a loss of memory. Mother was losing words and being somewhat absentminded, but she didnât seem completely forgetful. The things she was doing were deliberateâlike not using the microwave because she couldnât stand the noise and being outright rude to people on the phone instead of just coldly brusque. And there was nothing under Alzheimerâs disease about slurring wordsâor showing up at the front door in your underwear and casually exposing yourself to the neighborhood. This whole thing with Mother was about language and behaviorâand just plain judgment.
I hate to admit it
, I thought,
but maybe Max is right. Maybe it is a bad case of depression
.
There was a vague sense of relief, but even as I tried to get a few hoursâ sleep and then attempted to move into my dissertation compartment for a possible meeting with Nigel, I couldnât shake
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