“It is what it is.”

I am writing this today because a dear friend asked if I would like to give a male’s point of view on the death of a mother. I’ve known Eden for 26 years. In that time, she has seen the best of me, and the worst of me, so of course I had to tell her yes. So here is the story of my mom and I.

My mom got diagnosed at 46 with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Truth be told, it probably would have been 2 years earlier, if she’d gone to see a neurologist then. My ex-wife was a nurse at a nursing home in the Alzheimer’s wing. She was the first to notice the symptoms, and bring it to me and my father’s attention. But really, who thinks a woman in the prime of her life could be diagnosed with an “old people’s” disease? So nobody really paid any attention to that alarm that was going off. Heck, even mom’s primary doc just said he thought it was general menopausal symptoms. Finally, mom did go to the neurologist. And sure enough, the ex was right.

“It is what it is,” became my mom’s mantra. She held herself together better than I could have ever expected. I believe that if she’d known what this horrible fucking disease had in store for her, she would have had a whole different mantra.

The end of 2009. Once my 1st marriage had dissolved into the craziness–that is a whole different story itself–I had moved back home. Mom had started wandering, just going out the front door and walking away. She would’ve driven, but my father had disconnected the battery to her car and convinced her that he didn’t know why it didn’t start.

By that time, mom hardly ever made any sense at all. She could still speak, but having any sort of conversation was an act in futility. But she’d still say that stupid fucking mantra, “It is what it is.” Ask her what she wanted to eat, she’d say some mumbo-jumbo and add, “It is what it is,” at the end of the sentence. “How are you feeling, Ma?” Goobledygook, “It is what it is.”

I met my future wife, Amber, at the very end of 2009. We started dating and got serious real quick. On February 2nd, 2010, we found out she was pregnant. 5 months later my son Kalon (rhymes with eagle’s talon) was born. He came 12 weeks early, and was in the NICU for 53 days. I believe Amber and I didn’t go to see him just 1 day during that whole time he was in the hospital, but my mom and dad didn’t miss a day. I am SO happy my mom got to meet my son before the disease really took over. By then, she couldn’t even say that mantra anymore. Just random “word soup” things. “Car dog shoe went from lasagna.” Crap like that, just total nonsense. But when she was in the NICU with my son, she was actually somewhat there. It was her last fight, to make as many memories with him as she could. Even about 2 years later, if she saw Kal she would say as clear as day, “There’s my baby. There’s my little boy.” She got to love him, if only for a bit. Even when she forgot who I was, she remembered him. And that makes my heart swell with love every time I think back to that.

By 2012, she’d gotten too bad to keep at home. I really don’t know how my father did it for that long; working full-time and dealing with mom. So she finally had to be put in a nursing home. And once that happened I couldn’t deal with it, at all. It tears me up inside that I couldn’t be a better son and visit her more. It seemed that everytime I went to see her, that was another new memory I got of her, and it pushed out a previous memory when she was the woman who was my mother. Seeing her just stare blankly into space, or give a random laugh for no reason, to see my dad spoon feeding her, encouraging her to “take another bite,” “there you go, chew it good.” “Oh yay, here is your favorite, strawberry jell-o.” For a long time it broke my father, going there everyday. Seeing his wife gone, or at least the actual person she was, gone. If and when I did go, I would be moody and pissy for days after. So I pretty much just stopped going except for when I “had” to. I’m ashamed of myself for being like that.
I remember I went to my neurologist, which was actually the one my mom finally went to see a few years back for her initial prognosis, to try to get my seizures under control. After “my” appointment was over, I talked to this neurologist. I told him about my mom, how bad it got so quickly, and that I had read about a newer drug that was being used for off-label use that could help. He didn’t seem interested at all. I asked him to go see her–even if he wasn’t practicing there– to go as person and see how fast it progressed.“Hell I’ll even take you,” I said No, he had no interest in going, no interest in doing anything. “I’ll pay you. It’s less than 2 minutes away from this office. I’ll drive!” I started getting angry. Still, that smug fuck-faced asshole didn’t give a shit.

I threw open the door and stormed out of the office. The check-out nurses wanted me to pay. I was so angry, I said a few choice words to them and told them I would NEVER give that cocksucker any money ever again. Amber and Kal walked me out. By the time I got out to the car I was crying and shaking. I wanted to kill that man, for his total indifference, his total lack of compassion. Amber had to grab a hold of me and pull me, while holding my son, into the car. I cried the whole ride home. My father came by when we got home and gave me a few of moms old Xanax because I couldn’t stop crying. I went to bed that afternoon and didn’t bother calling off the next day for work. I just went to sleep.

That was the last time I really broke over my mom. Sure, I’ve teared up a couple times since then, but that day at that fucking doctor’s office was the day she died to me. There was zero hope left, and her mind, who she once was, was gone.

Mom held on until last year. Her mind was gone years ago, but her body didn’t get the memo. So finally once she did go, it was a relief. I was relieved that she could finally be at rest. Relieved that my father could finally move on past this state of limbo he was in for so long caring for my mother every day. She would have hated being seen in that state if she’d had any cognition left. Shitting in diapers, being spoon fed nasty nursing home food. Being showered by CNAs. Not wearing makeup. Being a zombie. She would have HATED IT.

Alzheimer’s disease is horrible. It scares me that, because she had it, I have a higher chance of getting it. I worried so much about it I saw a new neurologist also. I got an MRI and took some tests, and as of now I’m fine. Thank God, or Odin or whoever is in charge upstairs. Because I can’t do that. I can’t allow my son to ever watch me become like her. The pain of seeing your parent lose who they were, who you always saw as someone larger than life, is not what I will have my son ever see. It isn’t a threat or a boast or anything like that, just a simple fact. I will eat a hallow-point bullet if I ever do get that diagnosis. I’d rather he hate me for a little bit for going out like that, than to have him watch me succumb to that disease. I love him too much, and don’t ever want him losing memories of me being the dad he’s known and loved.
I’ve already spoken to Edens husband, “my best friend”, that if I do ever have to take that route, to make sure he’s always in Kal’s life. Because he’s known me better than just about anyone, or any male, I should say. He’s assured me that he would.
It is predicted that 1 in 3 people will develop some sort of dementia in their life. I hope that a cure comes quickly, and you should, too.
I dedicate this to my mom.

Jill Carnahan May 19th 1960- April 13th 2018.

Thank you.
Rodney S. Carnahan

Rod Carnahan is a steelworker from northwest Indiana. He currently lives in Michigan with his beautiful wife, Amber, and their son, Kalon. To learn more about Rod, follow him on Twitter.