It’s been 18 months since my Mum was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease at the age of 59. Eighteen months since my sister, father and I were told that what had originally been diagnosed as anxiety, depression and a touch of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was actually far more insidious, and unfortunately far more permanent.
The woman that we love so much is, in many ways, gone. Mum was a highly sociable, active, warm, and interesting woman. She was the kind of woman who was always the life of the conversation, telling stories that would make everyone around a table dissolve into laughter, and always have a kind word for a stranger – every skill I have in the realm of emotional intelligence, I owe to her.
She was a successful, highly intelligent, professional woman. Now, sadly, she can’t concentrate for long periods, gets confused and disoriented easily, is unable to remember many things (including her own daughter’s surname) and needs to be taken to the bathroom because she’ll get lost trying to find it. She sits quietly in her own world and doesn’t tell stories anymore.
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A very cruel, heartbreaking disease. And the fact that it can be heritable is a double whammy.