“I suppose I’m fortunate. If I had to move her to a nursing home, I’m grateful it happened before the pandemic hit.” Fortune? That’s the word I used in a conversation with a friend back in March 2020 after discovering that my mom’s nursing home would no longer permit visitors due to COVID. As those words left my mouth, I realized I didn’t feel lucky at all. I was angry.
I was furious that my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the age of 67. I was frustrated that I had to navigate the convoluted long-term care system to place her in a nursing home while in my 30s. I was infuriated that a global pandemic decided to rear its head just days after I left her, preventing me from visiting her. But, at least my dad wasn’t isolated with her in quarantine, so maybe that counts as luck?
My family’s experience echoes what many others face with this relentless disease. It began with my mom being “forgetful,” then escalated to her struggling to make coherent sentences. What followed was a maze of tests and referrals that ultimately led to the diagnosis. The disease I thought affected only the elderly invaded my mom in her early 60s, abruptly ending her career as a kindergarten teacher and reshaping our family dynamics, while I was thrust into the world of elder care.
As my mom gradually deteriorated, my dad required assistance. Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s involves preparing meals that may end up in the trash while they ask, “When’s lunch?” It could mean calling the police when you realize your loved one has gone for a winter walk without a coat. It means encountering unexpected aggression when asking them to change clothes, and sleepless nights as they wander around, restless.
With my encouragement, my dad eventually accepted help from a local Adult Day Care. This allowed him to drop my mom off with qualified caregivers so he could run errands. While my brother and I did our best to help, our own young children and demanding jobs consumed our time. I never imagined I would juggle infant daycare and adult day care simultaneously.
Though it was hard for my dad to accept my mom’s rapid decline, I knew a nursing home was inevitable. I embarked on the challenging journey of researching options and touring facilities, eventually placing my mom on a waiting list at a local memory care home. In February 2020, two years after starting this process, I received the call: they had an opening. We had to decide—was it time? If we passed this opportunity, would we regret it later? We accepted the placement.
On March 3, 2020, I moved my mom into the nursing home. Before we arrived, I prepared a detailed account of her life to share with her caregivers who had never known her before the disease. I packed her favorite clothes, family photos, and some artwork from my kids. That day, we set up her room, met the staff, and shared a meal together. I promised I would return soon, bringing the kids and more clothes.
Then, COVID struck.
No visits were allowed.
I could call, but conversations rarely went smoothly. Alzheimer’s patients often struggle with phone calls or video chats. Eventually, we arranged window visits, but getting there was challenging amid managing two kids and a full-time job. I worried that seeing her just beyond the glass would be too overwhelming.
Finally, after 274 days, I was able to visit her in person. We had temperature checks, wore masks, maintained distance, and couldn’t touch—but we were together in a conference room. Between the masks, her disease progression, and our time apart, I wasn’t sure if she recognized me, but it didn’t matter. I felt her presence in that space, and for that moment, I wasn’t a working parent struggling through a pandemic. I was simply a daughter sitting with my mom—the first person I ever loved. There she was, in a nursing home, wearing a mask but still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
When the visit ended, I stepped outside into the rain and wept. I wept because I didn’t know when I would see her next. I wept because of the rising COVID cases and her vulnerability. But above all, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
I knew families who had said goodbye over FaceTime, and those who never had a chance to say goodbye at all. I knew of families who had to endure virtual funerals and the unbearable pain of grief that comes with such loss. I acknowledged the failures in leadership that have led us to this uncertain future. So, I wept with thankfulness. Today, I was with her. I looked into her eyes and repeated that I loved her over and over again.
I can’t predict what tomorrow holds, but today, I feel incredibly blessed.
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In summary, the emotional journey of caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s, particularly during a global pandemic, is filled with complex feelings of anger, frustration, and ultimately gratitude. While the challenges are significant, moments of connection with our loved ones provide solace in difficult times.
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