Love Looks Different with Alzheimer's... But it is Still There.
Channel: Steph Jackson
Date: 2019-02-09

My mom’s dog, Cookie, is a joy rebel. Even in the face of her master’s early onset Alzheimer’s, even though her daily attempts at love and affection get repeatedly rejected, Cookie relentlessly seeks out and gives love. 

Every single day she prances into my mom’s bedroom, leaps onto her hospital bed, wagging her cheese curl tail and waits for pets. Most of the time Mom shooes her off, “Go on, Cookie, get off,” she says. 

But every so often--with a little coaxing from me--Mom will pull her pencil thin arm out from under the mound of covers and give Cookie a pet or two. It’s a small, short gesture, and Cookie takes it all in without any sense of disappointment or frustration or defeat.

Cookie has taught me a lot about how to be a better caregiver.

Love Rituals
It is 5 pm in my household and that means two things: buttered noodles and calf raises. 

My mom is 66 and was diagnosed with dementia last January. She has been on hospice for more than six months and lives with me, my husband, my nine-year-old daughter and two Shih-Tzus named Cookie and Sweetie Pie.

I do not need a clock to be able to tell that it is 5 pm. Cookie lets me know. She is on Mom Watch from the moment she wakes up in the morning. She is on heightened alert, though, starting at about 3 pm. I can’t tell if it’s because she wants to be fed or because she knows it’s time for Mom’s buttered noodles.

Either way, she does not relent until they both have full bellies.

My mom eats buttered noodles every single night. I try to mix it up and put a little alfredo or marinara sauce on top, but she usually wrinkles her nose and says yuck if I dare to change it up. Making buttered noodles for my mom is a love ritual that I do every night. 

So are calf raises. 

I had a friend tell me about an article she read about calf raises and dementia. Something about increasing circulation and blood flow and I figured, you know what, I don’t have anything to lose. So why not try it. 

Right after Mom finishes her noodles, she does her daily exercise routine--about three laps around my kitchen, through my dining area to the front door and back around again. Then stands at the kitchen island, holding onto the countertop. I stand with her and we count together as we rock back and forth from heel to toe 25 times. 

I’m not sure if it’s really doing much for the dementia, but it’s a love ritual that has become a way of connecting and bonding with my mom for those short 25 seconds. And I’ll take it. Just like Cookie does--without resentment, without disappointment, without expectation.

“I Love You” Redefined
You see, I have learned to look at things differently now that Alzheimer’s has moved in and made itself at home in my mom’s brain. Before her illness, love looked different. Mom would tell me she loved me. She would bring over random little gifts that she saw at the drug store and thought I would like or she would call me every day to check in to see how my doctor’s appointment went or how my back was feeling. That was love then. Very visible, unmistakable and consistent.

Nowadays, love looks different--a new normal that I’m working to accept and embrace.

When my mom gives in and does those calf raises (even though she really doesn’t want to do them and I can tell by the look on her face) the fact she does them anyway is her I love you back. 

When she lets my daughter read a chapter from Bad Kitty, even though she’s noise sensitive and my daughter is so loud and animated as she reads, Mom softens the wrinkles on her forehead, stares at Ella with I love you eyes, and forces out a little smile. 

That is love.

There is no doubt that I have to look for these little moments of love. They are not always obvious, but if I slow down and really see what’s in front of me, I can spot them. Those moments help me go from feeling sad, bitter, resentful and unappreciated to grateful, compassionate and hopeful.

Cookie: Mom’s Devoted Dinner Date
It is 5:01 pm, and Mom has her buttered noodles and Sprite. I stand in the living room watching her gulp down a heaping plate of mini pennes. And I watch Cookie. She has settle down into her usual spot, right next to Mom as she eats at the island in my kitchen. Cookie sits there every night, taking in Mom’s company, content to be next to her, near her. 

And I realize that this is what love looks like in my household now.

Author’s Note: Hi. My name is Steph. This is my story... my life. I am determined to find hope, joy and inspiration in my journey as a caregiver. If my story touches you, please visit my website www.caregiversconnect.com and sign up for my email list. I am writing a novel called, One Smart Cookie: Dementia Through the Eyes of Mom’s Dog and I am sending each chapter out monthly in my newsletter. As always, thank you, thank you for reading my story.

www.cargiversconnect.com