Senior mental distress hits families hard

My family is having my grandmother evaluated by her doctors. She is exhibiting signs of dementia or Alzheimer's disease.

If my Gram has either, she is not alone: 3.4 million Americans aged 71 years and older, almost 14 percent of the population have dementia, according to a 2007 study by Aging, Demographics, and Memory Study (ADAMS), funded by the National Institutes of Health. And 2.4 million, 9.7 percent, have Alzheimer's disease. The study is described as the "population-based study of dementia to include people from all regions of the country."

No one, the person with dementia or Alzheimer's, or their familial caretakers want to be in this club, which is growing.

I have been back in New Jersey for almost three months and spent quite a bit of time with Gram. She was slower and more forgetful that I remember, but I did not see this coming.

I drove up to see her Saturday. My mom advised me to just go food shopping for Gram and get back on the road to Lakewood to avoid the second round of the nor’easter that hit the region this weekend.

As I drove up, I thought about taking Gram out lunch or maybe a movie just to get her out of the house. She had not been out much since last Wednesday, the last time I visited her. I took her to the Barnes & Noble in Clark, bought her a decaf and soup and worked on a blog posting. She seemed fine, reading a magazine article about the tomb of King Tut, people watching.

I was unprepared for what I encountered Saturday. I could not get her to open her door. I could not get her to get dressed. She did not know what day it was or what time of day it was. I had to hand feed her a hamburger because she kept mistaking a napkin for the sandwich. I had to feed her fries because she kept nipping at her fingers.

I was taking care of Gram Saturday because my mom had bronchitis. I had to call my mom for help. I was way over my head.

“I’m sorry if I am a bother,” Gram said to me after my parents and I made the decision to bring her to Lakewood. We packed up some of her things and I scooted her into my car for the ride home. “No, you are not a bother, Gram. I love you. We love you. We’re just taking care of you, that’s all.”

My grandmother cannot remember what happened between Wednesday and Sunday. My grandmother cannot keep straight the names of her children. She cannot remember to take her medications and fights you when you try to administer them. She cannot remember where she is. And she is suspicious of anyone who tries to help her, including my mom and me.

This is sad and exhausting.

I thought that dementia was not a problem for the demented. It is especially excruciating for the people who have to take care of the afflicted. The caretakers are worn down by the disoriented person that is trying to make a snack of their own fingers instead of the French fries you just served.

However, I suspect Gram, the gentle woman who helped rear my brother and I who helped me become someone who loves telling stories and who understands right from wrong, is trapped somewhere inside the person sitting across from me as I write my column at the kitchen table.

The woman sitting across from me is quiet, but agitated. She is fighting my mother and me over the medications she is supposed to take. She says she is ready to go home. I tell her she is staying here until we all go to the doctor together. She’s staying until we have sure she is well.

She offers an incoherent explanation about why separate prescriptions are mixed together in one bottle.

Then, she has a moment of clarity.

“Sometimes I am wrong,” she says about her prescriptions. “I can’t remember. My mind is a sieve. It goes in and goes right out.”

This is a ray of sunshine I need to keep going. I am worn out and frustrated. I am supposed to be dealing with my own illness, sarcoidosis, and now I wrestle with hers, too.

She did all she could do for me. It is my turn now.

More Friday. Thanks for reading.