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herself and to eat. She was diagnosed by her doctor as having sundowners, a common symptom of Alzheimer's, and she had lost almost all of her short term memory.

After only a couple of months of her living in the apartment, my mother decided that Grandma would live with her. They thought that being somewhere more familiar would help her and that she just needed some help in order to remember to bathe and not have to remember to cook. My aunt lived only a couple blocks away and could be with her during the day and my mom could take care of her at night. However, after Grandma rummaged through Mom's desk drawers and hoarded razor blades under her pillow, screamed during hallucinations of inmates trying to get her, after keeping my preteen sister up on school nights with battles against sundowners, and after Grandma sliced her foot open on her stash of weapons, my mother knew she needed trained, 24 hour care. It was then that we realized Grandma was never going to get better.

My grandmother lived in a nursing home about a mile from my mother's and aunt's houses for the last 2-3 years of her life. They visited her every day, trying to be there for at least two meals a day between the two of them, if not all 3. They had battles with the administration, the ever changing hands that the home was run by, to keep the quality of life high. They were advocates for not just my grandmother, but for every resident of the home, for better food, better care, better supervision, and more accountability. My mother was on call 24 hours a day should something happen, and several times she had to rush to the nursing home or to the emergency room because grandma injured herself. If her and my aunt wanted a vacation or a weekend trip, they had friends on standby to take over the watch, though they rarely took time off together.

Grandma couldn't feel it when she fell and tore open her face. I remember sitting in her room with her while visiting and she would ask me if there was something on her face.

"They're your stitches, Grandma."

"Stitches? When did I get those?"

"Last week. Remember, you fell down."

"Nah. I don't remember that. Someone musta hit me." And she'd giggle. Then five minutes later we would go through it all again.

Grandma was stubborn and wouldn't use her walker, or her cane, or her wheelchair until after she broke her hip again and had no choice. She watered her violets with milk because we made her drink it so she reasoned it would be good for them as well. She forgot that she no longer smoked and pleaded for cigarettes, resorting to pilfering through visitors' purses, despite the nicotine patches on her arms. She slept most of the day and couldn't tell when she was hungry. She often thought she was somewhere else and would call my mom and aunt by Grandma's sisters' names. She would ask about people long dead and not know the names of the current living. One day, she was in the 1930s mentally and my mother just went with it. At least Grandma was happy that day.

Having a loved one with Alzheimer's can be an arduous road. What helped my mother through those times were the rare moments when Grandma became lucid, clarity returning to her eyes, and she would thank my mother for all she did. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it was all worth it.

Learn more about this author, Alicia M Prater PhD.
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